Chapter Text
Louis arrives to the party forty-five minutes late, his brand new—and very fetching, he must say—trunks underneath his jeans, wearing Niall's white polo which he grabbed last minute. (What can he say? The boy's got some good clothes. They're few and far between, but they do exist.) He's in the right place—he said Harry's name at the front desk and they seemed to know what he was talking about—and it's absolutely gorgeous inside, even if he doesn't recognize a soul.
The pool is indoors, surrounded by crystal clear glass windows that arch and reach to the sky. The walls are limitless and cream colored, the pool is vast and sparkling, and beautiful vines with brightly colored flowers paint the corners of the room, perfuming the chlorine scented air.
It reeks of wealth and over-indulgence.
Sure, it's lovely. But it's also wasteful and Louis feels really fucking out of place with his Tom's and judgmental eyes.
Girls and boys wearing their finest swimwear, holding cocktail glasses, tumblers of rum, and champagne flutes, screech and squeal as they splash each other in the pool, making Vines on their iPhones and posing for Instagram pics.
Louis sort of wants to set them all on fire. And damn, they'd light up fast with all that liquor strewn about.
Near the pool is a fountain, possibly crafted by giants, spewing out what looks to be pastel pink water. Which—why the fuck? And, oh yes, there are people in there, too. They're splashing and spewing up tinkling laughter and drunkenly balancing on the edge in heels and...appear to be drinking it. All right, then. So there's that.
"If that's a fountain of champagne, I swear to god," Louis mumbles under his breath.
But the scene only gets worse.
Because just as Louis is on the verge of considering walking out (there are servers swooping around with caviar smeared on crackers and there's an entire room dedicated to smoking cigars and watching a footie game—come the fuck on now) Louis spots Harry Styles.
With a fucking falcon on his arm.
Because, yes, Harry Styles has a fucking falcon. He's got the protective arm sleeve and everything. On top of that, he's adorned in a pink suit and gray satin bowtie. At a pool party.
What the actual fuck?
"Louis!" a voice suddenly exclaims from behind, and oh, praise the heavens, it's Liam, wearing tiny black trunks (nice abs, Liam, ten points to Gryffindor) and holding a champagne glass. Zayn is at his side in a white button up rolled to his elbows and light brown slacks, fedora in place. "There you are! I'm so glad you've come!"
"Why do you always think I'm not going to come?" Louis asks, shaking his hand, then Zayn's.
Liam shrugs. "I suppose it's because I'm not sure if I would go to all these strange gatherings hosted by strange people I barely even know."
"Well. I like strange people and I like strange gatherings even more," Louis grins impishly, and Liam laughs his approval as Zayn smirks. "But what exactly is happening right now?"
"How do you mean?" Liam asks, puzzled.
"Well, I come here and Harry Styles has a bird on his arm," Louis says, he hopes not too unkindly. "What is that...about?" He's playing nice.
Zayn laughs out loud and it's quite a marvelous laugh, soft and pleased, and Louis can't help but feel a tiny bit proud of himself. From what he's gathered, Zayn is a bit of a stoic character and any chance to see that genuine smile—which is gorgeous, in all honesty—is appreciated.
"He just got him," Liam says, smiling. "He's so cute. Would you like to pet him?"
Louis stares.
"Is nobody seeing the issue in this?" he plows on, quirking an incredulous brow. "That he's currently in possession of a bird of prey? I'm almost certain that's against the law."
"No, no. I'm actually good friends with the president of PETA, so he should be fine," Liam smiles effortlessly. He belongs in a toothpaste commercial.
Louis continues to stare. "You're good friends with the president?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Naturally." His tone is flat. "That makes sense."
"He's a wonderful man."
"All right."
Zayn smirks. "Liam's friends with everyone over forty."
"I am not!"
"Yes you are. You can't help it, love." Zayn's eyes slide to Louis. "But don't worry about the bird. I'll make sure he's given a proper home."
Louis smiles at that and nods, genuinely surprised. Wasn't Zayn supposed to be this terrifying force of beauty and power? For the most part he seems like a gentle soul, mild mannered and observant. He also has a brain.
Then again, Louis still doesn't really know the boy at all.
But, no matter, because Louis currently has far more pressing issues at hand.
"Fuck, he's coming over," Louis breathes, watching as Harry spots them and begins sauntering forward, falcon in tow. A sentence Louis had never thought he would say in his life.
"Louis Tomlinson," a deep, husky voice purrs, and the words spread over the trio like molasses, catching under Louis' nails and clogging his ears. "Hi," he greets cheekily, dragging out the word in lilting tones. All the while as the beady eyes of the falcon peer nervously into Louis' soul.
"Hello," Louis greets distastefully, and gives the bird a once over.
"Lads," Harry nods to Liam and Zayn, before returning his cutting stare back to Louis, his fake, toothy grin in place. "And how are you this afternoon?"
"You know what, I would be a lot better if you didn't have an endangered species sat on your arm."
"They're not endangered anymore. His species is well on its way to recovery."
"Even so, you've still got a fucking bird sitting on you."
"Cleopatrick."
"Sorry?"
"His name is Cleopatrick," Harry clarifies, and his grin is so wide and goofy, Louis could almost believe it to be genuine if it weren't for the emptiness in his gaze.
"Cleopatrick? Are you serious?" Louis deadpans, staring him--and Cleo-fucking-patrick--straight in the eye.
"He's thought of worse names," Zayn says mildly with a bemused smile, hand on Liam's back.
"He named a cactus 'Chlamydia' one time," Liam explains, and Harry's grin widens, teeth glinting under the rays of sunlight streaming through the skylights.
"It's a beautiful name," he says softly, turning to stroke Cleopatrick on the head. Its wide, black eyes blink momentarily in contentment, apparently accustomed to human touch, and it almost actually looks to be enjoying the caress.
Even so, it's a fucked up situation, so Louis just glares. "It's still a ridiculous name."
"Really? I quite like it," Harry says absentmindedly, still stroking the bird. And fuck, does it take him all day to carry on a full conversation? Each word is said so painfully slow, Louis could run verbal laps around the git. "A girl over there named him."
"So you just agreed straight away and named it that? You couldn't have taken any more suggestions?"
Liam giggles, and Zayn smirks.
"Well. She actually wanted me to name him 'Barney.' But I didn't like it, so I named him 'Cleopatrick.' But it was because of her I named him. You know?"
"So you named the bird."
"Correct, Louis Tomlinson."
And Louis decides that he hates the way Harry says his name, all slow, rumbling, and flowing like a thunderstorm. Or crushed velvet. It's not appealing at all, not in the slightest. It's fucking...irksome. It's an irksome sound.
"So. Tell me. Why on earth did you buy the poor damn thing in the first place?" Louis then asks, cutting off Liam who was beginning to inquire about the whereabouts of the loo. Too bad.
Harry, also failing to acknowledge Liam (who's now full-on pouting to Zayn), merely says, setting his cold, green eyes back on Louis, "I liked him. It's my new thing. Do you like birds?"
"I do not like birds. They shit everywhere, they fly at your head, they're not very cute, and I don't trust their eyes. They're very penetrating."
At that, Harry's lips twitch, almost as if to laugh, before smoothing back out to the wide, unnerving grin. "Best stay away from Cleopatrick, then. His eyes are extra penetrating," he says with a slow blink of his own eyes. Of course he manages to make it creepy.
Louis narrows his eyes at the words, already feeling his muscles tense in agitation. "I assure you that I'll have no problem staying away from Cleopatrick, especially if he's going to be attached to you all day. Now, darling, I'm going to find some champagne and pretend like I'm having a good time." With that, Louis begins to stalk off.
"I suggest the fountain. Glasses are over there," Harry calls, gesturing to a table with a tower of sparkling and freshly polished champagne glasses, waiting to be filled.
And yep, that confirms it—it's a fountain of fucking champagne. How does that even happen?
"Of fucking course," Louis sing-songs in reply, not looking back.
He's sad to have left Liam and Zayn—the only two people at this party that he's even close to knowing—but he needs, absolutely needs, to be away from Harry Styles before he kills him and his little bird, too.
So he waltzes towards the tower of champagne glasses, steals the one at the very top, and drinks his irritation away.
**
It's been a few hours and a few glasses later, and Louis has had many successful conversations with the guests.
Well. Maybe not exactly successful.
The last guy he talked to kept banging on about his father's yachts.
"We've gone through so many, I can't even count. My brothers have crashed over a dozen. It's no bother, of course, since my father's the head of the company. We get them all the time—we've no room for them anymore."
Are there people in the world who actually find this kind of conversation interesting?
"Ah, yes," Louis fake-relates, nodding his head as he stares at a plant. "My father owns the British space programme, so we've a bunch of old rockets and spaceships lying about."
"Oh, do you?" Nameless Boy asks, intrigued.
For fuck's sake.
"No. That was meant to be a joke."
"Oh."
An awkward silence ensues.
"So...What does your father own?"
And then Louis officially un-invests himself in the conversation.
Since then, he's stripped down to his trunks (and yes, he caught a few gazes so maybe he's not as pasty and ill-shaped as he had thought) and has been swimming luxuriously, occasionally spotting Liam and Zayn and having a laugh. Liam even hopped in the pool for a bit to keep Louis company at one point, but Zayn never even changed into proper swim attire, opting to sit on the marble benches to the side, elegantly smoking cigarettes and adjusting his fedora. Which doesn't surprise Louis in the slightest--Zayn doesn't seem like the type to splash around in pools.
Currently, Louis is lying on the cool floor of the room alone, staring up into the sunny blue sky that peeks through the skylight. His hair is still damp, his fingers are still pruny, but he honestly couldn't care less, feeling relaxed and at peace with the world.
Perhaps he should text Niall.
It's just as he's reaching for his trousers that a large pair of feet saunter up to him.
And Louis prays, absolutely prays, that it's not who he thinks it is. With agitation already building in his stomach, he looks up.
And, yep.
It's him.
Dressed in tiny pink swim trunks and nothing else. And, to Louis' surprise, peppered with tattoos. There's a 'G' on his right shoulder, an 'A' on his left, and unfamiliar scrawls written near his collarbones and down his left bicep. There are little images as well, like crowns and triangles and diamonds and what may or may not be a doodle of a cat, and on his wrist is a tiny lock and what appears to be the zodiac sign for Aquarius.
Interesting. (Not.)
"Well, hello," Harry rumbles, staring down his nose at Louis. How appropriate for the egotistical twat.
"Where's Cleopatrick?" Louis asks pointedly, refusing to greet him in return.
"Zayn's watching him," he says smoothly, and offers his hand to Louis. "May I help you up?"
"Why do you think I want to stand up?"
"To talk to me. I'm lonely up here."
"You're joking, right?"
Harry just grins back, wide and unapologetic, his hand still outstretched. And, once again, Louis could almost believe his flirtatious sincerity—if it wasn't for those fucking eyes. That completely unnerving stare that's going to start haunting Louis' nightmares if he's not careful.
Still, Louis takes his hand, if only because his bum is beginning to hurt, and stands up briskly. And then Harry kisses his hand.
He actually kisses his fucking hand, cold lips pressed against warm flesh.
"This isn't Disney. You can stop now," Louis mutters in a wry tone, wrenching his hand away.
"Hey. I was merely being polite," Harry smirks, curls brushing into his lazy eyes.
"I'm sure."
They stare at each other, Harry grinning winningly, hands behind his back, Louis eying him with suspicious distaste.
"Why are you trying to pull me again?" Louis suddenly asks, voice hard as he folds his arms.
"I'm not. Never was! I'm just trying to have a nice conversation," Harry purrs, before glancing down at Louis' very appealing trunks. "Not that I wouldn't mind having a go, of course." And the sentiment is rude and demeaning, but Harry matches it with his dimple and tilted head, and Louis can understand why he ensnares so many unwitting victims.
Unfortunately for him, Louis is far from unwitting.
"You're vile, you know that? None of your child's tricks are going to work. I actually have a soul, something you are clearly unfamiliar with."
Harry's smile falls just the tiniest bit, and Louis once again sees that flash in his eyes—that brief, fleeting moment of actual emotion that is too momentary to place. And then, once again, it's gone.
"Are you intimidated by my tattoos?" he suddenly asks, and Louis actually starts at that, because—what? Was that line actually just used? And completely out of nowhere?
"You mean, am I intimidated by a bit of ink that's been stabbed into your skin? Or do you mean the actual images themselves? Because neither are anywhere near intimidating, I can promise you. A silverback gorilla—now that's intimidating," Louis says, mustering all the judgment he possesses and pouring it on Harry, flicking hair out of his eyes and placing his hands on his hips.
"What if I got a silverback gorilla tattoo?"
"Still no. Do you want me to be intimidated?"
"Do you want to be?"
"No, for fuck's sake. You really are thick."
"I'm actually a genius. A prodigy, even. All my tutors tell me so."
"That's cute. For being a genius, you've got an awful lot of stupid tattoos."
Harry's smile falters. "No I don't."
"Yeah, mate. You do."
And now Harry is openly scowling at him. "I like them."
Louis rolls his eyes, and inspects the tiny lock painted on Harry's wrist. "That one's all right because it's small. I hate tattoos, by the way. Oh, what's that say? Some script, it looks like. You get your girlfriend's name?" Louis asks in a patronizing voice, poking at Harry's diamond studded watch and the words written underneath in boldface.
Harry immediately rips his hand away, movements jerky and eyes glaring with an intensity Louis' never encountered before, truly startling him. His eyes, glinting a deep green that holds no ceremony or pretense, bore into Louis, and, fuck. For the first time, Louis feels like he's looking at an actual person and not a manikin.
Louis feels like he may actually be looking at Harry Styles.
"Don't touch my watch," is all he says, and even his voice loses its musical mockery, instead settled low and monotonous.
"Why? Because you've got real diamonds embedded in it like a nice little posh boy? Don't want to smudge them?" he presses, his own temper prickling.
For a second, Louis wonders if Harry is going to punch him, and his blood begins pumping with fire, his temper charged and ready to go.
But then it's gone.
The scowl, the frown, the realness—it's all gone, replaced by another charming smile and a cardboard stare.
"Of course they're real diamonds," Harry says, voice back in place. "I've never understood the reason for fake ones. I like things to be genuine," he says, and isn't that a joke?
"Perhaps price has something to do with it," Louis says dryly. "Because, you know, not everybody was born into extreme, undeserved wealth?"
Another flicker dances across his face for the briefest of seconds, soon replaced by a large grin. "I suppose. But price has never been an issue with me."
Louis stares.
There are a thousand bitchy things he could reply with. There are a thousand smacks he could lay on this boy.
But instead, Louis just blinks, and settles for, "I'm going to go over here now," and walks away.
**
About half an hour later, Harry finds him again, as soon as Liam and Zayn depart to refresh their drinks, leaving him alone.
"You look painfully sober. Are you sure you've enough to drink?" he asks, striding up to Louis, and he's wearing a large white t-shirt over his pink trunks, large, peculiar sandals on his feet.
"You're back. Aren't you supposed to be hosting this party?" Louis mumbles, pursing his lips and looking anywhere but at the nuisance beside him.
"I am hosting. I'm talking to my favorite guest," he smirks, and sends the most insincerely intense stare Louis' way. He looks more bored than allured, probably mentally picking his clothes for the next day or trying to decide what drug to do next.
"Do you flirt with everything? Like, even Cleopatrick?"
"Especially with Cleopatrick. And he's with a mate, by the way, before you ask. I look after him, don't think I'm a bad father."
"We'll see how that theory holds. Now, run along. I need Louis Time and it's getting dark—you'll need to change to your evening outfit."
Harry's smile widens. "How did you know about my evening outfit? Did you bring one as well?"
"Don't be thick."
"You can borrow something of mine, if you'd like."
"You're still being thick."
"You can help me undress," he says lowly, and while he probably finds it to be a temptation, Louis almost spits up all the champagne he's drank that day.
"Good lord!" he exclaims, turning to face Harry fully. "Now, don't get me wrong, I well understand what it's like to be attractive"—Harry raises his eyebrows—"but do you genuinely believe that people actually want you that much? Do you really think that saying things like that matters? That they're worth saying? Because you do talk some shit and you look like an utter prick."
Immediately, the scowl is back. Harry stares, eyes set in a flashing glare, and Louis can see the glint of his diamond watch and the various rings coating his fingers as he clenches his fist.
"Can I refresh your drink," he clips suddenly, and it's not really a question, stare hard and unyielding.
"No thanks, I can get my own," Louis says evenly, matching Harry's glare.
Without another blink, Harry stalks away.
Success.
**
The rest of the party, Louis stays by Liam and Zayn's sides.
They mingle with the crowd, Liam conducting polite conversation while Zayn and Louis makes jokes about the sloppy drunk kids stumbling around and the pretty girls with no wit.
"I went to school with him," Zayn chuckles lightly, pointing at a boy fully immersed in the fountain without any trousers, drinking handfuls of the shimmering pink liquid. "He smelled like glue."
"He looks like he would," Louis muses, and clinks his glass with Zayn's. "Here's to smelling fresh!"
Zayn smiles, taking a sip of his champagne, before setting down the class by his feet and pulling out a slim, guilt case and opening it. He offers a cigarette to Louis, who declines.
"You should come around regularly," Zayn mutters, lips wrapped around the stick as he clicks the lighter into life.
Louis watches the flame engulf the tip, and Zayn's perfect lips pucker around the end, sucking in the air reverently. "I might kill your friend."
Zayn exhales smoke through a smile. "Not if he kills you first."
"True," he laughs.
"But I mean it. You should come round tomorrow."
"If you're inviting me, then I will. I'll bring my roomie."
"Who's that, then?"
"Niall Horan. He's this Irish—"
"I know him. He's a good lad. Got good spirit."
"That's an understatement," Louis says with a roll of the eyes. "He's fun, though. They'll enjoy him."
Zayn nods, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. "You're fun, too," he acknowledges, looking at Louis with those piercing, lashed eyes. The boy is certainly beautiful.
"I am?" Louis asks, surprised at such open praise--given the source.
"Yeah. I like that you have no boundaries. You say whatever you want, to whoever. It's nice," he mumbles, and Louis smiles.
"I get in trouble for it sometimes."
"I'll look out for you," Zayn promises, and he puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and offers the tiniest, sincere smile.
"Thanks, mate," Louis responds, touched.
Zayn merely nods in return before taking another drag of his cigarette. "Besides, Liam quite likes you."
"I what?" Liam suddenly asks, finally having been unburdened from the absolute knob he'd been stuck making casualties with.
"You like our Louis, don't you?" Zayn asks, smiling widely at him, arm around his shoulders.
Louis can't help but admire the pair as Liam cuddles into his side; Zayn doesn't smile like that for anybody else. At least not that Louis' seen.
"I love Louis," Liam affirms, looking over to Louis with joy. "He's quite fun."
"See, I told you," Zayn smirks, and Louis lifts up his glass once more.
"To us!" he sings, thrusting the champagne into the air.
"To us!" they chorus in return, and the cold, jolting sweetness of the champagne fizzes and slides down Louis' throat with a pleasantness he never knew he adored so much.
**
The evening progresses into night, and the lights are dimmed, the music increases in volume, and the guests become messier and more vibrant.
Occasionally, Louis spots Harry.
He's completely rid of the falcon now, probably due to the sheer noise in the place and the fact that he's begun to stumble over his own feet a bit.
Still, despite his apparent intoxication, he's the perfect host. He preens and poses and laughs at the right times and urges everyone to try the oysters and snaps his fingers whenever there's an empty glass and lightly touches the tips of his guests' elbows as he laughs at their jokes and smiles into their eyes.
He's full of shit, that's what he is.
And people follow him. He looks like a ring master, his subjects surrounding him and hopping through hoops. The room tinkles with laughter and the splash of water, and all the while Harry Styles is in the middle of it, posing for flashing photographs and shouting out celebrations into the air as he twirls around like a loud, drunken, reckless ballerina on top of the world.
But how does nobody else see it? How does nobody else spot the shallowness, the fake childhood innocence, the cold hands and his unnerving ability to switch from emotionless to grinning in milliseconds?
How does nobody see what Louis sees?
It fills him with anger, almost blinding anger, and more frustration than he knows how to handle.
"I really hate him," Louis shouts openly to Liam (thanks to all the alcohol) as the music picks up around them, voices from all directions screaming and laughing.
Liam laughs, unfazed. "Harry's complex, yeah. But it's hard not to like someone that charming!" he shouts back, before being swallowed in Zayn's embrace and jumping back into the fray. Niall wasn't lying. Liam really is a bit of an adrenaline junky. In the daylight he's all sensibility and polished sentences; at night, he's loud and laughing, pumping fists into the air and swinging Zayn around through a never ending haze of liquor.
Louis continues to glare at Harry from across the room as he struts around in front of a group with flowers he'd plucked from the surrounding plants tucked into his curls, smiling and laughing and throwing his arms out exaggeratedly. He remains that way for awhile, the center of attention, before eventually slinking off, alone.
He stops near a window, picking up a few stray glasses and holding them up to the light, staring at them with am impassive expression on his face, rotating them in his grip.
He's probably high off of his ass.
Beams of moonlight catch on his face, illuminating his pallid skin, crimson lips, and the soft petals of the blossoms tucked in his hair. And though the party swirls around him (and yeah, it's a damn good party, Louis can give him that) he appears to be in his own little world, face stony and silent, just peering at the glass and the prisms it creates in his eyes. But then suddenly his eyes are closed and his head is bent, his arms falling to his sides in limp defeat, and through his drunken haze, Louis finds himself beginning to walk towards him, curiosity and agitation bubbling up his blood.
He wants to ask Harry why he is the way he is.
He wants to ask why he makes pretty jokes and says lovely things and doesn't mean any of it, and why he only seems genuine when he's upset.
Why he's poisonously charming and errant, and completely barren of any substance or reality.
Why, right now, amongst throngs of willing people and heaps of hedonism, he stands there alone, hanging his head, frozen to the spot.
Then all of a sudden, without warning or transition, Harry awakens into life, leaping atop the fountain, arms outstretched and head thrown back to the heavens.
"I AM NOT YOUNG ENOUGH TO KNOW EVERYTHING!" he bellows into the air, his deep, rasping voice reverberating against the walls.
There's a momentary lull in volume as all heads turn toward him, and Louis stands there blinking, unable to take his eyes away from Harry's stiff figure, splayed like a crucifixion as the champagne fountain spits over his limbs, his eyes wide and unseeing and filled with the stars from the sky.
It's almost haunting, and Louis doesn't breathe.
Then, like clockwork, there's a surge of amused laughter, and a few sporadic attempts at applause as the party reconvenes.
What the fuck?
"Oh, Harold!" he hears a girl laugh, like this is such typical behavior of him, and Louis can't help but throw a withering glare in her direction.
Harry then leaps down, a wild grin on his face, and immediately becomes overrun by a swarm of glittering arms and mouths open in laughter and exclamations. Soon he becomes lost in the fray, another head in a sea of chaos, leaving Louis to stand there in bewilderment, brain buzzing fervently.
**
The last time Louis sees Harry that night, he's exiting the building amidst a pile of sloppy, sloshed, screaming boys and girls, half-holding him up. His sightless eyes are dilated, his skin glistens with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead, and his bow tie hangs, undone and forgotten.
It's a hot fucking mess.
And Louis thinks, just as he's gathering the last of his things, alcohol and sleep tugging at his limbs (and the promise of cake at his flat):
'Yep, I'm definitely going to stay as far away from that as I can.'