Niall’s pounding on the piano like it’s a drum. Even though he has those, too. He’s playing the most chaotic music on the planet, relentlessly, and he’s stoned and laughing at nothing in particular and, well. Louis might really kill him because he’s got another exam in a week and he needs to fucking study.
So he makes a decision that is based purely on logic and nothing else.
“I’m going to study at Harry’s,” Louis calls over the noise, and Niall’s glossed pink eyes smile.
“Cool,” he responds, and continues playing.
This boy. Wow.
Louis slings his bag over his shoulder, throwing one last glare in Niall’s direction. “I’ll be back later.”
“Tell your boyfriend I say—“
Louis slams the door shut.
Mind still on the events of yesterday—Louis telling Harry about his mum, Harry listening, Harry asking for his opinion, Harry calling him by his name in an unpretentious tone and actually saying ‘thank you’ which might have made the moon shine brighter—Louis takes off in the direction of Harry’s rooms.
And while he knows his tutoring session isn’t for about three or so more hours…he decides to just go for it. Because their time yesterday went well enough. So why wouldn’t today be the same?
Upon reaching Harry’s rooms, he quietly opens the door and prays there isn’t any rampant sex going on inside. He peers hesitantly into the living room and, nope, there’s not. It’s barren, save for the sheet music that still rests on the floors and the sheer, vast amount of everything that fills every nook and cranny.
He’s just about to head towards Harry’s bedroom, when there’s a knock at the door.
Did Harry lock himself out? Is it Niall? Did Louis forget something?
He opens the door cautiously, peering out and—oh. It’s some hipster.
Unimpressed, he opens the door fully, staring the boy up and down openly and judgmentally. He’s dressed immaculately disheveled and he’s beautiful and exotic, bred from all the money, and Louis tries not to snort when he notices an ‘anarchy’ tattoo painted on his wrist.
“Hey mate. I’m, uh, here to see Harold,” the boys says, a little unsure, almost as if he’s potentially unaware if he’s at the right door or not.
Lovely.
“He’s not here,” Louis says without ceremony, and shuts the door in the boy’s face before another word is said. And that felt good. With a proud smirk, he turns around, feeling accomplished.
And then the smirk falls straight off of his face because there’s Harry, standing right in front of him, watching the scene with a scowl.
Well, shit.
Did the boy see Harry there the whole time? Is he going to knock again because he knows Louis was lying?
“What was that about?” Harry demands, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s in the most casual clothes Louis has ever seen—inappropriately tight jeans and a black t-shirt that still manages to have buttons at the collar. He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept—or at least hasn’t slept peacefully—and Louis regards him with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.
“Er—“
“You had no right to send my guest away,” he says sharply. He’s staring at Louis like a hawk would his prey. Which then sparks the memory of Cleopatrick and, huh, fuck. Louis forgot about that. Harry really is a hot mess, isn’t he?
“I know,” Louis replies, crossing his own arms and shrugging unapologetically. “But I just did, didn’t I?”
Harry glares. “Tell him to come back.”
“I’m not your puppet.”
“Tell him.”
“I wouldn’t even if I wanted to. And do you know why?” Louis asks, eyes pinching into a glare as he takes a step towards Harry who glares harder in response. “Because all of those people are nothing but harpies. And you can do better than that, you great, sex-crazed, bumbling oaf. So, yes, I’m going to send them away every chance I get, and I’m not going to apologize for it, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise!” With that, Louis sniffs and turns away, feeling victorious and adamant. He resists the urge to stomp his foot.
Harry’s glare recedes. “What do you mean, I can do better than that?” he asks, and his tone is surprised and confused and caught off guard and all those other things that make Louis’ arms uncross and fall to his sides, his face turning to Harry’s.
“Just what I said,” he says gently, before his voice picks up its strength again and he flicks his hair out of his eyes. “Now. Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”
Harry ducks his head, shuffles a bit. “Why are you here?” he mumbles to the floor, and he’s hugging his stomach now, the light catching in the bags under his eyes.
“Because I need to study and Niall’s being a wanker. I liked it here yesterday. So. Will you take me?” Louis asks, and a smile plays at his lips.
Harry’s head snaps up before it falls back down, his feet pawing at the thick, Persian rug. “Well. I was just sort of getting ready for the day. I mean, I don’t have classes or anything, because I’ve already finished the coursework for all of them. Just, like, doing little things and looking over my song. So, I mean, yeah, that’s fine,” Harry rambles, and he’s fiddling with his watch.
Louis grins. Success.
“Splendid!” he says, and immediately makes a beeline for Harry’s bedroom. “Let’s go in here, yeah? It’s cozy. I like it,” he smiles, and settles down in his chair.
Harry follows behind him, eyes watchful but almost smiling? It’s a pleasant look, whatever it is, so Louis nuzzles deeper into the chair and smiles sleepily up at Harry.
“Have you finished your song?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Can I hear it?”
Harry turns, walks to the window, and stares out. “Yeah.” The sun catches in his skin, his hair, his troubled eyes. “In a bit though. Not right now, yeah?”
“Yeah. All right,” Louis says softly, and he watches the boy before him, bathed in golden light.
And then Louis begins to study and Harry begins to putter about, sifting through his papers, tapping out quick texts on his phone, and pulling worn books off of the shelf to read them, standing long and looking impossibly elegant—casual attire and all—framed in the window.
He literally looks like the embodiment of gold, the sun doing wonders to his body as it streams in through the windows behind him, and the book is so frail and so fragile in his creamy white hands, his fingernails perfectly groomed and soft in hue. His eyelashes glow in the light and the tip of his nose is pink and his lips are wonderfully crimson and—
Okay. Maybe textbooks aren’t the only thing Louis’ studying.
He pulls his gaze away.
“Do you get on with your father?” Harry suddenly asks in his deep, musical voice that sits somewhere on the floor, and it’s out of nowhere and he’s still holding that book in his hands which he’s apparently only pretending to read and it startles Louis completely.
“What?” he asks, taken aback, staring at Harry’s shimmering outline.
He doesn’t look up from the book. “I noticed you call him by his name. And you said he didn’t like you. Why?”
And these questions are so stark and so personal, but Louis finds that, beneath the shock, he really doesn’t mind. So he stares at Harry, shrugs, and plays with the spiral of his notebook.
“We just clash. He thinks I’m annoying and too loud. And immature.” He pauses, fiddles with his fringe. “But to be honest, I think the main reason he dislikes me is because I’m gay.”
Harry’s whole body reacts, seizes completely, but it’s so subtle and hard to catch that he doubts anybody but himself would have noticed such a thing. Which, yeah, maybe Louis really does need to get a hobby and stop obsessing over Harry. Maybe.
“You can’t help that,” Harry says quietly, never looking up.
“I know that. He doesn’t.”
“Have you tried to speak with him?”
And what are all these questions?
Louis jiggles his leg, taps his pen. “Sort of. But he’s not having it, trust me. But I really couldn’t give a fuck, so. Whatever.”
The bowed, curly head finally lifts from the page. “He’s your father.”
“He’s a bad person,” he replies simply, forcefully.
Harry goes back to looking at his book.
More silence.
Louis taps out a beat onto the armrest.
He sees Harry swallow. Then:
“Do you know who my father is?”
The question is asked so quietly and lightly, Louis momentarily thinks he may have envisioned it within. But, no, Harry’s most definitely said it, and he’s nibbling his lip, brows tugging together, staring unblinking at the same page.
Harry has never spoken about his father to Louis. Never. Not directly, anyway. And Louis knows this, Harry knows that Louis knows this, and everything feels important right now as Louis’ stomach clenches and he resists the urge to walk over to Harry, rip the book out of his hands, grab his shoulders, and find a little bit of reality in the shade.
Instead, he sits in his chair, clutching his pencil so tightly he fears he may snap it in half. “Yeah,” he replies truthfully.
Harry nods, mostly to himself. “I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of things.”
“Yeah,” Louis repeats.
Harry nibbles harder on his lips.
“I’m—“ he stops, blinks hard. He looks up from the book but stares only at the wall, eyes wide and glassy, with a touch of fear in the corners. “I’m not sure if he’s a bad person or not,” he admits quietly, whisper soft, and it’s said so fearfully and so confusedly, that Louis has to physically restrain himself from gathering the boy in his arms and embracing his demons away.
Because fuck. He’s staring at the broken, jagged bits of Harry right now. And it’s painful. It’s actually physically painful.
Louis says nothing, just stares and bites back his own prickling emotions. “How is he?” he dares to ask, opting for that instead of ‘where is he.’
But he imagines Harry’s reply would have been much the same:
“I don’t know.”
And Louis doesn’t know what that means—surely, surely he’s not still missing after all this time??—but he doesn’t like the feeling it gives him, or the weight it lays upon Harry, whose broad bones seem so, so brittle sometimes. He’s about to say more, say that Harry has a right to think his father’s a bad person, say that Des doesn’t deserve his loyalty, that he’s a better son than Louis is, but then Harry’s phone rings and he snatches it up immediately, eyes wide.
“Hello?” Harry’s face is hard.
And then it’s white.
“I’m on my way,” is all he says, before he’s stuffing the phone into his jeans and flying out of the bedroom.
“Wha—Harry!” Louis calls, pouncing out of his chair, and races after him.
He finds him stuffing his jacket on, sliding his feet into his boots, and his cheeks are pallid and hollow and his eyes are so, so wide and he looks like he’s been stunned, and as he fumbles to assemble himself, Louis just watches, arms limp at his sides.
“Who was that?” he asks as Harry taps out a number into his phone.
He ignores Louis, pressing it to his ear. “David? Pick me up at the school. Now.” And then the phone’s back in his pocket and he’s hurrying past Louis.
“Harry,” he tries again, and he trails behind him as he begins stuffing all of his sheet music into a bag. He watches his frenzied movements, at a loss. “Harry, what’s wrong? What are you doing?”
Still, he ignores Louis, and he’s not even sure if Harry truly hears him. But then the bag is packed and Harry grips it into his impossibly tight clutch, and he’s making to leave out the door when Louis steps in his path and grips his arm, his hand burning through the thick wool of Harry’s jacket. .
“Can you please just answer me?! I’m not fucking invisible, am I?” he almost shouts, and Harry’s eyes train on him, as if for the first time.
“I have to go, Louis.”
“I understand that, I know, I get it, okay? And I won’t press for details. But fuck’s sake, you’re flitting about like a fucking hummingbird and you look like you’ve just had a stroke and I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but can you at least tell me if you’re all right? Is everything all right?”
He takes in Louis’ expression, searching and slow, and there’s something settling within his irises that resembles understanding. Or is it guilt? Or pity? Or is it nothing at all?
“Everything’s all right,” he appeases Louis softly, who sighs in relief. “Better than all right, even.”
Louis’ eyebrows raise. “Yeah? Better?”
Harry nods. “Yeah,” he says softly.
And then it’s there. This split second where, with Louis’ hand still pressed into the crook of Harry’s elbow, Harry mirrors the touch, bringing his hand to brush softly against Louis’ arm. And it’s so fucking brief and subtle that it could be a damn accident or trick of the mind, but Louis feels it, felt it, and he feels a noticeable explosion in his ribcage as Harry begins to disengage himself and slip away.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he calls questioningly, as Harry’s just about out the door.
Harry looks back, his face remarkably more relaxed than it’s been in months, a small smile settled on his mouth. “Yeah,” he nods, and then he sends one last lingering look Louis’ way before he turns and leaves.