Chapter Seven:
Louis was well and truly sick of being turned down. Tonight he was going to do something absolutely spectacular; he would win Harry over and show that he wasn’t just a stupid slut. In fact, he wasn’t planning on any kind of sexual advances whatsoever – just romantic ones.
He’d spent a long time picking out a shirt of Zayn’s which, strictly speaking, he hadn’t been given permission to borrow. On a point of accuracy, he’d snuck into Zayn’s hotel room while the other boy was in the shower and snatched the shirt in question from over the back of a chair, feeling pretty pleased with the speed with which he did it. After all, he’d been planning to acquire that particular item of clothing for a while; it was a grey shirt with a picture of a skull on it, and black roses – a morbid garment, but it looked pretty cool and brought out some of the more subdued greyish tones in his eyes. After fixing his hair like it was a military operation, finding some trousers which were perhaps a little less revealing –see, Stan, I am so not a slut! Louis thought – and far looser on him, and choosing his least ratty shoes, he was ready. Kind of.
If anyone had known what he was planning, he knew full well what they’d have said. Told him he was an idiot. Who did he think he was, bloody Spiderman? It was the stupidest plan ever and he’d hurt himself and even if he didn’t, it was just plain creepy, climbing the walls to get someone’s attention; Harry would probably be utterly horrified and think he was seriously weird, and be put off him for good! Well, Louis knew all of that, and he didn’t care a bit.
It was somewhat of a consolation that Harry was a weirdo, too, and a friendless weirdo at that – so he couldn’t object too strongly to Louis being completely bonkers. Anyway, he was at a loose end, and he’d run out of other ideas. This was seeming like a better and better idea by the minute, now there was nobody hanging around to change his mind.
Feeling pretty pleased with both himself and his plan, he stared up at the wall beneath Harry’s balcony and grimly spat on his hands. He was going to end up with an awful lot of grazes on his palms by the time he had reached his destination, but he’d heard people say enough times that love cures all ills, and people will do anything for love, etcetera, etcetera. Previously, he’d snorted with laughter at sappy nonsense like that, but if it gave him an excuse…well, who was he to scoff? He didn’t know what love was like, after all. And it made him feel slightly less crazy if he had some way of justifying his actions.
He took a good run up before rushing forwards, springing at the wall and grabbing hold of the first handhold he came to, namely some kind of ivy or other creeping plant that was growing up the wall. It turned out to not be the steadiest of items, something that he abruptly realized when he found himself lying sprawled on the floor with a large handful of the stuff wound around his fingers. Shaking his head, he hurled it to the ground, stormed over to the wall and made a great show of thoroughly examining it for crevices which he could use to drag himself up.
The first place he found to shove his foot was rather a tight fit, and he almost panicked when he thought that he’d trapped his toe in the crack – but before too long, he managed to shake his foot free and then he was scrambling up the next little section of wall, scrabbling ineffectively to try and rip some of the ivy away and find a slightly more steady place to put his hands. It was by no means the easiest wall he’d ever climbed – and yes, he’d climbed walls before! He was a teenage boy who liked to get drunk; of course he’d climbed plenty of walls in his time. This one was proving to be a particular challenge; his hands were burning and he could feel Zayn’s shirt sticking to him as he struggled to try and gain a little height. It felt like he’d hardly moved.
Don’t look down, he warned himself, and then repeated it out loud, with more emphasis, like he didn’t expect himself to obey; “Don’t. Look. Down!” Shaking his hair out of his eyes, he breathed out heavily through his mouth, pulled a face, and then stretched his hand out, arm aching as he forced himself to reach out further than his arm was intended to reach in order to grab a brick which was suitably placed for him to pull himself up a little higher. Inch by inch, he was slowly making his way upwards. If Harry didn’t appreciate this, Louis would be sorely tempted to punch him. Seriously. Either that, or he’d throw himself off the balcony.
Providing he actually managed to get up there first, of course.
He was slowly, carefully getting there, albeit with a lot of huffing and puffing and copious amounts of swearwords. Hopefully Harry wasn’t listening; he had the feeling that the sound of him rattling off every expletive in the dictionary perhaps wasn’t the most romantic beginning of a serenading session. Also, with the way Harry looked so painfully innocent, he felt awful at the thought of contaminating his little curl-concealed ears with swearwords. Not quite awful enough to close his mouth and stifle them, but pretty awful, anyway.
The balcony was coming closer and closer, and he was starting to feel heartened with every inch of ascent. He had a sneaking suspicion that he’d ripped the hem of Zayn’s t-shirt and that Zayn was probably going to kill him when he found out, but he’d deal with that later. One of his shoes was in serious danger of falling off his foot and dropping all the way back down to the ground again; if it did, he was going to kick off the other, too, partly so that the first shoe wouldn’t feel lonely, and also because at least that way it would look deliberate and seem a little less ridiculous. His hair was sticking to his forehead and Zayn’s shirt was sticking to his back, the stalks of the ivy were relentlessly scratching his tanned arms, and as he shifted awkwardly, one of the twigs slashed at his face, leaving a stinging graze on one cheek. He hoped it made him look rugged and determined rather than clumsy, which was how he felt right then. He also hoped to God that if by some miracle he did turn out looking rugged, then Harry would be into that kind of thing.
If he fell now, he would probably break one or possibly more bones – he’d done so in the past, and had no particular desire to relive the experience. Therefore he was concentrating on not falling, even though his brain appeared determined to try its utmost to distract him, filling his mind with new ideas; according to his brain, he ought to have slicked his hair back, had his teeth whitened and climbed heroically up the wall with a red rose between his teeth, and he probably ought to have had some kind of dramatic music playing in the background.
Louis was seriously beginning to worry about what kind of state his mind was in to be conjuring up mental images like that. Especially because he was thinking that actually, it would be quite cool, especially if he accessorized the whole ensemble with a sword belt.
Gritting his teeth to dispel any more forthcoming Disney-themed fantasies, Louis growled and found himself a new foothold, pulling himself up another short stretch of wall. Perhaps he should have brought a ladder instead – less romantic, but a lot more practical.
Light was spilling from Harry’s doorway out onto the balcony; he could see it if he craned his neck – it was dim for a summer evening, but then again, it was coming close to midnight. Idly, he wondered whether Harry was one of those night owls; he looked young enough to have been in bed by now. Still, appearances could be deceiving.
He was getting distracted again. Focus, he told himself grimly, and returned his attention to the wall.
~*~
He was listening to music and leaning over the edge of his balcony, hand trailing over the edge, boredly tracing the cool metal bars, wondering if, from below, his silhouette made him look like he was enacting a cheap, rip-off version of Romeo and Juliet. It wasn’t quite the most authentic of balconies, and he by no means resembled any sort of Juliet, being eighteen, male, not particularly romantic, and not being a fictional character. Still, it amused him to think of it.
Headphones jammed in his ears, blocking out the world, he’d removed his ever-present black clothes for once, wearing a plain white shirt and jeans instead. Ed Sheeran’s melodic voice was trickling soothingly into his ears, and he couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculous cliché of listening to sad music and staring melancholically out into the night. Harry derived amusement from the strangest of things.
Perhaps even more clichéd; his thoughts were occupied by a man. A certain man in particular, with caramel-coloured hair and wicked eyes like sapphires dipped in ice, which glinted with mischief whenever he opened his mouth. With tanned skin and a long, lithe body a little smaller and more controllable than Harry’s, and a mouth which unashamedly voiced anything which came into his head without even stopping to think about what he was saying; Harry envied him for it almost as much as he pitied him. He could imagine that it had gotten Louis into several sticky situations in the past. However, he’d probably talked his way out of them easily enough, with that velvety voice that wrapped around each syllable and made Harry quiver at the mere thought of how that voice framed his name, like each letter was a kiss being pressed lightly against his skin by a cool mouth. These were the kind of sinful thoughts he was ashamed to be having, and he pinched himself lightly on the wrist as a stern reminder to ignore them.
Still, he had by no means forgotten how touchy Louis had been with him, on the very first night they’d met. While he hauled the dripping wet man up the stairs, puffing and panting all the while, Louis’ slender fingers had fiddled with his waistband, snuck underneath his skirt and trailed enticingly up the warm skin of his back, tapped little nonsensical tunes onto his spine. His mouth had been warm and inviting as it wandered across Harry’s neck, and no matter how valiantly Harry protested and pushed him away, it always came back. He had enjoyed it far more than he should. Whether Louis remembered any of it or not he didn’t know, but he hoped not. If only because of the way he had blushed quite so hard when Louis’ mouth, whispering temptations and drunken promises into his ear, had been trying to corrupt him and coax him into bed…
Harry would not forget how close they had come to doing just that. He hadn’t been strictly truthful in his telling of the turn of events after he brought the older boy to his room; in reality, it had been anything but the innocent evening he had portrayed it to be. Whispering persuasively, Louis had managed to convince him to remove both of their clothes in a matter of minutes, and they’d both been lying on the bed in only their underwear, skin touching, when Louis had rolled over to kiss him and Harry realized that he was lying on his bed with a total stranger who was making a pass at him…when he realized how it must look.
Stuttering and stammering, he had made his excuses and locked himself in the bathroom rather than Louis – when he nervously resurfaced, Louis was asleep and snoring, and it had been left to Harry to find him new clothes and stuff him into them without waking them. He had tried, honestly tried, not to look, only to touch when necessary…but how could he help but notice the snowy white and slightly brown shades of their contrasting skin? How could he prevent his shaking fingers from lingering on Louis’ taut stomach and smoothing his soft hair? It was a miracle in itself that he hadn’t woken Louis up and carried on with all of the things that the other boy had been proposing for half of the evening. That terrified Harry; he hated to even speak to a stranger, so how had he almost ended up in bed with one? And it continued to be so; he was more comfortable with Louis, a totally mad stranger who threw himself at shy introverts and then fell into the hotel pool and dragged Harry in with him, than he had ever been with anyone in his life. Which was why he sometimes forgot that he was Harry Styles, who shunned company and didn’t like people and was never happier than he was when things were silent, and why he sometimes found himself becoming someone he didn’t recognize, but who might actually behim.
Quickly banishing the thought, he looked down into the courtyard below – and that was when he wondered whether his mind had snapped and he’d gone entirely mad, because his Romeo and Juliet delusion had apparently gained a new aspect; become a little more accurate. He could see the shadow of someone clinging to dear life to the bottom of his balcony, kicking their legs and struggling to get a better grip on the metalwork.
Ripping his headphones out of his ears, Harry leapt back in alarm. Was it a burglar? Why his balcony, out of all of them, when his fear of strangers would tie his vocal chords in knots that would prevent him from crying out for help if anyone were to leap over? But just as he was about to make a panicked dash for the French windows and lock them, protecting himself from whoever the hell was hanging off his balcony, a familiar set of tanned fingers appeared on the edge, poking through the bars – and then a face popped up, pressing against the white metal, and he could see that he recognized the person who was clawing madly and trying to haul themselves up onto the parapet.
“Shit!” Louis cursed, swinging wildly off the balcony, and accompanied it with several similar profanities as he struggled not to fall off and plummet straight back down to the ground again.
After a couple of moments, Harry cautiously approached him, peeking over the edge, his body throwing a shadow over Louis’ face. Looking up at him, Louis’ mouth quirked into a sheepish smile that only widened as Harry asked incredulously, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Falling,” admitted Louis. “Which wasn’t the original plan, but it would appear to be how things have turned out…would you mind giving me a hand?” He stretched one hand through the bars.
Shaking his head in pure amazement, Harry knelt down and grabbed hold of his arm – and then the other…and slowly, little by little, he and Louis worked together until Louis was finally putting one leg over the bars and struggling to scramble over. Eventually, he managed it, and they stood staring at each other, Harry quickly dropping Louis’ hand like it had burnt him while Louis tried not to look embarrassed and attempting to recall how his plan was supposed to have turned out.
In the absence of his previous plan coming to mind, Louis decided to just go with his instinct – which just happened to be making a joke of it all. Dropping to his knees, he dramatically clasped his hands in front of him and exclaimed, “But hark! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Harold is the sun!”
Stunned, Harry burst out laughing, and Louis listened in amazement to the beautiful, unrestrained sound of it, echoing through the hotel grounds, stealing away the silence and replacing it with something far more pleasing to the ear. He couldn’t help but grin in response to Harry’s amusement; straightening up from where he had been bent double, Harry raised an eyebrow at him and shook his head in bemusement.
“My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound: art thou not Louis Tomlinson, and a complete and total idiot?” He couldn’t keep either the smile off his face or the laughter out of his voice.
“You missed out a massive chunk,” Louis chided gently, and he stepped forwards and pressed a finger to Harry’s lips to silence him. “My name is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee; had I it written, I would tear the word.”
He gazed unflinchingly at Harry, fixing him with a cool blue stare. Harry swallowed, clearly understanding what he was talking about; he was referencing the way that Harry cringed whenever Louis’ name was mentioned across the hallway by the receptionist, flinching like it was his own. The way he had turned him down time and time again, almost as if he was ashamed to be associated with him. Blushing, Harry’s gaze dropped; he hadn’t realized that Louis had paid enough attention to evennotice those little things, let alone that he had taken it to heart.
“He speaks yet he says nothing: what of that? His eye discourses; I will answer it.” Louis dipped forward and pressed his cheek against Harry’s, getting access to his ear, but he said nothing else, merely waiting for Harry to respond.
“I am too quickly won,” Harry offered, fetching up the only appropriate quote he could think of.
Louis snorted. “If only that were true.” Turning around, he rested his chin on his hand and leaned on the balcony, lounging over the edge and stared over the edge. “You’re paraphrasing, you know. Skipping bits. My English teacher would have had a fit over you.”
“Yeah, well it’s been a good few years since I last studied Shakespeare, so I hope you’ll forgive me for forgetting the odd line,” Harry said dryly. “I would have brushed up on it a little if I knew someone was going to flirt with me and insist that I replied using lines from a play I barely even looked at when I wasstudying it.”
“It’s about time you had a bit of trouble, I think. You’ve given me enough.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know.” Louis faced him again; leaning forwards, he continued softly but animatedly, “that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Harry Styles, torments me so that I will sure run mad.” Pausing, he shook his head with a sigh. “Look, see – now I’m paraphrasing.”
“Never mind that; who’re you calling a wench? Anyway, I’m not tormenting you.”
Again, Louis laughed. “Remind me; how many times have you turned me down now? Five? Six?”
“Twice,” Harry corrected primly, “three times, if you’re going to count the time you tried to get me to drink with you by the poolside.”
“Three times too many, then. Does the thought of my company really horrify you so much that you couldn’t even bear to sit with me for ten minutes in silence before the bar closes? Am I that bad, really? Because forgive me if I’m wrong, but I got the impression that we get on quite well.”
“I hardly think that counts as torment,” muttered Harry wryly, then more loudly, “not your company specifically. Just company in general. I’m not keen on mixing with people overall; you shouldn’t take it so personally. Actually, I do enjoy your company – more than most people’s.” Embarrassed by the revelation, he quickly looked away. “I just…don’t like people.”
“Your only love sprung from your only hate?” Louis asked wryly, quoting Shakespeare again, and once again he turned his back on Harry and went back to watching the sky.
“If you like. I’m terrible at socializing; I never know what to say. You’d be quick to get rid of me if I did come. You only want me because I’m unattainable; it’s my only selling point. I’m not funny or clever or attractive, so my only appeal is that you can’t have me. I don’t like people, but I know them all too well; everyone wants what they can’t have.”
“Well, it depends on how you look at it. What if I did find you funny, clever and attractive?”
Gorgeous, ivy coloured eyes rolled in acknowledgement of the question, but Harry shook his head pityingly, lips pressed amusedly together. “Well, then it’d be a serious error of judgement on your part, but I suppose I can’t complain. You really aren’t going to let this go, are you?”
“Nope,” agreed Louis cheerfully. “I’m going to keep on asking until you say yes.”
“And what if I never say yes?” His smile had reached his eyes by now, and there was a new light of excitement dancing there; unconsciously or not, he was enjoying the verbal battle. “What if we both go home and never see each other again and I still haven’t said yes?”
Louis shrugged. “Then I’ll follow you home and trail your every move, and when you die I’ll scratch ‘yes’ onto your gravestone with my fingernails. And then I’ll have the answer I want even if you’re in no state to fulfill it.”
Harry snorted with laughter and tried to hastily disguise it as a cough. “I suppose I’d better say yes, then, or else you may end up with a restraining order, and that really would be a shame.”
Delighted, Louis’ eyes lit up. “So…hold on a minute, you’re actually saying yes?”
More amusement. “No.”
Slumping in defeat, Louis groaned and closed his eyes in defeat. “I swear, you’re trying to drive me mad, aren’t you? And I’ll have you know it’s working –”
“I can’t say yes until you ask me.”
He was the devil. Louis didn’t think he’d ever seen one person enjoy themselves quite so much over refusing to say one tiny little word – but he hadn’t realized that the withholding of one small word could be quite so maddening. His eyes narrowed, and Harry struggled not to laugh.
“You probably won’t say yes even if I do ask you,” grumbled Louis, but after a moment or two, he relented. “Fine. But if you say no one more time, I’m through with asking; I’ll just drug you and you’ll wake up tied to a bar stool with a glass of lemonade in your hand and a cocktail umbrella shoved up your nose. So, for the fourth time, will you, Harry Styles, hang out with me tomorrow? Just for a little while?”
There was a long pause, and Louis waited with bated breath for Harry to come out with some quip, some sarcastic comment, some convoluted excuse or stupid, infuriating reason why not, or worst of all, just one final short, sharp ‘no’ that Louis thought would hurt more than anything, now that they’d had such a long conversation and now that Harry had admitted that he liked being with him. He almost wearily closed his eyes in preparation for the rejection and the sharp, mocking sting of inadequacy that always came with it.
“Yes,” said Harry. “All right.”
Louis almost fell right off the balcony again in shock.
“You what?”
“I said yes. I’ll come and ‘hang out’ with you tomorrow.”
“What, really, though?”
“I said yes, didn’t I?”
“You’re not going to go back on it?”
“I wasn’t thinking of it…”
“Oh my God, this is great!” Louis clapped his hands excitedly. “Oh, just you wait; this is going to be absolutely brilliant!”
“Just us,” Harry warned. “None of your mates, or any of the staff, or whatever. Just you and I.”
“Of course, of course! Whatever you say. Wherever you say. God, this is great!”
“Well, I’ll believe that when I see it.” Harry folded his arms across his chest, tried to look disapproving, and failed miserably. “Now, are you going to heroically climb back down to the ground and go with the whole theme you’ve got going on of being dramatic, or would you rather do what normal people would do and use the stairs?”
“Stairs, if you don’t mind,” Louis said weakly. “I don’t think I could do that again. It’s taken years off my life!”
Harry stepped neatly backwards and allowed Louis to edge past him, padding through the hotel room and heading for the door. He watched him leave with palpable amusement, raising his eyebrows at the new bounce in Louis’ walk.
“Victory is mine,” called Louis cheerfully.
“For now,” teased Harry, and he closed the door behind the older boy before Louis could turn around and demand an explanation for that, too.