Harry stays a little bit drunk all afternoon, making a giant lasagne in the kitchen for the nine of them to share (still no sign of the mystery resident in room 492). Niall brought his XBOX so they have a few rounds of FIFA, everyone milling between each other's rooms as parents disappear and they inspect what they've got: everyone agrees that Perrie's room is the nicest because it has a skylight, and that Zayn's is the worst after he opens his cupboard to find someone's taken a giant chunk out of the wall and there's a cold breeze blowing in through it. The shared bathroom isn't even too bad: there are two showers and three toilets, and much to Harry's surprise there's even a bath modestly tucked around a corner: it's stained a bit yellow and there's no shower curtain to protect any would-be bathers from the prying eyes of their flatmates, but it's decent. Liveable. He and Perrie are just inspecting the temperature of the water when there's a crow of laughter from the other side of the room, and they walk out to find Niall, Jesy and Liam crowded around a small paper sign pinned to the wall.
"Oh my fucking God," Niall says, face beet-red, as he puts on a commanding voice and reads out, "Dear Students, Due to an ongoing series of plumbing issues in this building we would politely ask students to refrain from masturbating in the showers as this has been the cause of several blockages in the pipes over the last few months. We understand the desire for privacy but when it comes at the inconvenience of other students it unfortunately must be clamped down upon. Thank you for your cooperation, the University of Manchester Student Halls Administration."
"Well there goes my plans for this evening," Jesy says, shaking with laughter, and Harry meets Zayn's gaze across the bathroom and they both burst out laughing.
It's funny how quickly they feel like friends – how they latch onto each other because they've got no choice, going over the same conversation topics, which is school, mostly, what A Levels everyone did and what they did over summer. It turns out Liam and Zayn took gap years – Liam to go travelling and Zayn because he, in his own words, "absolutely fucked up first time, had to get my head screwed on before I was ready for round two." Harry doesn't even think about Louis, and it's only when it's half past five, the lasagne is cooking in the oven and he's gone back to his room to get changed – Niall put his hands in the flour and left two big handprints on his hoodie – that he remembers he's there. He's sitting on the bed, legs crossed and scrolling through his phone, and Harry almost jumps at the sight of him.
"Oh. Sorry. Didn't realise you came back."
"Oh, hi." Louis smiles, but it's only fleeting. "I've got some bad news for you, mate."
Harry frowns, pulling off his hoodie and fishing in his drawers for a new one. "Like what?"
"They gave my room in that house to someone else when I didn't turn up," he says, with a sigh. "So I might be here a bit longer than planned."
"How much longer?" Harry asks, pulling a black cable-knit jumper over his head.
"Until someone drops out and I can have their room, I think."
Harry pulls down the jumper, smoothing it out, and tries to read Louis's expression; he's staring at him, eyebrows slightly raised, as if he expects Harry to challenge him, to tell him to get out of his room and not come back. Actually, Harry just nods.
"All right. Doesn't bother me. When are they bringing my bed?"
"In a bit, I think. They said within the hour when I was leaving the halls office."
"How long have you been here?"
Louis shrugs. "Ten minutes?"
"You should've come into the kitchen, we're all in there. Well. Apart from Mystery Dave."
(That had been all Niall: they'd knocked on the closed door for about a minute, no answer. Niall had started calling their mystery flatmate Mystery Dave and it caught on.)
Harry thinks about it for a minute, before sitting down on the bed next to Louis. He's not unpacked his suitcase or his rucksack, the mattress bare and springs squeaking. "Your mum and sisters gone?" Louis nods tightly. Harry stretches an arm round his shoulders, squeezing gently. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. I've been away from them before, it's just...I don't like goodbyes." His voice breaks a little, and when Harry looks over he sees the tears start to spill: not knowing what else to do, he tightens his arm around Louis's shoulders, squeezing tight and resting their heads gently together until Louis sits up, sucks in a deep breath and slaps his hands against his thighs.
"Right. Well. That was embarrassing."
"Not at all," Harry says quietly, as Louis wipes his eyes quickly with the back of his hands. "Sometimes it's good to have a little cry. You saw me have one."
"What, so we're even?" Louis gives him a little smile. "Fine, all right. I'd better meet everyone else, then, hadn't I?"
Harry grins. "I made lasagne for everyone. It's nearly done. Come in the kitchen with me?"
"I think that might be an excellent idea, Harry," he says, standing up and reaching his hands out to Harry to pull him up. Harry can't wipe the dopey grin off his face as he follows Louis into the kitchen, and then they all crowd around the tiny table, with mis-matched plates and cutlery, mugs of wine and beer poured over plates of steaming pasta. Him and Louis sit next to each other, chairs crowded close together, and he immediately charms every single one of them while Harry just sits and eats, occasionally pausing to laugh or drink more beer – he's still quite pink-cheeked and mildly pissed. By the end of dinner they're already planning pre-drinks, everyone fishing out fivers to give to Jesy and Leigh-Anne as they pull on big hoodies and Ugg boots to pop down to the 24-hour Tesco down the road.
"What do we all like?" Leigh-Anne asks, taking a bundle of coins from Louis and zipping it into her purse. "Vodka? Rum?"
"Just get a load of beer for me, I'm easy," Niall says, scraping the rest of the lasagne onto his plate as Liam and Perrie start doing the washing up. Harry looks at Louis, who slings an arm over his shoulder as if they've known each other longer than five hours.
"Just bring back something I can make into a sugary cocktail, love," he says, pulling Harry closer, which he doesn't mind one bit. "I'm a legendary mixologist back home."
"What do you make?" Harry asks, intrigued. Louis taps his nose and winks.
"You'll find out, mate. Wait and see."
"Can't wait," Harry says, grinning, and then they all head back to their rooms to change before meeting back in the kitchen for drinks.
Harry's bed still hasn't arrived but he clears his stuff away in case they do – he really hopes they turn up soon – staring critically in the mirror and analysing his outfit. Louis opens up his suitcase behind him and asks, "What's the matter?"
"Don't know what to wear."
"You look good in that," Louis says casually, and Harry turns back to him, smiling crookedly.
"You think?"
"Don't take it to heart, it's just you're the first bloke I've met who wears skinny jeans that well."
"Thanks," he mumbles through a grin, but he teases his hair into a higher quiff and changes his t-shirt anyway. Louis grabs a bundle of clothes and forces Harry out of the door. "What-" he starts to say.
Louis gives him a firm glance. "No nakedness on the first night. Now go sit in the kitchen or something. I won't be long."
He lies, though, the door resolutely locked for at least fifteen minutes before Harry gets bored of his Twitter feed and knocks on Zayn's open door. He hasn't changed, instead hanging out of his window to have a fag.
"Can I sit in with you? Louis is getting changed."
Zayn turns back, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. "If you must."
They sit and chat for a little while before the girls get back with the alcohol, and then it's half an hour later, Harry's on his second vodka and coke, feeling definitely tipsy, and Louis finally comes out of the room. He's teased his hair into a feathery, spiked fringe, wearing a plain grey t-shirt and white jeans with bare feet. Harry misses his mouth with his drink and slops it all down his front because bloody hell. He looks good.
"Oh my God," Perrie says, eyeliner-blackened eyes widening. "You look hot, Louis."
"That was the intention, thank you Perrie my love," he says, reaching over to kiss the top of her head. Niall is doubled over with silent laughter at Harry, who's desperately trying to mop up the mess he's made – fortunately he's wearing all black so it's not so obvious. He's a bit fuzzy around the edges from the drink, so when Louis nudges his hip with his bum to get him to move over on the chair he doesn't quite get the message.
"Oi. Curly. Stop touching yourself and let me sit down."
"But there's – chairs over there..."
"Too far away. Budge up," Louis demands, a bottle of the half-empty vodka under one arm, an unopened bottle of Fanta under the other, and his phone clamped between his teeth. Harry noiselessly obliges, and then Louis forces him to finish his drink and pours him a pint glass which is definitely half vodka, half Fanta.
"Here," he says, as Harry makes a face at the cheap vodka burning the back of his throat. "My speciality."
"Vodka and Fanta?" Harry says doubtfully, slurring a little. The table shakes as Zayn and Liam clamber on top of it, a cigarette clamped in between each of their lips as they tie a tea towel over the smoke detector. "That's not a real cocktail."
Louis grins at him, pouring his own glass. "Tastes fucking good, though, trust me."
And it tastes so good, so very good that Harry doesn't say no when Louis demands, "Right, we're playing a drinking game. Anyone got any cards?"
"Yes! Ring of Fire!" Liam calls out delightedly, finishing his drink and slamming it on the table, before climbing over everyone to dash to his room. It's a game that Harry is not best friends with – he always seems to get the king, no matter what – but it's the first night of uni and he's here to make friends so he says nothing.
They play; Louis gets the king. Harry takes a great delight in pouring most of his drink into the dirty pint in the middle of the circle.
"Bottoms up, roomie," he says, with a wink, as Louis mock scowls at him – for a minute he thinks he'll beg off but he doesn't, grabbing the hideous disgusting mix and downing it in remarkable time.
"You're the worst," Louis mutters in his ear when Harry is doubled over the table laughing, and he almost misses the way Louis's hand lands on his thigh and squeezes.
They must leave the flat at some point, stumbling around and making sure everyone has their phone and their keys, the girls hopping on one foot as they force their feet into ridiculously high shoes, the kitchen stinking of cigarette smoke that's definitely going to get them fined and is tickling at Harry's asthma. On the way to the first pub Louis shares a cigarette with Niall but even though Harry declines their offer to share, Louis links his arm with his and he has to walk in the cloud of his smoke all the way there, politely disguising his coughs as he struggles to walk in a straight line.
The pub's full of freshers, and Harry meets so many people whose names and faces he instantly forgets: he spends most of the night drunkenly exchanging numbers with people on his law course, promising to meet them at their induction lecture on Thursday morning and then immediately forgetting their names. Louis comes over intermittently with drinks for him, and when they finally get to the club Harry's head is heavy and woollen, his mouth dry and sickly from all the Jagerbombs he and Niall had downed at the third pub, Liam and Zayn and Louis nowhere to be seen as they jump up and down on the crowded dancefloor with the girls.
His head is ringing when it gets to three o'clock and it's kick-out time: he grabs Jesy with one hand and Perrie with the other, following them in a little chain as they wind their way outside. They find the boys huddled around with another couple of guys, sharing what looks to Harry like a spliff and laughing madly: when Louis spots Harry he stumbles over, grabbing his arm and tearing him away from Perrie.
"Hello, roomie," he slurs, and he's definitely as drunk as Harry is, both of them grinning and swaying where they stand.
"Hi, cutie," Harry says, and he means to say roomie, he does, but it comes out as something else. Louis laughs huskily.
"Huh. Cutie. You're cute too. Cute. Cute cute cute."
He gnashes his teeth at him, so close all Harry can smell is smoke and weed and the slight hint of cologne, Red Bull and hairspray and dry ice. His lips are dry and a bit chapped but Harry still wants to bite them, see how he tastes, because he's never kissed a boy before –and really, it seems like everyone else has, isn't that a thing you doing, isn't that a phase everyone goes through?– and this seems like the perfect time to do it.
"Come on, boys," Perrie calls out, a taxi purring on the kerb, her heels in her left hand and hopping from one foot to the other. "We're leaving now, hurry hurry hurry I need a wee!"
Louis grabs Harry with one hand and Zayn with the other, and Liam trots after them as they bundle into the minivan: nobody seems to mind that Louis sits on Niall's lap instead of his own as there aren't enough seats for nine of them – after all, Perrie's sitting on Jesy, what's weird about that? Harry can't help the strange black feeling that settles in his stomach as Louis reaches for Niall's hands and plants them on his waist, even though Niall is clearly too fucked to care or even notice.
The taxi ride is only a few minutes and by the time they stumble out in front of their halls, Perrie and Jesy are already dashing for the door and Louis is propped up between Niall and Liam, grinning dopily.
"You're all fab. All great. Much love," he says, before catching Harry's eye and beckoning him over. "Hey. Roomie. Over here."
Harry replaces Niall on his left side as Niall staggers off to be sick behind a bush: they leave him behind, slowly climbing the endless flights of stairs until they reach the open door of their flat. Perrie's door is open and the lights are on in the kitchen: Jade and Leigh-Anne have put the radio on, giggling to each other while sprawled over the table, which is crowded with sticky, half-empty glasses and crumpled-up empty bottles of drink.
"Right, I'm off to bed. Night boys," Liam says when they reach his door, drunkenly patting them on the back. "See you tomorrow."
"Bye, Liam," Louis calls, and then Harry's the only one holding him up as he fumbles for the lock on their door. When he opens it and flicks the light on he sees a bed has been set up opposite the original: the desk is crammed behind the door so it doesn't open all the way, but Harry's pleased to see it's a proper bed, not a fold-up one, and someone's had the foresight to pile the pillows and sheets he'd left on the floor on the end of the bed.
"Shit," Louis hisses, staring at his bed. "I never made my bed. Fuck. Oh, bollocks."
"Well mine's not made either," Harry slurs, as they stumble towards the beds. His vision is going in and out of focus but he knows he has to make his bed, he can't sleep on a bare mattress, and so he lets go of Louis and starts to unfold the sheets.
"Harry. Harry. Help me. I can't do it," he says, collapsing onto his bed. Harry watches as he rolls over, jeans hideously dirty, spilt drinks and general pub and club dirt streaking up the legs. He rubs his eyes. "Oh, my contacts are killing me, fuck me. Jesus."
Harry manages to tuck the sheets in and that's about as much as he can handle: he strips down to his boxers without caring where his clothes land on the floor and lies face down, head pounding, and he's passed out before he even realises it. The next thing he's vaguely aware of is the sound of the door opening, then shutting: lights turned off and then a small finger poking his back.
"Harry. I'm sleeping with you. I can't do my bed."
"Nggh," he says into the sheets.
"Thass a yes, right? OK. Coming in."
"Hrrgh," he groans, as Louis knees him in the small of the back and sticks his cold, slightly damp hands under his chest to roll him over.
"Move, you fucking giant. Move. Move. Thass better. Much better. Mm."
Harry can't help but squirm a little when Louis grabs his arm and wraps it around his stomach – he's wearing pyjamas, he can feel the soft fabric tickling the backs of his thighs, and he smells like mint and Jagermeister.
"You smell bad," Harry grunts. Louis elbows him. "S'a bit weird, int it?"
"Shurrup. S'fine. Sleep."
He shifts one last time, pulling the cover-less duvet over the both of them so Harry's feet are sticking out the end. Harry rolls over so his nose ends up buried in Louis's shoulder and his hand is curled in the fabric of his pyjama shirt and then he flicks out of consciousness for good.
When he wakes up he's hungover as a hot day in hell and incredibly confused – he gropes for his phone on the floor by his bed, a mass of notifications greeting him as well as the date and time.
11:42 Sunday 26 September.
Right. Uni. Halls. Bed.
Louis.
Louis is gone, and when he opens his eyes he can see in the faded gloom that he's not on his bed either: he flings off the duvet, scratching his stomach as he pads to the door and out into the hallway to the bathroom. It smells quite strongly of sick, even though he can't see evidence of any, and so he just has a wee and inspects his appearance in one of the spotted mirrors on the wall: face lined with red creases from the sheets and hair sticking up oddly. He tries to flatten it down, fails, and then when he's walking back to his room the door to the kitchen opens and Perrie steps out, wearing a pink fluffy dressing gown, cradling a cup of tea and looking like death.
"Morning, babe," she says, through a yawn. "Everyone who's up is in the kitchen. Louis made tea."
"Tea," Harry croaks, nodding. "Good."
She passes him on her way to the bathroom, and he walks into the kitchen: the radio's on, whispering softly in the corner, and Jesy, Liam, Leigh-Anne and Louis are sitting around the kitchen table, flicking through a bunch of magazines, with Tesco Basic orange juice on the table and a pile of washing up by the sink. They all turn to look at him when he goes to get a mug: the girls raise their eyebrows and grin, and Liam says, "C'mon, mate, put some clothes on."
"Mm," Harry says distractedly, picking up the kettle. "This still warm?"
"Yeah, only boiled a minute ago," Louis says, and as Harry plops a teabag into his mug and pours water from the kettle he notices Louis is wearing his glasses, hair mussed up and stubble dusting his face and looking at him – well, intensely is the only way to put it. Harry quickly glances away and goes to get some milk from the fridge for his tea.
He sits down in the seat by the window, rubbing his head and yawning as Leigh-Anne says, "Are we all heading to the Freshers' Fair later, then?"
"If everyone's awake, I guess so," Jesy replies. "I want to join the ballroom dancing society. And I heard there was a poledancing one too. I bet that would be fun."
"Yeah, me too," Louis says, making them burst out laughing, and Harry is just taking his first tentative sip of his tea when Louis asks, "You planning on joining any societies, Curly?"
Harry shrugs. "Not sure. I love football but I'm crap at it, so not much of a shot there. Maybe a music one or something. Photography."
"Hipster society, I reckon," Louis says, grinning at him over his mug. It's big and pink and says SUCK IT BITCH.
"That your mug?" Harry asks, eyebrow crooked.
"Jesy's. But it speaks to me on a spiritual level," Louis says, and Harry swears he winks at him.
He thinks he's going to need Louis to find another room really soon.
They drink their tea and chat quietly, and then Harry tries out the shower – not too bad once he's figured out which knobs go in which direction. He comes back into the room, still not quite used to this sharing business, to find Louis sitting on his bed with his laptop, his phone glued to his ear.
"Yes, Mum. No, no I didn't. I didn't! I promise you. No – well, actually, somebody cooked for me..." He glances up at Harry, offering him a small smile. Harry scrubs at his damp hair with the towel, finding his phone on the desk crammed behind the door. Hope your first night was fun ♥♥ love you, missing you lots and lots xxx Mum ♥♥♥♥He smiles, typing back, loads of fun, everyone's so nice, skype you tonight? Love you .xxxx
"Hi, Dais, how've you been?" Louis is saying, as he drops his towel and starts pulling on his pants. He wonders if he's imagining it when Louis's voice creeps up an octave. "That's great. Really great. And then what did you do with it? Uh huh. Very nice. Very nice indeed. Oh, um – er, sorry, got something a bit stuck in my throat," he says, when Harry bends over to pick up his jeans. He freezes a little, frowning at the floor, because is Louis checking him out? And why does that intrigue him so much?
He hurriedly shucks his jeans on, pulling the first shirt he can find over his head, and when he turns back Louis seems to have recovered himself and is chatting amiably with what sounds like one of his many younger sisters. Harry motions to the door – their room faces the kitchen – and Louis just shrugs.
He meets Zayn in the corridor. He looks like a zombie.
"Morning. Well. Afternoon," Zayn mumbles. He's got a cigarette behind his ear and his phone in his hand. "You going out?"
"Freshers' Fair, yeah," Harry says, folding his arms over his uncooperatively pert nipples. He still feels like he's got Louis's eyes on him even though he's sure he's out of his sight. Zayn makes a face like he might be interested.
"Cool. Gimme five minutes to get some toast and coffee and I'm there."
They have to wake Niall up, who's groaning and incredibly hungover – he outdrank all of them, apparently – and once Louis has finished on the phone with his family they all head out into the drizzling rain and towards the bus stop. It's five stops to the main campus, and even though Harry's sitting next to Liam on the bus, Louis leans forward in his seat to tap his shoulder and mutter, "You always naked, Harry?"
Harry can't fight the little grin tugging at his lips. "Nakedness is freeing."
"Also quite distracting, for the record," Louis whispers, pressed up too close to his ear, and is it possible he's known this bewitching boy for less than a whole day and he already feels like he could be one of his best friends in the entire world?
The queue for the Freshers' Fair is already winding around campus, and as they stand there huddled under umbrellas in the drizzling rain it all feels a bit – rubbish. Harry wishes he was still in bed.
"Christ, we're going to be here for hours," Niall moans, wrapping his hoodie tighter around his chest and craning his neck to see the front of the queue. "I didn't even have breakfast. Hang on, is that a hotdog place over there?"
"I'm cold," Louis whines, butting his head against Harry's shoulder. He's not wearing a jumper, just a thin cardigan, his hair curling slightly with the rain. It doesn't seem like they've only just met when Harry instinctively reaches his arm around him, hand still in the pocket of his hoodie and wrapping it around Louis's theatrically shivering frame. He tells himself it's because Louis is warm and he's cold too, not because Louis smells like spiced cologne and tea and nuzzles his head into Harry's shoulder like he's some kind of portable blanket.
"I'm cold, I want a cuddle too," Jesy pouts, and the girls descend on her like kittens, wrapping their arms around each other. Harry likes this. Harry can get used to cuddles and instant friendships, especially with Louis's voice rumbling through his chest as he lists off the societies he's going to join.
"Football, obviously," he says, one arm tight around Harry's waist, his head on his shoulder, the frame of his glasses digging into Harry's collarbone. Niall and Liam slink off in search of hotdogs, and Zayn lights up a cigarette behind them, wearing a hoodie under his leather jacket and gazing disapprovingly up at the cloudy sky. "Then drama, I guess, would be good to meet more people on my course. I heard there's a cake decorating society, that might be fun...as long as I don't have to make the cakes, of course..."
Harry listens in as they all chatter away, trying not to think too much about Louis pressed up against him as they inch forwards in the queue. A man sells them sherbert flavoured ice cream – which Louis convinces Harry to buy for him – along with a bundle of vouchers for Vodka Revs, and so they stand in the freezing cold eating ice cream as Niall and Liam return with delicious-smelling, warm hotdogs, laughing at them.
"Weirdos," Niall says, happily drizzling ketchup sachets on his sausage.
It only takes about half an hour more queuing for them to reach the entrance of the student union building: to Harry's disappointment this means Louis pulls himself out of his hoodie, gazing at his reflection in the glass before fixing his fringe. Harry pulls his hood down and ruffles his hair back into its usual messy nest of curls, and it's like an instinct when he lightly lands his hand on Louis's waist, gently shepherding him close when it looks like he's about to wander off.
The student union building is filled with stalls for every single society known to man: Harry's vaguely overwhelmed by it all, laughing as Niall almost sprints over to the Meat and Ale Appreciation Society, hanging back as the girls all sign up for the poledancing society and almost manage to convince Louis to join them.
Louis raises his eyebrow at Harry, "Might be a laugh."
"Please don't," Harry says, completely sincere, because if there's one thing Harry doesn't need it's the image of Louis poledancing keeping him awake at night.
Liam joins the mountaineering society and the boxing club and several other manly things that make the rest of the boys look very...non-manly. Harry's a little surprised when they lose Zayn for a while and spot him again talking to the Islamic Society, but when he tries to ask him about it Zayn just shrugs and that's that. Harry signs up for the Law Society, the Photography Society – even though he's not sure he really has the camera equipment or artistic integrity to really take part – and Louis basically forces him to sign up for the cake decorating society ("I'm not going alone, the least you could do as a faithful roommate is bake the cakes I will lovingly decorate!")
He's pretty bored by the end, a niggling feeling that he's taken on far too much bothering him, and then it's only him and Louis and Perrie left, the others having been distracted or gone home already.
"Oh, look. The uni radio. Fuse FM," she says, in her best radio announcer's voice. They're lingering on the edge of the stall, but a tall, skinny guy with a quiff higher than even Harry can get his spots them and beckons them over.
"Freshers, come hither," he says, cocking his head when they make no move forward. "C'mon, I won't bite. Promise."
"Hi," Harry says, making the move, Perrie and Louis lingering behind him.
"Nick, president of the media society," he says, holding a clipboard close to his chest. "Interested in radio?"
"Um, kind of," Harry says, to be polite, because none of them really wanted to join the society but apparently he's the only one of the three who can't not be nice.
"Well, sign up, come along, we might have something for you," Nick says with a sharp-toothed smile. "All three of you interested?"
Harry's already signing his name when Louis says, "No chance, mate, schedule's fully booked," and Perrie links her arm with Louis's and shrugs. "Well, maybe."
Harry shoots them a pleading look, but no dice.
"No? OK. Well, see you at the meeting next Thursday-" Nick glances at the clipboard, "-Harry Styles. You two, you give freshers a bad name. Bye bye now."
Louis glares at Nick like he's physically wounded him, before the three of them make one last nosey around the rest of the stalls – Poetry Society, no thanks – and leave. It's stopped raining, the sun shining weakly, and Perrie yawns hugely.
"God. I'm knackered."
"Me too," Louis says, grabbing Harry with his free arm and linking the three of them up. "Bus back to the flat and a cheeky siesta before tonight?"
"Where are we going tonight?" Harry asks. Louis shrugs, smiling blindingly up at him.
"Don't know. Wherever the party's at. Be spontaneous, Harold."
Harry scowls. "That's not my name."
"It is now."
"Fine, Lewis."
"Oh, stop flirting, please, you're making me feel sick all over again," Perrie grumbles, as they reach the bus stop. Harry stares at the ground, his cheeks pinkening, and Louis says nothing, humming as they stand in the brittle sunshine waiting for the bus.
"It's not flirting," he says eventually. "It's just bonding."
Yeah. All right, then.