For the next month, Louis finds himself engaged every day with Zayn Malik and co. His days are filled with wine and cigarettes, grassy plains, pastels, and luncheons. His nights are smoke and martinis and expensive cologne and dancing and leather seats pressed against his bum as they travel the city in limos, hopping to and from destinations and toasting life with the finest beverages money can buy.
He's grown quite fond of Zayn Malik.
With his calm demeanor, unassuming eyes, and languid movements, he finds a strange kinship with the lad; he's poetic without being pretentious and sweet without being phony. He paints in his spare time-Louis discovering that the stacks of beautiful paintings in his rooms are actually his own-and sketches anything and everything on bits of paper he finds before slipping them into the boys' pockets unnoticed. He's fun and easy and creative and generous and loyal, and every day Louis finds new things to laugh about with him, and new mischief to run with.
His other partner in crime, Liam, is also becoming a necessary fixture in Louis' life, if not for the mere fact that Liam seems to worship him. He's clean and professional, says the right thing at all times, and has gotten the lads out of many a sticky situation. Particularly that time when Niall was discovered in the school fountain without any clothes on, unconscious and clutching a large Crockpot filled with confetti. He does it all happily, smooths over the messes with pleasantries and cordiality, and then, just when they're back in the clear and away from the prying eyes of their superiors, he lets loose a shit show and seizes all of life's opportunities and throws them in the air, dancing and playing amongst them like falling rain. He's full of life and can manipulate a situation to his best advantage-as he is a stunning businessman in the making-and Louis admires the joy and kindness that seems to come so natural to him. Even if he can be a bit of a spoil sport on the odd occasion.
Still, surprisingly, Louis' been able to keep up with his studies as well as his social life, occasionally able to successfully convince the group to hold sessions in the library or in Liam's rooms--which are tucked in the far corner of the school, wide and very un-distracting. Louis could almost say that he's excelling at his studies even, if it weren't for a particularly boring course, "The Study of Prose in Victorian Era Playwrights" which does nothing for his self-esteem or patience.
But he's pretty sure he's at least passing that course, so he doesn't allow himself to worry. Too much.
He's also successfully managed to thwart off his mum (who seems to be doing all right, according to his sisters' Facebook messages) and he's even managed to get a bit of exercise since Liam and Niall enjoy playing football at odd hours of the day, particularly after they've smoked and had their evening brandy.
All in all, Louis is winning at life.
There's only one slight catch.
And it comes in the form of a curly haired, green eyed, pompous mouthed dandy who struts around like he owns the place and flits through empty passions like he does escorts. Because yes, every single fucking time Louis sees Harry, he's got some new conquest on his arm, some new heart for him to mangle and press against thorns.
And oh, all the "new things" he gets into...it's enough to drive a man crazy.
At each social event, Harry manages to paint himself even more ridiculous. Whether it be his three day obsession with yellow roses (everyone had to dress in yellow, and when they attended a symphony, Harry made them all throw them on the fucking stage) or his infatuation with the word "peafowl" which spurred him to litter live fucking peacocks on the lawn of Zayn's lake house while they played croquet ("They're my spirit animal," he drawled), or his particularly annoying little stint where he fell in love with antique doorknobs and refused to open any doors that did not possess them, thus forcing others to open them for him all day, every day. Louis took advantage of that one by slamming doors in his face at every opportunity he could get. It was rather marvelous, actually. That was a good 'thing'.
And then there's the parties.
The nights of excess where Harry's walls break and he loses what little he has of himself in crowds and intoxications. The nights where he lies on couches and pours absinthe into his dripping mouth and smokes opium on velvet pillows and stumbles around with flowers in his hand, pressing glares and thinly-veiled insults into peoples' mouths. He acts like a king, a fucking evil king, and Louis can only watch him with a growing intensity and wait for a crack in the cold, hard surface so that he can laugh and rejoice in the barely-there humanity that resides in Harry fucking Styles.
Which never comes, of course. Not really.
But through all of these little ticks, not once does Harry ever exchange a word with Louis.
He looks through him and sidles past without a word, all pretense of charm vanished. He knows it doesn't work with Louis so he doesn't even try. Which is wonderful, really, but Louis was never the sort that liked to be ignored, and though he can't quite bring himself to acknowledge Harry either--the image of his haunting eyes and whispered words still resonating uncomfortably within him from their last interaction--he still finds it all very rude.
The others don't seem to mind, don't even seem to question the stark animosity between the pair. Especially since Niall and Harry have bonded so well-which Louis constantly berates him for. ("TRAITOR!" "He's just fun. I still like you better." "Damn straight. Traitor.")
So it's natural that Louis isn't very nervous, at all, right now as he makes his way, alone, to Harry's rooms. Which he has never been to before. He's not even a little bit nervous.
They all agreed to meet there after they were done with lecture, and since Niall still has twenty minutes left of his audio course and needs to run some errands with Rory, Louis took it upon himself to embark on this perilous journey alone.
Which is fine.
So, ignoring any sense of displeasure in the pit of his stomach, Louis knocks on what he hopes is Harry's door. It's in a wonderful location, the rooms right above the archways near the gardens, looking out over the lake and tucked far enough away from the hubbub that it's almost peaceful from the outside.
As Louis waits, he can only hope that he's not the first one here. They're supposed to go to dinner soon-some posh place that Niall insists has the best steak and whiskey in the country. Originally they were going to just meet there (which would only be logical, to be honest) but Harry's new thing is berry cordial, and so he insisted on hosting cocktail hour before they departed.
And so here Louis is. Waiting outside of Harry Styles' door. Dressed in an ebony knit sweater and timberwolf skinny jeans, arms crossed, and resolutely not nervous. At all.
After about 5 minutes and no answer, he considers leaving. Because does he even have the right door?
But just as he's turning on his heel with all the flair of rejection, about to angrily text Niall, the door opens, slowly and steadily.
And it's Harry. Scowling. Not dressed in his usual suit and bow tie which Louis has only ever seen him in...but wearing a heart shirt. An actual heart shirt. It's buttoned to the collar, deep purple, and is splattered with large white fucking hearts.
"What in God's name are you wearing?" Louis utters instantly, unable to stop himself, as he stares in almost-horror at the display before him.
Harry's scowl deepens as he looks down at himself. "What?"
"Are those curtains? Surely that is not a shirt."
A steely glare is thrust back into Louis' face. "What are you doing here?"
Louis blinks. "We're supposed to meet here. Remember? Cocktail hour?" He says it witheringly and, maybe, rolls his eyes a little over-exaggeratedly.
"I said to come at four."
"It's four-thirty."
"Exactly. You're supposed to arrive an hour after the proposed time. Don't you know anything at all?" It's said in such an equally withering tone that Louis almost starts, the urge to slip off his shoe and beat it mercilessly over Harry's head alarming.
Instead, he narrows his eyes. Is this one of your trite rules? Or are you seriously telling me that I've arrived half an hour early?"
"You've arrived half an hour early."
Fuck.
So.
"Well..." Louis scratches the back of his neck, refusing to look at Harry and instead skimming his eyes over the wooden grit of the door, focusing intently on the ornate onyx hinges that are really rather finely crafted. "Should I just wait, or...?" Louis asks awkwardly, wanting nothing more than to escape the situation (and maybe sneak a shoe-bludgeon on the way out) but not really seeing the practicality of departure.
Where would he go? No point in walking all the way back to his rooms.
Harry just shrugs, glare still present, emanating disinterest and disapproval in hefty sums. "Doesn't matter to me. You'll have to entertain yourself either way."
Oh, how lovely.
"Then if it's all the same to you, I'll just stay," Louis clips with an exaggerated narrowing of the eyes, taking an aggressive step forward.
Harry opens the door and allows Louis in without another word, turning on his heel and stalking away, vanishing into an adjoining room and closing the door with a firm click. And then the sound of a lock is heard, and that's really just overkill.
"I'll just make myself at home then, shall I?" Louis calls with a roll of the eyes, but he's met with total silence.
Well. This is going to be awkward.
Luckily, Harry's rooms are gorgeous and full of enough rubbish to keep him plenty occupied. The space is large, almost larger than Zayn's, blood red walls and mahogany painting the atmosphere and, surprisingly, there's no piano. Because yes-even Liam has one, plays it while Zayn stands next to him and sings like a bloody angel in Paradise.
Harry's style is far more eccentric than Zayn's sleek luxury; where Zayn has smooth black stereo systems and large wooden bookcases, Harry has thick velvet curtains, gramophones, record players, framed porn stills from what appears to be the '20's or '30's, and...cat figurines.
A lot of fucking cat figurines.
He pokes at the creepier ones, their sightless blue eyes staring under the elaborate chandeliers and afternoon light, ceramic fur pointed in all directions. He has to admit some of them are rather endearing-the pair of glass kittens with their paws mutually wrapped around a little ball of yarn are really rather heartwarming-but for the most part they're unnerving and the fact that there isn't a speck of dust on them indicates they're well cared for.
Which Louis doesn't know how to feel about.
He continues slowly sweeping through the room, examining the shelves stuffed with worn books (like Zayn, Harry seems to collect only first and vintage editions) and swipes his fingers over their tired leather spines, titles barely visible under the stress of time. He notes the rather generous collection of Oscar Wilde books, and briefly wonders if Harry has enough substance in him to truly appreciate such works, or if he keeps it all as a pretense, a distraction, or a conversation starter.
Probably all three.
It's just as he's about to take a seat in the vermilion chaise longue (that's sat next to a tiny, ornate wooden table cluttered with half-drunk bottles of liquor, various stemware milling about) that he hears the sudden click of a lock and the opening of a door.
He turns in time to see a beautiful blonde dressed in a rumpled gold dress, dangling her sleek pumps in one hand, combing her hair with the other. Harry follows immediately behind her, a satin magenta robe draped over his hideous heart shirt and black trousers, feet bare.
"Bye, Harold," the girl purrs, and presses a kiss to his cheek which he doesn't even come close to acknowledging, instead focusing his stare on Louis, who merely stares back.
Without Harry even giving a glance in her direction, the girl leaves, the door softly shutting behind her.
Harry continues to stare at Louis, a martini now in his hand. Does he have fucking house elves? Where do all these prepared drinks come from?
"I've changed my mind. I want you to leave now," is all he says, lips pressed against the cold glass, eyes simultaneously bored and cutting.
What the actual fuck did he just say?
"Sorry?"
"You can return once the others have arrived," he says in a sighing drawl, his boredom and entitlement practically oozing out of every orifice.
Louis smirks, planting himself down on the chaise longue without a blink. "You're very funny."
Harry's eyes flash momentarily, watching as Louis makes himself more comfortable in the most over-the-top manner that he can manage. "You know that I can have you removed. By force, if necessary. I have a variety of options and none of them are any trouble to me."
"I don't think you understand how little that fazes me, Curly. And yes, I'd love a drink." Without breaking eye contact, Louis grabs the nearest glass from the table and extends it expectantly at Harry, glancing pointedly at the champagne bottle to his left.
And that's it, Louis thinks. That's all that Harry is going to take; instead of just walking away or sending a scathing comment, he will instead punch Louis in the face, upending furniture and losing his fucking mind. And Louis almost wants it. He wants to justify the all-consuming hatred he has for this boy, wants to rationalize to himself why he focuses, why he cares, why he sets aside time to just think about how much Harry fucking Stylesbothers him.
So Louis braces himself, a hand already on the cherry wood armrest (if you can call it that), ready to defend and attack.
But it doesn't happen.
Instead, instead, Harry continues staring, eyes cold and assessing, before picking up the bottle and slowly walking over to Louis unblinkingly.
He's going to dump it over Louis' head. He's going to spill it in his face and laugh and then probably crack the bottle over his skull and then-
But Harry pours the champagne into Louis' offered glass.
And Louis' jaw almost fucking drops because what?
He stares, probably gaping (but he hopes not) as Harry pours and stares back; he's almost impressed with the fluidity of Harry's actions as he pours champagne unseeingly, eyes still intent on Louis, and is still more impressed when he manages to cut the flow at the precise moment Louis' glass is filled.
And now Louis really doesn't know how to react, with Harry standing in front of him silently, wearing a tacky shirt and a creepy robe and an expression that's caught somewhere between disgust and curiosity, his rose lips pressed into themselves, his curls mussed and hazy in the sunlight.
"Thank you," Louis mutters quietly, a little out of sorts, and Harry nods his acknowledgment before setting down the bottle.
Harry seems to be on the brink of saying something further, lips opening just barely, when suddenly his pocket vibrates, cutting the awkwardness of the room.
Louis sends a prayer of thanks to the heavens.
They both glance down as one, and while Louis prays that it's Zayn informing him that he's outside the door (hah), Harry's expression instantly falls as he looks at the screen. Which is odd, really, to look that physically distressed about a phone call.
Louis' on the verge of asking who it is, but then Harry silences it, looking back up at Louis with a stark paleness that wasn't there before, even as his features smooth back into indifference, albeit with difficulty.
"Help yourself," is all he says in a surprisingly quiet tone, words mumbled and slow in their monotony before he turns slowly and makes for the other room, once again shutting the door.
But this time there's no click of the lock, and Louis almost wonders if they've just made some insignificant form of progress in their relationship, despite the random and mysterious caller.
He hopes not.
**
It's been half an hour and Niall isn't texting him back and Zayn and Liam are still not here.
And Harry is still in his room.
Which is fine and all, but Louis has already drank too much spare liquor and poked at too many of Harry's stuffed animals--because, yep, he discovered a stash of them in the farther corner of the room, wearing little hats and monocles as they sat atop dark leather chests. He also discovered a tiara not too long after, every ounce of his willpower coming in to play as he resisted putting it on and strutting around taking selfies.
Okay, so maybe he did actually do that. But it was literally only one selfie, and he only sent it to Stan because, well, he just had to. On a moral level.
It's just as Louis is drifting back to his chaise longue for more bored lounging and staring out of the window (owl stuffed animal in tow-it's eyes are just too wide and adorable to not cuddle and he's got shit else for company anyways) when he hears the faint tinkling of piano keys.
Of fucking course.
Are pianos handed out at birth?
But Louis has enough liquor in him to provide a pleasant buzz and since the living room doesn't have much to offer that he hasn't already dissected, he makes his way towards the sound and presses his ear against the cool wood of Harry's door.
The tune is lilting and sweet and unfamiliar, almost sad by nature while still bearing undertones of hope. It's rather lovely, really, and as Louis listens, closing his eyes and absorbing the textures of sound, he feels an undeniable urge for more.
So, mind addled by champagne and a few sips of gin, he silently turns the doorknob and eases the door open.
He's immediately greeted with the sight of Harry sat at a large chestnut piano, head lightly bent. His hands-which are out of Louis' line of sight, buried beneath the strong lines of the frame-seem to move deftly and gracefully, his quiet eyes following their movement. The satin of his robe catches in the soft rays of light streaming from the line of windows behind him, contrasting against the powder blue shadows of the room (the lights are off) and mingling his skin in multi-tones and angles.
Louis stares.
It's not like when Niall plays.
Niall's whole life is like a bursting light shining endlessly on all that surrounds it, but when he's immersed in his instruments and music, his whole being calms. Instead of the raucous energy and life that pours from him, the shining beacon of life that is Niall Horan dims as he plays piano, his energy focused and quiet.
It's the opposite with Harry.
Harry, who is all cardboard smiles and vacant eyes, the very personification of 'the light's on but nobody's home' in the most gruesome sense, positively alights when he plays. Not that he's smiling or anything. No, Harry doesn't look any less miserable than usual. But there's something indefinably different about him. There's a trueness, a genuineness, a passionate intent within him that glows to the surface, leaving him wrecked and real, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the shadows.
It's like all of those flickers of something that Louis sees in Harry's eyes whenever he's agitated-here they are, spelled out and assembled in the flesh.
For the first time, Harry Styles looks consistently like a person. He looks like a boy. And Louis can't look away.
But then the keys start to jumble.
Louis almost doesn't notice at first, the unnerving beauty of the moment dulling his senses, but then the unmistakable odd "clank" of a key mars the simple melody, and Louis' eyes flash up to meet with Harry's face and-
Oh fuck.
His cheeks are wet.
There are streams, thick, hot streams of tears pouring down his face, blurring his vision, pressing his long eyelashes to his cheeks in clumps, and though Harry has absolutely no idea that Louis is there as he silently plays and weeps, Louis feels ashamed watching the spectacle.
Because Harry Styles is crying (he's human? what?) and it's something that Louis has dreamt about in his darkest hour. But now that it's actually happening...it's not satisfying at all. It's fucking heartbreaking. And the tiny sniffles and the glistening cheeks caught between shadow and light fill Louis with an indescribable sorrow that he can't even begin to place.
He's about to turn away, he is, but then Harry stops playing altogether, and he grips the frame of the piano with one hand, turning his face away.
Louis studies his profile, can see the tears even more clearly, and he feels utterly helpless and trapped, because what does he do? What ishappening??
So he just stands there frozen and watches as Harry's eyes close, sending another surge of salty drops down his face. He bows his head under the weight of his own thoughts and slides a hand through his curls, gripping the ends tight and tugging in what appears to be agonized frustration, his frame beginning to rock back and forth in gentle sways.
Louis just wants to pull his hand away and yell at him to stop because what the fuck, but instead he just stares with wide eyes, and Harry's tiny sobs fill the room as he winds his hair tighter around trembling fingers like a small, abandoned child.
Louis is speechless, frozen, and very, very inexplicably distressed, to the point of needing to touch, to comfort, even if he doesn't know why or what for.
So he goes to take a step forward.
And then Harry's phone rings.
With truly alarming speed, Harry wipes the tears away with the sleeve of his shirt, his features immediately assembling into a fixed calm. He swallows, takes a few gulps of air with shaky lips, then shakes the hair out of his eyes as he answers and brings the phone up to his ear in one smooth movement.
"Zayn, darling," he greets, and his voice bears no trace of the previous scene.
It makes Louis feel sicker somehow, his nausea eating away at his stomach lining and poking at his brain in the quiet, guilty corners.
"Yes, of course." Pause. "No rush, love. I gladly await your impeccable arrival. Do wear the colors of the berries-they're the only tones that I can understand right now." Pause. "That will do just fine. Pass the message to Liam. And tell the boy to stop talking over me." Pause. "Yes, Louis is here."
Louis feels a spike up his spine at hearing his name on Harry's lips. It's odd really, as it's not the first time he's said it, but it's jarring and it jolts Louis' nerves into wakefulness and he prays, prays, prays that Harry doesn't look over.
"Of course," Harry continues, and he rubs a hand over his eye. "Yes, darling, that sounds perfect. I'll see you soon. I suggest purple, by the by. It compliments your complexion ever so wonderfully." And Harry says goodbye with a smile while Louis rolls his eyes and he sets his phone down quietly. His features are still, no longer smiling but no longer pained, instead resting within a frailty that seems perfect enough to paint.
Fearing for his own life if Harry discovers him, Louis forces himself to exit, slowly shutting the door with all the silence his slight frame is capable of.
Dumbly, he walks back to the chaise longue and sits, feet on the floor and elbows resting on his knees, and he just stares, nausea still present as his head spins, less so because of the alcohol, more so because of Harry Styles and his fucking tears.
He sinks his head into his hands and prays for Zayn's speedy arrival.
Because tonight is already too hard to handle, and he sure as hell can't stand to be alone with his thoughts right now.
**
Eventually all the boys arrive (Niall being last because he insisted on purchasing a segway) and after berry cordial and various cocktails and hard liquor are distributed (Niall refuses to intake anything but straight alcohol and labels the rest as "juice") they depart for a very expensive and lavish dinner that is just as fulfilling as Niall had promised.
Everybody's happy, Zayn musing over his cigarettes at Louis' complaints about all the bitches in his courses (some people need to sit the fuck down) while Liam giggles at everything and stares in almost-awe, hand on Zayn's leg.
Harry is the happiest of them all. Well. "Happiest."
He fills everyone's drinks and laughs through his napkin and toasts the sky, the stars, the world, and fixes his bow tie (yes, he changed, is now decked in a lavender suit, a sprig of berries pinned to his lapel) with jeweled fingers that don't tremble, and Louis feels sick watching it all.
Because it's fake, he knows now just how fake, and with every loud laugh that Harry emits, every toothy grin that fills the room, every strokes of Zayn's arm and every clink of his glass against Niall's, Louis envisions the shrouded boy at the piano, tears washing his face.
But he doesn't care, can't care, so he washes his thoughts down with steak and potatoes, berating Niall for purchasing a segway.
"You're not coming home tonight, and I'll make sure Rory knows it, Ireland!"
"Ireland? Did you just call me Ireland?"
And so Louis very firmly pushes away every thought that threatens to surface.
**
It's as they were driving back to school, stuffed into Zayn's antique car, the moonlight filling the sky above their heads as the cool night wind whipped wetly against their skin, that Liam suggests a party.
"I've been getting texts all day about it. It's supposed to be quite fun?"
"Well, it is Friday," Louis reasons with a mischievous smile, and Zayn smirks at him in the rear view mirror.
"My thoughts exactly, Louis," he mutters, hands resting lightly on the wheel as he winds them through cobbled roads. "Party it is."
"Excellent," Harry grins, whipping out his phone. "I've been meaning for an excuse to ring some people."
"Since when do you need an excuse?" Zayn counters with a glance back at Harry.
"Never," he shrugs with a large smile, "but it's only polite to do so."
Niall barks his laughter, sliding his arm around Harry's shoulders. "You've got balls of brass, you do!" he roars heartily, and Harry joins him in laughter, pleased with the accolade and tilting his head back.
Louis watches him, pressed on the other side of Niall in the back, and only briefly feels a stirring in his chest before returning his gaze to the front.
"Let's make tonight the best yet, all right, lads?" he says with an eyebrow raise and an easy grin.
Zayn grins out a, "All right, Louis," while Liam claps like a dolphin and nods enthusiastically, Niall swinging his fists into the air and Harry roaring wordless noise to the void of the sky above them.
At least Louis can always count on distractions when his thought become too much. And tonight he is in dire need of just that.
**
The party is one of the more wild ones, stuffed into a penthouse and emitting smoke, beautiful people, and flashing lights.
There are trays of crystal glasses filled with absinthe and cognac, people in ornate, glittering masks, a band whose members are clad in leather and body paint, and lines of cocaine lie between scattered diamond jewelry and pocket watches on every available surface.
Perhaps on a normal day Louis would find it fun; today, it only serves to disgust him.
He spends his night awkwardly trailing after Niall since, once again, Liam carried Zayn into the swirling masses and was never seen again. He bounces rather than walks, meeting girl after girl and making them laugh in that pitching way that is nothing but forced.
Louis' aware that he's salting Niall's game, always peering over his shoulder cynically at the newest hanger-on, and while at first he felt indifferent to his stunning lack of manners, he is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
"I should probably leave you to it," he says as the sixth girl in a row wanders off after throwing a steely glare his way.
"Probably," Niall agrees, but shrugs. "But I don't mind much. Fuck all that, I just want to have a good time. Whatever that fuckin' entails, you know? Don't feel the need to leave if you don't want to. I mean it, Tommo."
Louis smiles and nods (is Niall ever not blunt and completely uncomplicated?) and is so touched by Niall's loyalty and sun that he claps a hand to his shoulder and says, "I think I'll let you take this one, Ireland. Come find me when you're bored, all right? I'm going to explore and see if there's anything I can steal." With one last wink he sends a wave, calling out a departing, "Charm the ladies and all that!" as he walks away, leaving a grinning Niall who shakes his head in amusement.
Because maybe Louis does need to be alone right now. Because maybe this distraction isn't cutting it. Because he's currently wondering, obsessively, where Harry is.
And it needs to stop.
**
Louis spends the rest of the night outside on the balcony, leaned against the wall and staring up at the sky which does nothing but stare back.
He attempts to sing, hum, and drink, all with the intention to steer his thoughts into distraction, but he's still left with one name on the tip of his tongue, and it eats away at him as he checks his phone, silently praying for Niall to send him a "Let's get out of here and get stoned."
But it never comes.
So after four fucking hours, as the roar from the inside dies down and the stumbling balcony intruders (this is Louis' place of sanctuary and nobody else's) lessens to nothing, he decides it's time to force Niall to leave. Because really.
Pocketing his message-less phone and rubbing the boredom out of his eyes, he steps back inside, seeking out Niall or Zayn or Liam with increasingly desperate eyes.
But it comes to no avail.
And after he's searched the place as thoroughly as one unfamiliar with it could, he gives up, standing in the middle of a trashed room with beer splashed on the floors, soggy streamers swirling in the ruddy liquid, crushed masks and cups underfoot. Everything smells stale and the remnants of smoke still cling to the air, only serving to frustrate and disgust Louis more.
'Where are you?' he texts Niall, and his eyes can barely focus on the brightness of the screen, his limbs weighed down with exhaustion and spent attitude.
Because fuck. He just wants to go home. And he really doesn't know exactly how to go about that.
Luckily, he has famous friends.
The place is surprisingly empty given the time-he wonders if everybody just migrated to somewhere even better? But at the first straggler he sees, he grabs her sweaty arm, setting imploring eyes on the brunette girl before him.
"I don't suppose you've seen Niall Horan by any chance?"
The girl smiles dazedly. "Nope, sorry, love. Not since, like, three hours ago."
Shit.
"How about Zayn Malik?"
"Oh. Yeah. He and Liam Payne just left, actually."
And Louis stares.
Fuck.
"Ah. I don't suppose I could still catch them?"
"Doubt it. They were getting in the car when I last saw them. Sorry," she shrugs, and sends one last hazy smile in his direction before walking away.
Great.
Fucking great.
So now what?
Frustrated at the helplessness of the situation--and when exactly did Louis become helpless and why hadn't he prepared for situations like this?--he meanders from room to room, hoping to find a clue that will spark some sort of solution within him.
But instead of finding a solution he finds Harry Styles.
He's there, right there across the room, barely conscious and being held up by a string of socialites in sweaty, hanging clothes that look far too expensive and bland. They grip him from all sides, rubbing their hands over him like he's shiny (Louis suspects Ecstasy at the very least), turning his barely opened eyes towards them, and pressing cold, flushed lips against his slack face.
Something alarming burns in the bottom of Louis' stomach as he watches, and before he quite knows what he's doing, he's marching towards the slew of leeches.
Their voices become clearer, reaching Louis' ears over the remnants of shitty pop music flowing through the speakers, sneaking through the clouds of smoke that hang weakly.
"I want him," a pretty redhead slurs, eyes wide and glassy as she slides a hand beneath Harry's jacket.
A young boy, probably no more than sixteen, glares at her, shoving her hand away as he grips Harry's hand tightly. "I want him!"
"C'mon mate, you've already had him," another boy complains, and begins tugging at Harry's jacket in a way that makes Louis sick.
He stares at the scene before him in horror, barely comprehending the fact these people are currently tugging on Harry Styles like he's a ragdoll, pulling at him from all sides and touching every bit of him without an ounce of respect. And it's even more horrifying that Harry isn't even really there, too intoxicated in whatever it is he's flooded himself with that night as his weight passes from person to person, his eyes blearily peering into space and intermittently closing, mouth lightly hanging open, and sweat covering his skin.
And fuck no.
This is not okay.
"All right, people, all right," Louis thunders, plowing into the sweaty mass of harpies. "Hands off, hands off." He swats them away, one by one, as they mewl their protests and send cutting looks his way.
The one boy barrels up to him, chest squared and seeming on the verge of violence.
"Who says you can have him?" he grumbles, voice low and rich with stale vodka.
Louis scrunches his nose in disgust at the odor-as well as his face-and rolls his eyes as he wraps Harry's arm around his neck, gripping his waist with the other.
"I've already paid for him," he says in his most sarcastic of tones, and offers forth such sass that he expects a full blown fight right there and then.
But, to his complete horror, the boy's eyes fill with comprehension.
"Oh. Sorry, mate, I didn't know."
And Louis wants to fucking puke at the fact that he was taken seriously.
Gritting his teeth against all the things he wants to say (because that won't help right now, he just needs to get Harry out of here) he sends one last filthy glare in their direction, allowing himself only a, "Fucking parasites," as he stumbles away.
This still doesn't solve his problem of being stranded-might have complicated it even more-but he doesn't care, instead focusing on the sheer difficulty of supporting this lanky puppet that reeks of sweat and flowers, head rolling on his shoulders as he barely manages to put one foot in front of the other.
"I'm so glad you over-indulge, Curly. It's really great. Just an overall splendid idea," he grits, meandering him over to the elevator.
The doors slide open with a slick ease, allowing them entry into the golden cubicle and Louis pushes the button of the main floor with more force than is necessary.
"M'name's Harold," Harry suddenly mumbles in a low tone, lips barely opening. "Not 'Curly.'"
And Louis almost wants to sing at that, because fuck, Harry is conscious and Harry has connections. Notably, a car service.
"Curly! Harry. Harold. Excellent, you're alive. All right then, tell me how I can get us home. Because I actually don't possess slaves."
He can see the very faint furrowing of Harry's brow (and Louis considers it an achievement that, even in a state of near unconsciousness, he can still make Harry scowl) but Harry cooperates with a, "'S in my phone. Under 'Driver.'"
And isn't that tidy.
"Of course it is," Louis grumbles, but slides Harry's phone out of his pocket all the same, finding the name with ease and ringing him in a manner that he hopes doesn't convey how fucking emotionally taxed he is. All the while Harry mumbling nothings into his shoulder as he fades in and out.
**
When "Driver" drops them off in front of the school, Louis is already on the verge of mental collapse, having had to endure Harry's body weight for far too long (and his grumbles and near-hisses in his drunken confusion on the ride over) and briefly wonders how horrible it would be if he just left him outside.
But, of course, his conscience takes over, and so Louis hoists Harry the rest of the way until they successfully reach his rooms-which are unfairly far from Louis and Niall's.
It's awkward, having to support the almost-dead weight of Harry Styles as he meanders through the dark of a flat he only just became acquainted with today. He stumbles, feet catching on spare furniture and sharp corners, and at one point he almost drops Harry into a pile of cacti which are congregated inconveniently close to the walkway. And while it would have been hilarious (and why does Harry have cacti anyway?) Louis can't think of anything worse than drawing this process out longer than it needs to be, and so he sends a prayer of thanks to the heavens as he kicks open Harry's bedroom door, stumbles past the piano without one glance in its direction, and flops Harry onto the bed.
And that's all he's going to do.
That's what he's told himself. That's all he's going to do.
...
Except that Harry isn't even fully on the bed, his legs hanging over the end, the pillow far from close to his head.
And so he shifts him upward, maneuvering the boy with endless limbs until he's situated comfortably. Unthinkingly, Louis undoes his bow tie and the first couple buttons on his crisp shirt, opting out of stripping him of his jacket since he can't even imagine how he would accomplish such activity without waking Harry up fully. He unlaces his shoes and slides them off, fetches a wet cloth and dabs away a mysterious stickiness that coats his neck and hands (Louis doesn't want to know) and brushes a cool hand over his sweaty forehead and damp locks.
And now he's going to leave.
Because he's officially taken care of Harry and basically bathed him and done all that he should considering he owes him nothing and Harry has as much respect for him as he does a snow crab.
Actually, Harry respects snow crabs more. He's said so.
Louis rolls his eyes at the thought as he sits beside Harry, holding the wet cloth in his hands as he stares at his sleeping form. It's such a contrast from the usual.
Once again Louis is reminded of earlier in the day, Harry's face and posture as he wept and poured whatever feeling he possessed into the piano; that same sense of realness is there now, and as Louis watches him, unable to look away and unable to identify the clawing in his stomach, he finds himself placing a hand over Harry's own.
He wants to take it back instantly. But he doesn't. He just sits there, staring at this tornado of a boy with deep shadows and dark curls and holds his fucking hand like a child, unable to pry himself away no matter how much his bed is calling him.
Eventually he succumbs to his exhaustion though, sliding his hand away and taking a final look at Harry. He doesn't know when the next time will be that he sees him in such honest surrender, such open vulnerability, and it makes him both sad and relieved.
So with one last parting look in Harry's direction, Louis shuts the door, gripping the damp cloth in his hand tightly as he tears himself away and trudges back to his flat, each step bearing a new weight.
And Louis does not want tomorrow to come.
Because he does not like the direction that this situation is headed.