Irrevocably, Harry realizes that for the next few days, Niall's weird.
There's not nearly as many late night calls or texts, and when Harry asks about it, Niall chalks it up to too many overdue assignments and a newly habited early bird complex. They only hang out around other people; study groups he's forced into by his least favorite professors, or measly, short lived sessions in the library with Liam and Zayn from Art and Design.
Harry also recounts the one time they'd accidentally bumped hands in the hall, and remembers the way Niall had practically levitated a fine three feet away. In retrospect, if they hadn't already had the talk about Harry's sexuality, he thinks he'd have the right to be a little more concerned.
Except Niall had been the first one he'd told.
Niall knew all about Harry and his preferences. He knew that sometimes, Harry preferred a pair of large, hard hands and a strong, flat chest. Other times he enjoyed a soft, smooth face and a curvaceous figure to hold on to. It didn't really matter to him, and he never favored one more than the other. Niall had always been on board with that. Had never had any issues or protests or hard feelings about his best mate being bisexual.
So Harry wonders why Niall's declined his request to come over and eat rubbish food while they lose round after around of their favorite video game. It's Friday; Niall's favorite day of the week, the sun's out, and his mother's snug in bed and blissfully unaware of the party they'd thrown a few weeks prior. Life was finally decent again. Tolerable.
It all goes to shit on an overcast Monday morning.
Harry and Niall are in the school yard, snacking on a plate of deep fried chips. The air's warm, a lovely distraction from the way Niall's refuses to make any sort of direct eye contact whilst Harry blabs on and on about Mrs. Q and her latest English endeavors.
Harry reaches over for a chip the same time Niall does. Their hands accidentally touch. Niall rips his arm away as if he's just been scorched by the rising flames of a fire, and the entire tray tips over before the remains of their shared lunch are splattered across the cold, hard concrete.
Tears instantly spring in Harry's eyes. They're being laughed at by passerby's and side eyed by faculty members, but that's the least of his concerns. Right now, he's more so focused on Niall, running a shaking hand though his box bleached hair, looking as guilty as ever as he bends over to clean up their mess.
When he's finished, Niall reaches out a tentative hand to console Harry. Harry doges him, leaping up from the lunch table. "Don't."
Niall, pale hand frozen in mid air, has the nerve to act surprised. Without a word, Harry packs up his belongings and heads for fifth period. Niall, looking like a dejected puppy, follows closely behind. Good, Harry thinks. Misery loves company.
"Harry," Niall calls out from behind, trying to keep up with his ridiculously long strides. "Harry—for the love of god—would you please slow down?"
"Gonna be late for class," Harry replies. It's petty; Niall knows class doesn't start for another fifteen minutes, and Harry's never not been late to English, but he has to put his foot down at some point. "Talk to you later."
"Will you just let me explain?" Harry continues to snake through the crowd, unimpressed and on the verge of tears. In the moment, he decides he doesn't owe Niall anything. Niall hadn't so much as taken his feelings into consideration, so why should he? Why should he always be the first one to extend the olive branch? "C'mon, man, don't be like that."
There's still people watching, or maybe it's just Harry being paranoid. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.
Nevertheless, the lad halts in his tracks. He's tired, is the thing. He's tired of not being able to peacefully go about his school day, because of his sexuality. He's tired of not being able to have a normal relationship with his mother, because of his sexuality. He's tired of getting beaten on, because of his sexuality. And with these thoughts and revelations alone, he wishes he had the ability to change himself.
Because sometimes it's easier to pretend. Sometimes it's easier to play along.
"Like what?" He turns to face Niall.
Niall quickly grabs Harry against his volition. He drags them both to a more secluded divot in the hallway. "Look, I know I haven't been myself lately. But there's rumors going around that you and I are...well, you know."
Harry's eyes sparkle, and he can't help but let out a dry laugh. "So?" he challenges. "Since when do you care about what other people think?"
Harry's best mate caves in on himself. His once slightly broad shoulders shrivel as he condenses into a small ball. His beady eyes go all soft, and he finally lets go of the vice like grip he's got wrapped around Harry's forearm. "Since Rebecca Black," Niall admits.
Harry steps back, perplexed. Rebecca Black was one of the few honor roll students in school, with straight A's across the board. She wore glasses atop the bridge of her pinched nose, colorful, pleated skirts, and shirts with collars and undone buttons. She had long, voluptuous braids that just slightly grazed the slight curve of her back, and had smooth, bronze colored skin. Sometimes, she'd wear clear beads in her hair, and others she'd let her curly poof parade free.
Needless to say, Niall had never really mentioned anything special about her before.
"Explain."
"Well," he starts. "I kind of have this super in depth plan to make her fall in love with me. Can't necessarily do that if the entire school thinks I like boys, now can I?"
"And you chose to withhold this information from me because..."
Niall shrugs. "Guess I didn't want to make it a bigger deal than it needed to be."
One thing to know about Niall, is that he's typically a fantastic listener; the type of person to sit down and hear everybody's side of the story. He's not huge on opening up, so on the rare occasion that he does, Harry makes sure to coddle the moment for everything that it's worth.
He doesn't want to embarrass the kid, but in a way, he's proud of Niall for allowing Harry something obviously personal to him. And he surely can't help that he plasters on one the biggest smiles he can muster before applauding him with a hard clap to the shoulder. "So. You've got a bit of a crush on Rebecca Black."
"And? You've got a crush on Louis Tomlinson."
It's as if the world stops spinning and his heart stops beating, but Harry'd rather be seen dead than confess to having a crush on Louis. "Louis Tomlinson is nothing but a nuisance."
"A nuisance that you'd like to get your grubby little hands on."
Harry's face goes flat. "I never said that."
"You didn't need to." It's Niall's turn to be smug. "It's practically written across your forehead."
"Speaking of which," Harry practically scrambles for a subject change. He can't handle the way his cheeks ignite at the mere accusation of being that obvious. "Have you heard anything else about him and Grimshaw?"
"Nope," the school bell rings, and the crowds quickly disperse. Harry and Niall stay rooted to the ground, frolicking in their own little world. "Wanna hear my theory?"
"Your theory?"
"Don't tell me you don't have any of your own." Niall pushes himself off the wall, snowballing. The blood in his cheeks rushes through Harry's ears, warming his face and sending a shiver down his spine. He doesn't even notice that they've began walking again until they're suddenly nearing the end of the corridor. "I think they're fucking."
"You think they're together?"
"No. I think they've been together," Niall clarifies. "As in friends with benefits."
Harry's thoughts go for a swim. His first is that he shouldn't be this jealous. Louis' not an object; he doesn't belong to anyone, let alone Harry. "You think Grimshaw's gay?"
"Yeah. Would explain why he's always trying to put a fist through you."
Harry shivers. "But why would someone who's gay bully the gay kid for being gay?"
Niall pauses in the middle of the forlorn corridor. He turns to Harry, resting an idle hand on his shoulder. It's the first time they've touched in a long time. Harry'd missed the comforting hands of his best mate, the hands that have always managed to ground him when he was so close to drifting away. "Think you just answered your own question, mate."
With that, he digs his hand in his pockets, limping off to class.
*
Harry ends up skipping class to spend the rest of the school day in the library. It's therapeutic, the old, rustic smell of books that haven't been cracked open in decades, the room, warm and homey from the afternoon sun, the librarian, feet kicked up, glasses tipped, and a worn, paperback clutched loosely in her dry, shaky hands. He doesn't really read much, besides his comic books, anyway, but he quite likes the ambiance of his school's library. It's a safe haven; an escape from the loud voices, invasive people, and mind numbing assignments.
He's pulling a book off the shelf for the hell of it, something he's never heard of, let alone read, when he spots Louis. He's at one of the tables, nose deep into a text book, and he's pretty much the prettiest person Harry's laid eyes on. He doesn't even have to try. He simply exists, obtains this certain aura that Harry wants to reach out and feel. Hooded eyes, soft skin, wet slick lips, and cuffed jeans. Absolutely effortless.
Harry knows he probably shouldn't stare, has always been taught that it's an impolite thing to do. But he's starting to vaguely remember the night of the party, the shared joint, the way Louis had made his sheets feel ten times warmer than they really were, and resents the fact that he hardly got to be in Louis' presence nowadays. They haven't spoken in days. He doesn't exactly know what he'd say if given the chance, just that he'd say it with his chest and probably end up with a bruised ego and another embarrassing memory.
Though he thinks Louis is worth the hassle.
Louis, visibly frustrated, flicks his gaze from where they'd been solely trained on his textbook. When he notices Harry, he rolls his eyes to the back of his head. It's almost humorous; the different ways Louis reacts to him. Harry deems it quite pathetic; the fact that he's glad he pulls a reaction out of Louis at all, even if it's almost never a good one.
Angsty, Harry saunters up to Louis, book in tow. Louis, nonchalant, flips his textbook closed.
"Can I help you?" he asks. And it's not rude but it's not kind, either. It's Louis.
"Can I sit here?"
"Why?"
"Because." Harry racks his brain for a legitimate excuse. "I...wanna read this." He yields the novel in the air as if it's a sword.
"Yeah?" Louis bites at the butt of his pen. "What do you have there?"
"Well, it's a book," he says. "My favorite book."
"Which book?"
Harry glances down at the cover. It's bad, but there's no room for damage control. They've already made it this far. "Moby Dick." When he says it, he winces, and Louis probably notices. Instead of putting him out of his misery though, he probes.
"Your favorite novel is about a whale?"
"What can I say? It's a good book."
Louis' eyes twinkle, drinking in Harry's shaking hands and uncoordinated feet as he situates himself into a chair next to his. "What's your favorite part?"
And just like that, Harry's temple of lies cracks under pressure. "What's with the third degree?"
Louis, cool as a cucumber, sits back. "I saw you randomly pluck that book off the shelf, you moron."
It's not much to go by, not much to use as leverage, but it's something. Harry soaks in the satisfaction he feels to know that unlike most, Louis notices when he walks in a room. "You were watching me?"
"I wasn't watching you," he's quick to argue. "You were watching me."
"I wasn't watching. I just. Saw you."
Louis turns to face him. "You're an idiot."
Harry, red as a tomato, nods towards the English textbook in front of them. There's tons of doggy eared sticky notes hanging from the pages, and the spine is weak and clearly broken in. "What's this?"
"What's it look like?"
Harry doesn't respond. Instead, he carefully pulls back the cover, skimming the pages on Shakespearean literature. "You actually study?"
"Course. 3.5 GPA."
Harry continues reading. "Try a 4.2. With a 102 percent in AP literature."
"How's that even possible?"
"I could help you out, you know." Truly, he doesn't mean to offer. When he thinks about it, he's got his hands full with school during the day, video games in the afternoon, and homework on the weekends. Without even meaning to, his mouth continues moving, racing to reach the finish line, and suddenly he's clarifying. "I mean, I saw you earlier. You looked like you could've used some help."
Louis rolls his cerulean eyes again. Seconds later, he pulls out a battered copy of Hamlet. "William Shakespeare was a joke."
"He was a hopeless romantic."
"He was overly dramatic. And a pussy." Louis pauses to think for a moment. "And probably gay. And I hate reading his playwrights because none of the shit he has to say makes any sense to me."
Harry flips the textbook closed, tapping the toe of his boot. His fingernails are short, bitten to the nubs, and he's always had a bad habit of biting the skin raw, drawing small traces of blood. "I quite like his stories. Most are tragedies, but he knocked out a few comedies too."
Louis sucks in his bottom lip. "You're opinion is biased. You're actually good at this kind of stuff."
"Like I said, I wouldn't mind lending a hand. All you have to do is ask."
Louis' ash brown eyebrows furrow comically on his forehead. He sucks on his pearly teeth. "I don't need a tutor." He sounds nothing short of revolted at the suggestion.
Harry, at a loss of words, raises his hands in surrender. "Okay. Just offering. And there's nothing wrong with needing a bit of extra help."
"I'm not stupid, Harry."
It's in the way his name rolls of his tongue. Like freshly churned butter, spread over a slice of warm, gooey toast. His ears perk up, nerves and body on high alert. He feels like he's teetering off the edge, slowly succumbing into a larger, scarier abyss of the many enraptures of Louis Tomlinson.
Though really, he's still in his school's library, attempting to hide the way his entire body goes stock still whenever Louis so much as looks at him.
"I know." Louis' still got his eyes pinned onto him, as if a glance in the opposite direction, and Harry would be gone with the wind. "I'll be on my way now."
He grabs his bag, standing on both of his lanky, Bambi legs. His copy of Moby Dick lays haphazardly on the table, and he doesn't bother to pick it up. He's pushing in his chair, sneaking a glance at the librarian, who's now fallen asleep at her desk, and knotting his fingers together. Most importantly, he's avoiding any and all eye contact with Louis.
Before he's even given the chance to walk away, Louis is tugging on his shirt sleeve, beckoning him to sit. "When can we start?" It's strained and it's quiet and Harry can barely hear him over Ms. O'Halleran's loud, obnoxious snoring, but it's a step towards the right direction.
"Whenever. You know where to find me." Harry tries to flee with the last word, but Louis snatches him back down by the wrist this time.
"Tomorrow." Harry yanks his arm back, flustered. Louis remains unfazed, but keeps talking. "Tomorrow. At your place, after school."
"Fine."
The lad blinks blankly, as if surprised Harry hadn't put up more of a fight, though the slightly baffled look is gone within seconds. He quickly squares his jaw, hardens his eyes, and pokes a hole the size of a small third world country into Harry's breastbone. "I swear, if you tell anybody about this, I'll chop your dick off and feed it to Grimshaw." With that, he wrenches the copy of Moby Dick off the table, slams it hard into Harry's chest, then vacates the premises in record time.
Harry, disturbed, saunters out of the library. He walks the entire way home.
*
The next day, Harry spends the entirety of his morning tidying up his bedroom. He makes his bed for the first time in probably months, makes sure his action figures are hidden and no longer on display for public viewing, and even lights his mother's favorite pumpkin spice candle.
When Louis arrives, it's in a pair of oversized, maroon sweats. He's smacking on a large wad of chewing gum, and shoulders Harry aside as soon as he opens the door. From there, he completely disregards the staircase, and makes a straight b-line for the kitchen, where he nearly dismembers his textbook, and cracks open a hard copy of Macbeth.
"What are you doing?"
Louis freezes. He's got on a pair of reading glasses, and looks soft enough to pet. "Who? Me?"
"We're not studying out here." Harry clears his throat, searching his brain for its next lie. "Too many distractions."
"Does Gemma know I'm here?"
"No."
"Well, why not?"
"Just never came up, I guess." Harry leans against the wall, arms crossed across his chest. He's got a bruise there now, from where Louis had jabbed at him a tad too rough. "You surprised that the world doesn't revolve around you, or what?"
Louis fish mouths. Seemingly out of nowhere, he grabs a beanie from his ruck sack and pulls it down over his ears. For the first time in forever, Harry actually thinks, fuck Shakespeare, fuck a 4.0, fuck studying. All he wants is to wrap him up in a Christmas blanket, cuddle him while they watch bad reality T.V., and munch on a Tupperware full of snicker-doodles. "I think we should just study down here, Harry."
"It's not like you haven't been in my bedroom before," he says. Because he wakes up every morning, and remembers the way Louis' small, lithe body had been there, centimeters away from his own. He remembers the way the pad of his fingers had felt against Harry's cheek, nimble and warm from the heat of the joint. He remembers that their lips, slack and anticipating, for the briefest of moments, touched. And he knows there was no true intent behind any it, no intent other than to get Harry high enough to forget his own name, but he wants there to be.
"I'd been drinking and wasn't in my right state of mind, by the way." Anxious hands curl into the wispy hairs at the nape of Louis' neck, threatening to knock the beanie clean off. "Whatever happened that night was inappropriate of me, and it won't happen again. Now, can we sit and get on with it?"
Harry takes one good look at the image laid out before him, and swears to himself he'll never forget it. He's never seen Louis like this before; frazzled, nervous, wondering what to do with his hands. There's no cigarette dangling from his lips, his jumper hides the doodle tattoos scattered across the lengths of his arms, and there's no denim jeans or leather jackets or combat boots. There's a simple boy sitting in his kitchen, waiting for him in his kitchen, and by the looks of it, he's taking this whole studying thing seriously.
Harry decides that this version of Louis is his all time favorite.
And just like that, they're having their first study session in the kitchen. Gemma peaks in to interrupt every half hour, and Louis won't stop nitpicking Harry about the mindless things that don't matter when analyzing Shakespeare, but it goes relatively smooth. By the end of it, Louis is less confused. Harry's just happy he's got to spend his fair share of time with him.
When they're finished, Louis packs his belongings, takes off his beanie, and gets up to leave. He's quieter than usual, jumpier than usual, and it's awfully strange, seeing him this way. "Thanks," he murmurs shyly. "For everything."
"That's what friends are for."
Louis freezes. Harry doesn't look up to confirm, but he's almost positive that he raises his eyebrows. "Harry Styles," he says, and those same tingles from the other day return in full force. "We are not friends."
"We're kind of friends."
"I hardly tolerate you," Louis grumbles, resuming his aimless pacing.
"You hardly tolerate me, but you still do." Harry walks him to the front door, opens it for him. Louis takes one small step out onto the front porch before turning to face Harry again. "So we're friends. Kind of."
Just then, it starts to sprinkle. Louis lifts the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, but doesn't seem too bothered by having to walk home in the slight downpour. He readjusts his backpack, tan, freckle spattered skin pebbling with rain droplets. His eyes look the bluest Harry's ever seen them. "The word you're looking for, is acquaintances."
Harry grins, lopsided and runny. Without a word, he holds out his hand for Louis to shake.
Louis side eyes the hand outstretched between them before making a strangled noise at the back of his throat. He pushes Harry further into the house, and the heel of his palm presses into the same spot he'd left an ugly, blossoming bruise, but he's grinning too.
"Moron," he mutters. Harry, unperturbed, dusts off the imaginary debris from where Louis had shoved at him.
"You sure you're good to walk home? I could ask Gemma to give you a lift."
"You don't have to worry about me, grandma. I'll manage just fine."
"Okay. Well make sure you're studying the notes I made for you; I wrote a lot of useful information in the margins of Macbeth. And if you get a chance, I want you to read past and annotate the first two chapters of—"
Louis interrupts. "You're seriously assigning homework right now?"
Harry sighs. "Do you wanna pass Shakespearean Lit, or what?"
Louis doesn't respond. He walks, ultimately drenched by the time he reaches the street. Harry watches him go until he's the size of a speck.
When he's finally gone, Harry races up to his bedroom, where he encases himself in his sheets, and replays his favorite parts of the day at the back of his mind. It's a dangerous game, what he's gotten himself into, but Harry doesn't even care. How could he, after he's had such a good day after a plethora of bad ones?
He doesn't know. It doesn't matter. Perhaps it's another one of his hamartia's.