He wakes up on the last Wednesday before term ends with the worse hangover in the world, his mouth dry and sticky, his hair plastered to his forehead. The room is still spinning as he struggles out of bed, balancing himself on the wall for a moment before deciding the bathroom is probably about twenty feet too far away and taking a piss in the sink. Once he's done he flops face-down back on the bed again, heart rabbitting away in his ears from all the exertion, wondering whether he's going to be sick or his head's going to split open from the pain. He tries to remember how he got home the night before, or anything at all, really: it was Quids In Tuesday at one of the student bars in town, and the girls had wanted to go out and had basically dragged them along with him. He'd finished off the vodka he and Louis usually shared – which, now he thinks back on it, was a lot – and all he remembers from being at the club is singing along at the top of his voice to all the songs and doing shots with the girls. Lots of shots.
And...Mark Fennelly.
He whimpers into his pillow, his stomach giving a traitorous lurch at the memory. He'd been out with a bunch of people Harry didn't recognise, and there was definitely no Louis in sight, but he was – fuck. He was so offensively attractive, with his arm around some skinny brunette Perrie seemed to know, there's no wonder Louis wants him rather than Harry. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.
He sleeps through his three-hour seminar because the mere thought of even leaving his room makes him want to heave, and by the time he wakes up again at one his hangover has subsided to the tiniest grumble in his stomach and he feels capable of sitting up and eating some mango chips he finds stashed behind his laptop on the desk. He sits cross-legged on his bed, chewing carefully as he reaches for his phone – urgh, sticky with alcohol, he dreads to think what happened last night – to find he has about fifteen snapchats waiting for him. He has no idea what he sent to provoke this, but he scrolls through them all fairly amused, until he gets right to the last one. Louis Tomlinson. He stops chewing, stomach growling with anticipation as he holds his finger down over it.
It's not a picture of Louis, somewhat disappointingly: it looks like an essay on a computer screen, with the caption: u kissin boys n me doin work, how things change.
Harry just stares at it, not noticing the timer as it clicks down and then vanishes. Kissing boys. What the...? He doesn't remember that at all.
He scrabbles out of bed, pulling on a pair of pants – no time for jeans – and wrenching his door open, peeking into the empty kitchen before knocking quietly on Jesy's door.
"Whozzat?" a blurry voice calls from inside.
"Me, Harry, I need – can I come in, Jess, I need to ask you something-"
He's cut off as Jesy opens the door, squinty-eyed and wearing only an oversized Chelsea football shirt.
"Wha? Woss going on?" she says, rubbing her eyes. "Cor, Harry, what a bod you're hiding under all those baggy hipster clothes-"
"Did I get with anyone last night?" Jesy frowns, though she's still staring at his stomach. He reflexively covers his nipples. Well, the big ones. "This is important, Jess-"
"I don't – oh, could be," she says thoughtfully, shifting her weight onto one leg. "I remember you snapchatting it – hang on, I haven't checked my phone yet-"
He steps into her room – which smells overwhelmingly and rather nauseatingly of peach schnapps – as she grabs her phone off the desk and unlocks it. She grins as she turns it to him.
"Nice one."
Harry's eyes widen in shock as he sees the picture: it's blurry, of him and some boy he doesn't recognise, their lips not quite matching in the UV glow of the club.
"I sent that to Louis," he whispers, horrified. Jesy glances at it before it times out.
"Well, good for him. For all the boys he's kissed in front of you, seems like a bit of payback."
"I think I annoyed him," he says, as Jesy rolls her eyes.
"Babe, please. He doesn't have the right to be annoyed with you. He rejected you, remember?"
"How could I forget," Harry says miserably, scrubbing a hand through his hair and sighing loudly. "OK. Thanks. Sorry for, um, waking you up."
"It's fine, I've been puking my guts up since about seven. Loving life," she says, covering her mouth with her hand. "I would quite like to get back to bed now, though, if that's all right with you."
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. See you later."
He wanders back to his own room, perching on the end of his bed as he chews on his thumbnail, before making a decision. He gets dressed and fluffs his hair into something approaching acceptable, pulls on his thickest jumper so he can go without a coat, and grabs his phone and keys before slipping out of the flat and out into the frosty afternoon.
Weston Hall isn't too far: he's been there before for pre-drinks for Law socials, and even though its about ten times bigger than his halls, it's still pretty nice. According to Zayn, Louis' new flat is number 15, so when he gets there he skirts around the edge of the building, punching in the code Zayn had sent him a few days ago with the message go and see him !! and hurrying up the stairs.
His heart is uncomfortably big in his throat when he knocks on the flat door: nobody answers, so he knocks again, and finally a blonde girl appears out of one of the rooms and opens the door, frowning at him.
"Yeah?"
"Hi, I was just, um, here for Louis?"
She's still frowning. "Who?"
"You know, um, Louis? He moved in about a week ago."
Her face flickers a little in recogniition. "Oh, right. Well, I don't know if he's in, but he's the one on the end there." She points to the end of the hallway, leaving the door open and going back to her own room. Harry takes a shaky breath and starts the long walk to the end of the corridor.
He knocks on the door. There's a few moments of silence, and then – then the door opens to reveal Louis, beautiful Louis, still so gorgeous even with his hair flat and unstyled, a layer of scruff on his chin, and Harry opens his mouth to speak but only manages to get out a little "Hi-" before the door slams shut in his face.
"Louis," Harry says, pressing his palm flat against the door. "Louis, please don't do this." Silence. "I want to see you, I need to talk to you. I don't understand why you're so angry. Lou." Still nothing. He sighs, hand dropping from the door. "Fine. I'm just going to wait here until you come out. I mean it."
Five long minutes pass with him standing staring at the door; in the end he sits down with his back against the door, scrolling through his phone and getting funny looks from the other flatmates as they pass by. His resolve is starting to crumble when, completely out of the blue, the door falls away behind him and he ends up sprawled on his back in Louis' room.
"Jesus Christ, Harry," he hears him say behind him, and the second glance at Louis he gets that day is him hovering over him, looking strangely blank. "I thought you'd gone."
"I meant it, I'm not leaving until we talk." He gets to his feet, slightly wary Louis is going to force him out, but all he does is shrug limply, going back to sitting on his unmade bed. Perrie was right: the room is a mess. Louis hasn't unpacked, clearly, both suitcases lined up against the wall under the window, clothes strewn on the floor and over the desk chair, shoes and other miscellany littering the floor. He watches as Louis pretends to focus on his laptop screen – he can tell he's pretending because his eyes aren't moving.
Steeling himself, he picks his way across the room and perches down on the bed. Louis doesn't move. Close up he can see the bags under his eyes, and the baggy trackies and adidas hoodie is a far cry from the Louis he knew before, who'd spend fifteen minutes trying to decide which pair of jeans best showed off his arse.
"Lou," he says, brushing the back of his hand against his knee. He watches as his hand twitches, but he still doesn't look at him. "I'm so sorry. For whatever has made you hate me like this. I wish I could take it back. I just miss you."
There's a long silence, and then Louis finally shuts the lid on his laptop, meeting his gaze. Harry gives him a little smile, but he doesn't react.
"I don't hate you," he says eventually. The words are like a soothing balm on Harry's irritated soul. "Fuck's sake, Harry, how could you think that?"
"I don't know, maybe because you're ignoring me? Because you don't want to see me but you want the others here?"
Louis rubs the heel of his hand over his eye, leaning back against the wall. "Harry, it's not that-"
"Well, I'm not gonna lie, it really feels like it," he says, hands twisting in his lap. Louis looks at him again, and his expression is so mournful it makes him want to cry.
"I, um. I spoke to my mum, the night I – well, when I ran out on you. She told me it was her that kept bugging the uni to give me a new room. I never told her about the letters, you see, so she thought – like, naturally she thought I'd been forgotten about, or something. So first of all. I'm sorry for having a go at you for that. It was out of order."
Harry nods, still staring at his hands. "It's OK. I don't mind."
"Fucking hell, Harry, how can you not mind?" He looks over at him at this alarming outburst, the first time during the last ten minutes that Louis has shown any kind of emotion.
"What-"
"Why aren't you angry with me? I was such a fucking twat, and all you – all you want to do is see me again? Sometimes I just don't get you, Harry, you let me get away with being the shittiest, twattiest human being ever and I-"
"I guess I'm annoyed, yeah, but I miss you, Lou. I miss my best friend. I'm sorry I brought up the Mark thing. I'm sorry I made things weird by saying – saying what I said. I'm really sorry."
"Harry, please," he says, with a vicious, choked-off chuckle, "please don't apologise. Leave that to me, OK? I'm sorry for ignoring you. I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed for how I behaved, and I'm sorry."
There's a long moment of silence, Harry's brain torn up with indecision, before he shifts a little closer on the bed, opening his arms.
"I forgive you," he says softly. "Can we go back? Not to last week, maybe. But before then? Before I, um, made things weird."
Louis gives him a weird, indecipherable look, and for a moment Harry's sure he's fucked things up again, before he gives the tiniest nod and shifts forwards so Harry can hug him. It feel so good to have Louis back in his arms again that Harry almost wants to scream I don't regret it I love you just as much as I ever did but he steels himself, keeps his cool even as he hugs him tighter, burying his face in his neck and breathing in the familiar and yet slightly different scent of Louis. They hug for what feels like forever, until Louis' stomach growls noisily between them and they both laugh. Laughter. It sounds good. It feels good.
"Sorry," Louis murmurs, as Harry reluctantly lets him go. "I'm starving. I'm just so lazy, I really can't look after myself."
"I'll make you lunch," Harry says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to his feet. "What've you got?"
"Um, cheese, cereal, and bread," he says, smiling a little – Harry's heart twists to see it, to see Louis smiling at him again, and he forces himself to ignore it. If he's going to have Louis back in his life, he needs to get over him. "That's literally about it. The rent here is so expensive I've got, like, negative money."
"It's OK. Cheese on toast it is."
"Harry," he protests, as he drags him out of the room and into the empty kitchen, "I think I can handle cheese on toast-"
"Let me. It's fine." Louis hovers by him as he grabs the bread, cutting off the crusts where they've gone slightly mouldy and putting four slices under the grill. It's almost like the way it was, and harry resists the urge to bracket Louis against the countertop with his arms, thigh between his legs and kissing him sloppily like the last time he'd made him cheese on toast after a night out. He wonders if Louis remembers, then mentally kicks himself. You're getting over him, his mind chastises him.
"Harry, honestly," Louis says softly, pushing his hair back from his face as Harry carefully cuts the cheese into slices, bread browning under the grill, "I can make cheese on toast, I'm not that incompetent-"
"Not another word," Harry warns dramatically, turning the toast over and layering the cheese, and there's a moment afterwards when they catch each other's eye and just burst out laughter, and it shatters all remaining awkwardness. Louis steps forward and gives him another hug, face pressed to his shoulder as they rock gently together: it's less of an I'm sorry hug this time, more of a I missed you I missed you so muchhug, and it makes Harry wonder if he's ever going to get over him, or he'll just have to spend his entire life in a state of semi-breakdown, loving Louis so fiercely and without any outlet that he feels permanently on the edge of self-destruction.
"You know what would really jazz this up," Louis says, when he pulls back, Harry watching him with the kind of reverential gaze he's sure distorts his pupils into actual heart shapes, "A nice dashing of marmite."
"Mm, good call," Harry says, checking on the toast: the cheese is bubbling nicely, so he switches of the grill and hastily transfers the toast to a plate while Louis drags thick globs of marmite out of the jar. He puts way too much on for Harry's liking, but it still smells good and he's quite hungry now the hangover's worn off: they go back to Louis' room and Harry ends up eating two of the slices as they watch old episodes of the Inbetweeners in comfortable silence, arms and thighs pressed together.
"Fuck," Louis says, after yawning for about the tenth time, the December darkness creeping into the room even though it's only three o'clock. "I'm knackered. I was up 'til three doing that stupid essay last night."
"Yeah, I'm pretty tired too," Harry says, watching as Louis puts the laptop on the floor, heart jumping traitorously at the prospects. He's more than slightly amused when Louis tries to make the bed – hampered by Harry still sitting in the middle of the crumpled-up duvet covers – and more than a little shocked when Louis motions for him to lie down next to him.
"Thanks for the cheese on toast," he murmurs, when Harry flops down next to him on his front, so as to get a better view of him. He looks good with the stubble, and Harry wants quite a lot to kiss him like this, nip at his lips and feel the rough burn against his. (He's never quite been able to grow facial hair, which he's sure is a slight on his masculinity somehow.)
"It's OK. I like cooking for people. Now you're gone it's no fun anymore."
"Sorry." Louis bops his nose against Harry's shoulder, and yeah, this is like old times again. "We're good now, yeah?"
"Yeah. Good. You didn't need to be embarrassed, you know. I would've have cared. I don't care. I just wanted to see you again."
"Mm." Louis tucks his bottom lip under his front teeth, worries it a little. "Harry, you know we can't – like, it can't be like before. You understand that, right?"
Harry tries to keep his face blank as he says, "Um, OK?"
"I'm not going to mess you around. You mean too much to me, OK?" Harry feels like heart has swelled, frozen, and dropped right out of his chest. "Like, this whole thing – it made me think. And seeing you today, um – it's like, it made it all clearer to me. I thought maybe not seeing you would make it easier but really – I just can't mess it up and lose you. I want you around all the time. But I don't ever want this...this thing, what we were doing, I don't...I don't want that to mean I lose you."
Harry looks at him, the expression on his face, so soft and vulnerable, the face only he gets to see, when they're alone and talking like this, touching from their ribs to their hips to their knees. He loves him so much he can hardly stand it, but maybe Louis is right. Maybe their friendship is too important. God knows he barely functioned the past week without him.
"I understand," he says, voice cracking only slightly. The relief on Louis' face is almost unbearable."But, like. Would it be so bad? If we just gave it a go?"
There's a long silence. He notices Louis' hands are shaking slightly as he says, "I told you before, Harry. I'm no good at this stuff. Not...not right now, anyway. If we were going to – then I'd want to make it right. Fuck, Harry, you're only eighteen. I'm the least mature twenty year old in the world. I want to figure stuff out. What works and what doesn't. Make some stories I can tell when I'm thirty. I don't..." He just trails off then, and Harry wonders at the fact that Louis is always so eloquent, always has the right thing to say but at times like these he can barely form a coherent sentence. He just nods slowly, even though he doesn't understand it, can't imagine going into a relationship without the expectation it's going to last forever, wants all his stories when he's thirty to be about Louis. But this time decides to bite his tongue, decides that this time, maybe, Louis is right, and what he's said isn't exactly a rejection. It's a not yet. And maybe it's not good for his mental state, but Harry can work with that.
"I'm not going to say it again, 'cos I think – it's probably not going to help, but." Harry coughs a little, throat sticking. "I understand what you're saying, I think, and, like. That's OK with me, I guess. But you should know I love you, and I think I probably always will, so whenever you think you've made enough mistakes and got enough stories or whatever...I'm always gonna wait for you."
Louis nods, then again, and then Harry grunts in surprise as Louis pulls him in for a long hug. And maybe it's not exactly what he wants but it's better than nothing, and he doesn't want to make Louis do something he doesn't want to do, so he guesses it'll just have to do.
Louis falls asleep with his head on Harry's chest and Harry's hands stroking softly through his hair; Harry wonders if he can feel the way his heart beats harder just for him, feel how desperately he wants him, and tries just to be grateful for what he's got.
Things go back to the way they were, except they don't; Louis comes over for dinner, which Harry cooks, but when they're alone in his room Louis never cuddles into him, will keep their bodies pressed together but never curls his hand around his thigh or rests his head on his shoulder. Louis never stays over, even though sometimes he doesn't leave until one or two in the morning, and Harry always feels, ever so slightly, like he's holding back: they chat about their day and their work and the Ball on Friday, but never about Nick or about Mark or any other boys, anything to do with relationships.
In fact, it's not until Friday that Louis does bring up Mark: tentative and hesitant, as Harry turns up at his flat already in his suit, asking, "Do you think I look all right?"
You look gorgeous, he wants to say, but instead Harry swallows the words down and says, "Yeah. Great."
"Sure?" Louis asks, raising an eyebrow as they wander down the corridor to his room. Harry sits down on the bed – unmade, as usual – and opens his bottle of beer on the desk.
"I wouldn't lie, Lou," is all he has to say, and then Louis finds himself busy with searching for something in his suitcase and won't look at him.
"OK. Good," he says hurriedly, finding his hairspray and giving his head another blitz. "It's just, um. Me and Mark are going for dinner, before. I think. Well, he said it might be McDonald's, but it's just me and him." He's blushing furiously when he turns back; Harry finds he's getting quite good at hiding his emotions, and even manages a small smile, though it's probably not convincing.
"You look great, trust me."
"Thanks. You too, by the way. All, like. Long and lean." He's still blushing. Harry glances down at himself, then back at Louis, and this time his smile's for real.
"Thanks, man."
"No worries. Um. Can I share your beers?"
"It's what I brought them for," Harry says, handing him one. He's decided to skip pre-drinks at Nick's in favour of being here with Louis – a no-brainer if there ever was one – and he had thought they'd get a taxi together down to town, though obviously now that isn't going to happen unless he wants to three-wheel Louis and Mark's maybe-date. It's still kind of weird, this tentative, held-back friendship, but Louis still makes him laugh more than anybody else and the few moments of awkwardness are outweighed by the fun he has just being with him.
"Also, I might not have mentioned," Louis says, as Harry puts his Spotify playlist on his laptop, picking at his nails, "Mark will probably be coming too. Just for a bit. Um. It won't be weird, right?"
Harry stares hard at the laptop screen, wondering if this is punishment for the short time he and Louis were kind-of together. He swallows hard and manages, "No, it's OK. I think, um. I'd like to meet him. See what he's like."
Louis laughs. "Don't hit him. Or judge him for not being good enough for me."
"Only if you promise to do the same if I get with Nick tonight." He feels a little light-headed saying it, because he has no intention of getting with Nick, but he turns to see Louis' face all the same: his expression has soured, but he wipes it clean the moment he catches Harry staring.
"Yeah. Whatever."
It's not that things are tense afterwards, exactly, but the alcohol is making Harry morose and he keeps waiting for the knock on the door: Louis spends most of the time on his phone, and when the knock does come Harry tightens his grip on the bottle and tries not to glare daggers at the door as it opens.
"Hi, Lou," Mark says, all warm and gentle, and Harry reminds himself that ending the night before it even begins with glass shattered in his hand is not a good idea, so he switches the bottle in his hand and gets up to see Mark and Louis hugging and feels a smouldering fire of jealousy start in his gut. Great start to the night, then. "Ah. You must be Harry."
Harry just nods tightly, not trusting himself to speak as Mark detaches from Louis and goes to shake his hand. "Great to meet you. Louis talks about you all the time."
"He hardly mentions you," Harry says before he can stop himself, but Mark just laughs, a great posh laugh that makes Harry think of private schools and lacrosse and big country estates.
"I'm not surprised, I'm hardly remarkable. Have you got a bottle opener, Lou? It's corked wine, you see..."
"Yeah, I'll just grab it," Louis says, heading for the door. "You two entertain yourselves." Harry's pretty sure he mimes be nice before he leaves, but he's not entirely sure he's in control of his actions anymore. Mark sits down on the desk chair, smiling at him. He's basically dazzling.
"I listen to your radio show, you know," he says, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. "The music is always great. You should do a playlist, or something."
"It's on now," is all Harry can think of saying, nodding to the laptop. Mark turns to see.
"Oh, smashing. Any chance you could send me the link? I love that guy you were playing at the weekend. Ed something."
"Sheeran," Harry says grudgingly, as Mark starts looking through his playlist. "Sure. I'll send you the link."
Fortunately Louis returns then, and either it's the alcohol or Mark is actually quite a nice person to be around: he can't help the little pulses of jealousy every time Louis puts his hand on his knee, or Mark squeezes his shoulder, and for a while all he can think about is that time Louis woke him up by bringing a guy back to their room and wondering if it was Mark. He remembers exactly how Louis sounded, drunken and wrecked, begging him to kiss him, and Harry had got a taste of that but never enough: maybe nothing will ever be enough, but he has to try. At least Mark is nice, is all he can keep repeating. At least Zayn was right, at least he's not a douche, at least he's nice.
They're all pretty buzzed by the time Louis decides to call for a taxi, and Harry feels pretty numb when Mark grabs him around the waist as he goes to grab his phone, pressing his face to his ear in a way that's decidedly not just friendly. Harry finishes his beer, maybe not-so-accidentally jostling them both as he heads to the toilet, and nearly turns around and walks right out of the flat when he comes back into Louis' room to find them kissing.
"Um." Harry feels his face flood red, clearing his throat noisily. In Louis' defence, he does look fairly contrite, and pulls himself out of Mark's arms, blushing and staring at the floor.
"Yeah, I think – I think the taxi's here, we'd better go-"
Harry doesn't bother to hide his annoyance as they head downstairs, brushes Louis' arm off when he tries to get him to slow down and immediately throws himself in the front seat of the taxi. He would've thought they would have loved the chance to be alone, but all Louis does is try and talk to him. He's not in the mood to indulge him, throws him a fiver when they get to the venue, and stalks off without another word.
Nick had texted him to tell him where he was so he grabs his free drink on the way in – fizzy wine, which normally he hates, but he downs it all in one anyway – and heads upstairs, finding Nick and Greg and Fearne talking by a large Christmas tree.
"I need a big drink," Harry announces, and Nick throws his arm around his shoulders, squeezing him tight.
"Ah, Harry. That's the spirit. Follow us."
On their way to the bar they see Leigh-Anne and Jesy, who look beautiful all dressed up in their long dresses, and see Liam and Niall sitting in a booth by the toilets: Harry does a few shots with the radio team before the world seems a bit more promising again, and is halfway through a double vodka and Coke when Niall grabs his arm, pulling him away from the group.
"Nialler!" he slurs, the world pleasantly warm and blurry. "Merry Christmas!"
"Have you seen Louis?" Niall doesn't look very jovial, which is disappointing, because it's Christmas, he should be happy! Harry shrugs.
"No idea. Probably blowing perfect Mark fucking Fennelly in the toilets. Mark Fennelly. What kind of a name is that? Isn't he Turkish? S'not very Turkish-"
"It's his mum's name," Niall says, looking a little concerned, before adding, "Look, if you see him, point him in my direction, OK? Or just, like, look after him. He likes it when you take care of him. He's just – well. Just do that, yeah?"
"He's not my problem," Harry slurs, a bad liar as always. "I don't care at all."
Niall just shakes his head, disappearing into the crowds. Harry goes back to catch the middle of one of Greg's stories about his summer working in South Africa, but he isn't really interested and his mind keeps drifting to Louis and why Niall would think he needed looking after. Has he drunk too much? What if he's locked himself in a toilet somewhere?
"Oh, look." Nick nudges him in the ribs, pointing him towards the dancefloor. "Isn't that your Louis' paramour?"
"Hmm?" Harry turns reflexively to see Mark on the dancefloor, arms around – well, it's definitely not Louis, unless he's had a major wardrobe change since he last saw him. Whoever he's dancing with is wearing a long white dress and has wavy brown hair, a little jewelled circlet sitting on top of her head, and they definitely look more than friendly, judging by the position of Mark's hand on her bum and his lips on her neck.
And then the penny drops.
"Um," Harry says, thrusting his drink at Fearne, "Sorry, just need the loo. Back in a sec."
He finds Niall and Liam again, who haven't seen Louis all night, and so the three of them decide to split up: Niall says he'll take downstairs, Liam will check this floor, and Harry says he'll check the toilets. No luck in the first ones but in the second there's a locked cubicle who shouts "Fuck off, Harry!" when he calls out "Louis?"
"Louis, open the door," he says, hanging on to the top of the door as he knocks again.
"I'm taking a shit. Fuck off."
"No you're not. Let me in. Please. I know why you're upset." There's a long second of indecision before the door swings open, yet again nearly taking Harry down with it, and Louis appears, red-eyed and sniffling.
"Not in here," he says stiffly, and Harry follows him dumbly as they stride through the dancefloor and out into the chilled night air. At some point during the last two hours it's started snowing, leaving a fine dusting on the streets and making their breath crystallise in the air in front of them.
"Fuck, it's freezing out here," Louis complains – Harry's fine, the alcohol keeping him warm, so he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to Louis as they sit down on a bench. They're in the middle of town, lights twinkling in the windows of the tall buildings around them, cars driving through the melting slush on the roads. "Well then, out with it," he says, teeth chattering viciously. "You told me so. You told me Mark was a dick. You told me not to expect anything from him. Well, congratulations, Harry. You were one hundred per cent fucking correct."
"I'm not saying anything," Harry says, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks over at Louis shivering under his jacket. "I would rather he made you happy than did this to you."
Louis sighs, breath clouding in front of him. "Yeah, of course you do. Because you're Harry."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Louis mutters, rubbing hard at his eyes. "You know what 'Mark taking me out to dinner' ended up being? Fucking McDonald's. And I had to pay for myself. Do you ever...like, do you ever wonder you're seeing things that aren't there? Whether you're going mad, because you're only seeing things you want to see?"
Harry thinks about all the time he's spent agonising over these very questions about Louis, and shakes his head sadly. "Lou, you weren't imagining things. I saw how he was about you tonight. There is something there, I promise." Because I act that way around you. Because you act that way around me.
"It's not fun any more," Louis says softly, pulling Harry's jacket closer around his shoulders. Harry thinks about it for a minute, and then eases his arm around his back, shifting closer where they sit. He's drunk and his head's spinning and he always, always wants to kiss Louis but tonight even his drunk brain realises that isn't what he should do. He should be the kind of best friend Louis deserves, not the one that's hopelessly in love with him and can't think of anything else for 90% of his waking hours.
"S'okay," Harry says, as Louis gently rests his head on his shoulder.
"It's not fun, all this. It was fun at first. Seeing how far I could push him. With everyone else it was a bit of a joke, but with him...he wanted it. I think I've ended up blowing, like, five guys on the football team. He came so fast I think it took both of us by surprise." Harry stares at the pointed toes of his shoes, fingers lightly brushing over Louis' upper arm as he listens. "And then it kind of became a thing. How often I could get him so hard he couldn't walk straight. How often I'd get him to drag me out of a club and get me on my knees. But then it was, like. I wanted something back. I wanted him to at least kiss me. I don't know if you remember but-"
"I do," Harry murmurs. They're silent for a moment, the snow falling around them. Harry can see it on Louis' eyelashes, melting on the tears on his cheeks.
"Yeah," Louis says softly. "Do you know what's funny? I told him about you. I told him that I had a straight roommate, and even he would kiss me. Then things changed, weirdly. Then he'd kiss me, and I let him fuck me a few times, but it all got – um." His voice cracks a little, and he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "I knew he'd started dating that girl, and he kept saying to me it was nothing, he'd break up with her. And he never did, and I got so sick of it, and then – then there was me and you. So I." He pauses for several long seconds, Harry's hands still drawing little patterns on his arm, still staring at the snow collecting on the ground, both dreading and hoping for what's coming next. "I told him to fuck off. I really did. No more blowjobs, no more kisses, no more sex. And there was us, Harry, and that was – fuck, it was so much better, and you were so different to him, had your little...sexuality revolution, or whatever it was, so calmly, so much better than him. You've always-" at this point his voice starts to tremble a little, hands tying themselves in knots in his lap, "-looked after me, ever since the first day, always made me feel like I was the best thing since sliced bread, and even though Mark was like, the thing I should have been fighting for, I went and – started fucking my best friend, because that was – that had always worked out so well for me in the past-" He can't go on, fat tears spilling from his eyes as Harry hushes him, nose pressed to the top of his head and squeezing him tight.
"I'm sorry nobody treats you how you should be treated," he says, trying to keep his voice even, trying not to make this about them, about Louis and Harry, but about Louis instead. "I'm sorry that everyone's so selfish. You deserve better than them."
"I don't know, I don't know if that's true, Harry, I don't know," he says, taking in a shuddering breath as Harry digs in his pocket for some tissues to hand him. "I'm selfish too, I take too much, I do, and I push people away and I use them. I fell in love with my best friend when I was seventeen and how did I deal with it? No, no, I didn't r-repress it, like normal people, no, made it into a game, I used to turn him on and make it a joke and then I was s-surprised when he freaked out when I told him I loved him when we were wanking each other off, I w-wassurprised when he never spoke to me again. Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm sorry, you never asked me for this-" He wipes at his eyes, taking in a deep breath.
"He was a dick," Harry says, after a while. Louis laughs wetly.
"Thank you, Harry, for that. You sound just like Stan."
"Was that him? The guy?"
Louis shakes his head. "No, no, he was Stan's, like, predecessor. Stan was the only one at school who knew about me being gay and he was just amazing about it. Really cool. I love Stan. But, like, obviously not in that way," he adds hurriedly. Harry laughs, resisting the urge to press a kiss to the top of Louis' head.
"Can I ask you something?" he says instead. Louis dabs his eyes, sniffing.
"Yeah, why not."
"Why'd you start up with Mark again?"
Louis shakes his head sadly. "Oh, because of course he got jealous after seeing us having waffles. He started texting me all the time when he was drunk, asking me to come over, but I always ignored him. Then when – when I had to move out, I bought a load of vodka and got really drunk by myself, and I gave in and let him fuck me. Not a great moment, really, in the general scheme of things. I'm so so sorry, Harry. Sosorry. For ignoring you and being a dick when you told me how you felt. It's just, like..." He chews his lip, and Harry pulls him tighter as the snow thickens, a few girls across the street screaming and stumbling over each other, the toes of his boots covering in a thin layer of snow. "I didn't get it. I don't get it. It sounds stupid, but like, I thought...why do you love me? I don't get it. What have I done? I'm no different from what I was with anyone else before – in fact I'm probably worse around you, you've seen everything shit I've ever done and you won't stop, you just don't stop, and it scares me because I just don't understand it-" He cuts himself off, looking up at Harry with wet eyes. "For fuck's sake, Harry, can you say something, please?"
He looks at Louis, at his eyes and his snow-dusted eyelashes and the gentle curve of his nose and his dry, bitten lips, the few freckles dusting the curve of his cheekbones, and thinks about the enormity of the cave that's opened up inside of him, this black hole of love that is consuming him from the inside out.
"I don't know," he says honestly. "I don't know why I love you more than anyone else. Maybe it's just how we met or how you do what you want when you want and you don't care what other people think, or how much fun we always have together, or that even when we just sit and watch TV all evening I still wouldn't want to be anywhere else than with you. I don't know if there will be someone else better than you but, please, Louis, you have to at least – please tell me you at least understand me."
"I do. I understand. I think I understand...a lot more than I thought before last week." Louis looks at his hands again, pink from the cold, and Harry's heart beats thickly in his throat. "But we're going home tomorrow."
"Maybe it would be good for us to be apart. Like, not like the last week. Talking, but apart. I think you need to figure out what you want to do. And I need to, like, I don't know." He laughs quietly. "Stop being so insanely in love with you and think about something else for a bit."
Louis lets his hand fall loose and open onto Harry's thigh, smiling a little. "Right. OK."
Sensing that the moment calls for it, Harry leans down and smudges a kiss to Louis' forehead once, then twice. He feels Louis' hand come up to curl his fingers around his wrist, and then they kiss: chaste and quick and dry.
"I'm scared of how much I want to make you happy," Louis murmurs, their noses bumping. Harry's stomach swoops so low he feels like he's been jerked off of the bench and into the air, soaring over the twinkling rooftops of Manchester.
"Don't be scared. Think about it. Enjoy Christmas with your family. Keep in touch," Harry murmurs, fingers trailing up and down his arm. "But, um, me too. I always want you to be happy."
"Oh." Louis laughs, hiding his grin with the back of his hand. "Well. Glad it's mutual."
"Yep. Me too."
They grin at each other for a few seconds before Louis shivers violently, pushing himself closer to Harry and saying, "This has all taken...a turn for the better, Harry, but I'm fucking freezing and I think I'd better take your drunk self home."
"Hey. I'm not that drunk. I remember everything you said."
"Mm, you always had a good memory for a drunk, but I can tell you're fucked, you've got that stupid dopey grin on your face and your eyes are all unfocussed," Louis says, kissing the tip of his nose before standing up. Harry wonders if he should feel offended or aroused, and decides on a mixture of the two. "C'mon. Let's get a taxi. Or, better yet, some chips."
"Yes. Chips," Harry says delightedly, even more so when Louis helps him to his feet and tangles their fingers together. "Harry Christmas, Lou."
Louis doubles over, he's laughing so hard, and Harry almost doesn't realise what he's done wrong before Louis straightens up to cup his cheek with his free hand, kissing him softly.
"Harry Christmas to you too, you idiot. Now let's get some fast food."
The next morning, Harry wakes up with cold chips stuck to the side of his face and Louis curled into his side. His alarm is going off and he hasn't packed up any of his stuff and he can see the trees are covered in snow through his wide open window, but he can't really bring himself to care about any of it as he rolls over in bed, wrapping his arms around Louis' warm, bare skin and kissing the side of his neck. Maybe going home can wait just a little longer.