"The carnival is tomorrow." Niall, ever the self righteous idiot, muses two hands through his dip dyed platinum locks. Harry stares a little too hard, quickly losing interest in his annotated, battered copy of Great Exceptions. His book report's due tomorrow and he's barely brushed the surface on chapter five.
Harry kicks his legs up onto his desk, chucking the book behind him. He probably loses his place, but he doesn't think he'd be able to recall where he'd left off anyway. His sunglasses feel heavy on the bridge of his nose, weighing on the bruises surrounding the eye tissue, so he chucks those too, unperturbed at the sound of one of the lenses popping from its mold. "I don't care, Niall."
"You're coming with me," he says with a tone of finality. "It's not healthy to stay cooped up in this place all day."
"I wish I could," Harry rephrases, lies at that. He'd rather give himself another black eye then show his face at another fundraising event. It's too hot outside, Harry's got a book report due, his face doesn't hesitate to throb at the most inconvenient of moments, and he simply doesn't want to hang around his schoolmates if it isn't absolutely mandatory. "But I can't. Because I've got a book report due tomorrow."
"Bullshit." Niall chucks the hard copy of Great Expectations, not even flinching when Harry barely refrains from getting his head knocked off. "That book report's due before the carnival."
The delectable stench of chicken and mac wafts into Harry's nostrils, a tell tale sign of his mother whipping up dinner downstairs, but all it does is make him feel nauseated. For the past three days, he's only been able to stomach soft foods and watered down juices. He thinks it might have something to do with getting kneed in the fucking face—perhaps the impact had caused more damage than initially anticipated—but if Harry despises anything more than extracurriculars, it's hospitals.
He shakes out of his revere, picks up his pencil, and pretends to not hear Niall murmuring expletives beneath his breath. "I don't think you understand. You're coming to this carnival with me. No ifs, ands, or buts."
Harry snorts, mildly amused. "What's in it for me?" He spins in his desk chair, resting his neck across the headrest.
Niall toes out a foot, slowing Harry to a gradual stop. He grins devilishly. "Louis will be there."
And to be fair, he should've seen that coming. It's in the simple fact that Harry doesn't have many options as to who he confides in when he's got something important on his mind and his brain refuses to let go unless he gets his second opinion. Naturally, Harry told Niall about Louis, hadn't been able to keep the jig up. And maybe he'd crossed a line, blabbing on about the extent of good hair, tan skin, random tattoos, and the deepest, bluest pair of eyes he's ever seen. It's just that Louis makes him feel things he hasn't really ever felt before, makes him fidgety even though he keeps his discussions with Harry to an antagonizing minimum.
Who could blame him? Harry's a nobody.
"Don't make me regret saying anything to you in the first place."
"Don't make me use him as leverage." Niall stares at Harry hard, trapped in a stalemate competition.
Harry blinks first. "Fine," he relents. "I'll go to the fùcking carnival."
"Good." The Irishman goes back to primping his hair in the full body mirror. "I wish I had more to do with it, but I'll take what I can get."
Harry kicks Niall's foot out of the way, resuming his aimless spinning.
"I mean, can we just talk about it?" The boy takes a wad of mousse in his hands and slicks his hair to one side before changing his mind and slicking it towards the other. "I know you told me the story, but we haven't really got the chance to talk about what any of this means."
Except—Harry had thought about it. He'd thought about it, contemplated it, disregarded it, imagined it, then thought about it some more. In retrospect, Louis could have punched Grimshaw for Harry, but in hindsight, none of it made any sense. The only reason Louis had even met Harry, was because of Gemma. Apart from that, while they did attend the same school, Harry had never seen Louis in the halls, or in the lunchroom, or in the courtyards after class.
Louis had no reason to punch Nick in regards to where Harry was concerned.
Maybe Harry was just a happy coincidence, and they had unresolved issues of their own.
(Maybe Harry was losing his mind, and Louis hadn't punched Grimshaw at all).
His head pounds, exhausted from all of the overthinking. He queries over whether or not he'll finish his book report in time. He highly doubts he'll be able to concentrate, now that he's on edge and a little burst of serotonin's been crammed down his throat. He hasn't seen Louis in a while, but he's going to see him tomorrow. He'll be at the carnival, probably buying the concession stands out of cotton candy and binge riding the ferris wheel.
They scare him. The butterflies he gets.
"Can we talk about something else?" For Niall, it's a valid excuse. His best mate rambles on about Kacey Smith and her inexcusable desire to draw smiley faces on all of Niall's Spanish assignments, and the earth tilts back onto its axis until everything in the world is okay again.
*
Harry raps his knuckles across the drivers side window, grinning at the way Gemma jumps and screws up her pristine lipstick application. She slams both of her hands on the steering wheel before manually rolling her window down.
She visibly keens with anger. He supposes Aaron's deep, hiccuping laughter isn't necessarily working in their favor.
"What?" Gemma barks like a dog, and Harry tries his hardest, but he simply can't hold in his own cheeky grin. He doesn't dare look at Niall, thinks he wouldn't be able to hold himself together if he so much as tried. "What do you want?"
"We need a ride to the carnival." It's well into the day, and the sun's just began to set, but Harry can already feel a sweat beginning to settle. They've been outside for a grand total of two minutes, and he's already starting to chafe in places he's never chafed before.
"Please," Niall adds in for him.
Gemma flicks her eyes between the two, dabbing away at the red smudge of lipstick on her cheek. Aaron accepts Louis' noble offering of a cigarette, probably so he can keep his composure, refrain from adding fuel to the fire. "Yeah," she scoffs, ever the sarcastic bitch. "Right."
Harry had practically predicted this happening, so he digs into the pockets of his jeans before retracting a wad of cash. It's pretty embarrassing that it's actually come to this; bribing his sister in means of potentially ruining her social reputation. But he can sympathize. No seventeen year old wants to chauffeur around a couple of year tens. "I'll pay you."
"A few pounds isn't worth social suicide."
"I'll also do your chores for a week."
His sister snorts. "Try a month."
Harry's bad eye twitches painfully. "Three weeks."
Her eyes roll to the back of her skull, but eventually she caves. "I would've done it for two."
Harry slides in beside Louis, flipping her the bird. She easily flips one back, finishes applying the fierce shade of red to her bottom lip, then cranks up the radio to max volume, driving away like a madwoman.
Louis taps away at his cell phone, disregarding Harry's total existence. He doesn't know whether that's good or bad, considering he's never been this close to Louis before, and his heart's hammering alarmingly fast in his ears. Niall pinches him, probably to get him to quit being so obvious, but it's already too late. Now that he's seen the cutesy dusting of freckles pebbling the bridge of Louis' nose, he's probably going to be haunted by these close up, shimmering images of him basking in the sun, throwing his head back with laughter, slicking away the sweat that collects at the nape of his neck.
He's doomed.
Louis' eyes suddenly flicker to Harry's. He catches him starring, but doesn't say anything, instead shifts in his seat and nods his head along to the beat of the music. He pulls out his packet of cigarettes, shakes one out onto his hand, then protects his flame, graceful, delicate, unconcerned.
With Aaron puffing like a chimney in the front, and Louis lighting up in the back, the car almost instantly fills with smoke. Harry cracks Niall's window, too aware of the piercing eyes tracking his every movement. When he turns back, Louis' grinning to himself, accidentally flashing his indigo, scabbed knuckles during his second pull.
"Does it bother you?" Louis asks, albeit abruptly. Harry can hardly hear him over the stereo, so he reads his lips. "The smoking?"
"No," he says without actually knowing the answer.
Louis takes a particularly long drag from his fag, eyes trained solely on Harry's. Without missing a beat, he asks, "Does that hurt?" on an exhale. Thick coils of smoke curl around them, and Harry morbidly wonders if it's possible to retract cancer through second hand exposure.
"Yeah." He touches his face gently. "It does."
Louis mindfully hums. He takes one last drag, blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, then offers it over so that the filter's facing Harry.
He feels put on the spot with Niall curiously watching the exchange from beside him, Gem checking up on them in the rear view, and Louis, leisurely holding out his fag between two loose fingers, testing Harry's diligence. He's never smoked a day in his life, never had a reason or desire to. That's all a different story when it's Louis urging him to try, reassuring the rush of nicotine will help ease his pain for a few moments.
He licks his lips, mouthing over the cigarette. His lips brush against Louis' calloused fingers, but the lad seems undeterred as he watches, concentrated at the task at hand. When Harry pulls off, he coughs up a small storm, but after a few moments, he relaxes, focuses on the feeling of a sweet buzz rushing through him. Just as quick as it came, it passes.
"Okay?" The lad tosses what's left of the cigarette out the window, bushing away a few stray particles of fallen ash. Niall pinches him hard.
"Yeah." His throat's dry, and the stale taste in his mouth's repulsive. "Cheers."
On cue, they pull up to a dirt road parking lot. From where they're at, Harry can already smell the fried funnel cakes and kettle corn, and can see the Ferris wheel lighten up beautifully in the sunset. He knows it'd taken a lot to get him here, but he's glad he came. He's not a fan of clowns, and he can never manage to win any of the stupid, rigged games, but maybe a little time away from home will do him well.
Harry loses Gemma, Louis, and Aaron as soon as they step out of the car. He knows the departure was purposeful, when he receives a text that says to meet them back at the car park around 10P.M.
"Well," Niall forks out his cash, purchases a total of fifty five tickets. "That was really weird."
"I know." The faces around them are too familiar, Emily from History, Orion from Niall's Spanish class, Kacey, with two other girls from sixth form and a giant, stuffed panda bear. Harry keeps on his way, passing the carousel, and then the tea cups. He b-lines straight for the food trucks, knows Niall won't have a problem stopping for a bite before they tear this place limb from limb. "Really weird."
"He definitely punched Nick."
"Yeah?" Harry laughs. "How'd you know?"
Niall shrugs. His cerulean eyes reflect the lights from one of the flashy game booths. "Just a hunch, I guess."
*
Niall bursts through the crowd like a firecracker, racing for total cover. He's frantic with it, face green, eyes panicky, fingers greasy from the last three and a half funnel cakes he'd managed to consume on his own. Unfortunately, he doesn't make it to the port of potty in time, and unleashes the entire contents of his stomach behind the ball and bucket toss. The looming crowd belches out their shared groans of disgust, but Niall keeps his head down, gags, and proceeds to vomit his guts out.
At 9P.M., a cool half an hour later, he receives a text. Mum's come to pick me up. Soz Harry. See u tmrw.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Harry's here today, all on his own, surrounded by people he could possibly do the rest of his life without. There's too many strange circus acts for comfort, he's ran out of game tickets and cash, and the night's at its darkest point; a cloudless, starless sky, a crescent hung for decor, no birds or helicopters or meteorites. He doesn't really feel like waiting around for Gem to finish up, and he doesn't want to make himself look any dumber than he already does, standing in the midst of the crowd all alone. His feet move before his brain catches up, and with a slow start, he begins his trek home.
It's still hot out, a humid, sticky air, but Harry welcomes the feeling of the wind through his hair, satiating the heat beneath his skin. He takes the back way out of the carnival, sneaks behind the basketball hoops and the ring toss and the balloon darts booth. There's a slight throbbing in his skull, probably from far too many Coke's and their consistency with the tea cups, but Harry succumbs to the feeling, welcomes it, even.
For a long time, he was afraid he'd gone immune. Feeling something, whether good or bad, reminds him that he exists, that he's still got some sort of life to fulfill. He's real; despite Nick, and his parents, and everyone else who's got anything bad to say of him.
He hates to admit it, but tonight had been freeing. He'd spent an abnormal amount of time on the carousel for a teenage boy, but there was nothing more invigorating than just being. Basking in the good energy of children's laughter and Niall's excited Irish accent, slurring over Marry Had a Little Lamb. For those few moments, nothing else mattered in the world. He wasn't failing school, or getting his arse kicked, or falling into his own toxic abyss of depression.
For once in his life he was just having fun. Doing typical teenager things.
He wants to savor that special feeling, reminisce on it tonight and laugh with Niall about it tomorrow, but he spots Nick only a few feet ahead of him, secluded at his own table. No one's around to witness it; hell, the only reason Harry's still alive to witness it is because Nick doesn't know he's there, hidden behind the shadows, but it doesn't take Einstein to realize he's crying. Sobbing, would be a better word for it, but Harry doesn't like to gloat.
Maybe it's because he's slightly concussed. Maybe it's because he's had such a good night, not even Nick Grimshaw can dampen his mood. He doesn't know what exactly comes over him, just that it does so without hesitation. Harry forgets all about going home to a soft, warm bed; instead, he goes straight for Nick.
"You shouldn't be here," Nick abruptly calls over his shoulder. He can't see Harry, but it's obvious his presence is known. "If—if you tell anyone about this, I'll—I'll kick your ass."
Harry sits, eyeing Nick warily. The lad's lip is still pretty swollen, but a red, tear streaked face and dead, disheveled hair makes everything look worse than they actually are. "That doesn't mean much to me anymore."
"Styles?" His brain goes all morbid. At any given moment, Harry could be beaten and left behind to bleed and suffer all alone. No one would find him all the way out here, not at night, anyway. "What are you doing here?"
"Walking." Harry shrugs. "Heading home."
"Well, the exit's that way." Nick sniffles, feebly attempting to hide his face behind his long, lanky arms. It's strange in a way, seeing someone usually so thick skinned, so weak and fragile. Harry should feel endangered, shouldn't feel the need to patch things up for him. He deserves this, whatever's happened to make him break down in the middle of the carnival.
Except it doesn't sit right with his gut when he contemplates actually leaving. Harry shifts, wondering if he's treading on thin ice. "You're an asshole." It's barely said, consonants almost lost in the wind, but by the way Nick perks up, he knows he's been heard.
Harry braces himself, prepares for impact.
A stray tear rolls down Nick's cheek. He doesn't lay a single finger on Harry. "I know." He shudders, rubbing at his snotty nose. "Which is why it makes no sense for you to be here right now."
"I guess I'm just a better person than you, Nick."
At that, Nick angrily slams his hands down onto the picnic table. The impact causes a loud, ricocheting bang to echo into the distance. Harry doesn't even flinch. "Let's cut the bullshit, and skip the part where you pretend you don't want to see me dead."
Harry's eyebrows furrow. He wants a lot of things in life, but it doesn't matter how many people slander him. Since he knows that type of pain, he'd never wish it back on anyone, not even Nick. "I'll admit that you've done some pretty unforgivable things to me. And you've managed to make my life a living hell." Harry reaches out, lays a shaky hand on Nick's broad shoulder. "But that doesn't mean I want to see you dead. I don't want to see anyone dead."
Nick scoffs. He shakes Harry's hand off of him, but Harry's glad. Simply putting himself in such a vulnerable position goes to show just how weak he is. He just hopes that now Nick knows, he won't use it to his advantage. The last thing he needs is more torment, simply because he'd put his nose where it hadn't belonged and tried to be heroic.
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
Really, upon approaching Nick, Harry had no ulterior motives. However, now that he's here, he might as well get some answers. Besides, Nick owes him, if he's not going to pay or pitch in for any of his upcoming medical bills. "You call that being nice?"
"Shut up, Harry."
"Can I ask you a question?" Nick's eyes flicker suspiciously, but he doesn't necessarily oppose. "Who did this to you?"
There's lights flashing, an intercom voice that shoots loudly around the carnival, and too many wandering, lost children to count. Nick rubs subconsciously at his bursted lip, wincing at the deep twinge of pain. "Why does it matter?"
In the long run, it doesn't. It really, really doesn't. At the end of the day, Harry will still be Harry, and the relationship between him and Louis will be as tame as ever. Only conversing when the day calls for it, perhaps sharing a spare cigarette every now and again. Harry might see Louis around the house some time, and Louis might say hello if he ever does end up running into Harry in the halls. But nothing will truly change. Not really.
"Guess it doesn't." Harry noses at his shoulder, admiring the pretty, twinkling fairy lights contrasting with the navy twinge of the heavens. He thinks the conversation's going to end there, and he's okay with it.
Nick tongues at the split at the corner of his mouth, measly playing with the thin skin of a fresh scab. His eyes turn to accusatory slits again, but he doesn't ask what Harry's thinking. The silence persists between them for a few moments. Harry avoids direct eye contact, and Nick observes quietly, reading into Harry's poor posture and shy, introverted demeanor.
Apparently, Nick decides he's not an immediate threat. Tentatively, he confesses, "It was Louis Tomlinson."
And without so much as an explanation, he carefully gets up and slowly hobbles his way off into the distance.