If You're For Real and Not Pretend (1/3)
Title: If You're For Real and Not Pretend
Pairing: Harry / Louis
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~21,000
Summary: In which Harry works in a bakery and Louis can't seem to find what he's looking for.
Harry is eighteen and he’s got his whole life ahead of him, but for now, life is nothing more than a tray of scones in the morning, a new sheet of cookies for the midday rush, and a bag full of muffins to take home at the end of the day. He takes classes on the weekdays, but truth be told, he’d rather be at the bakery where there’s so much else to learn (“What’s the difference between pastry flour and cake flour?” he asks one day). It’s a simple life but it’s been happy so far.
When he first sees Louis, it’s getting dark outside and it’s been a long day, so he wants to go home sooner rather than later. But that’s a downside of being a bakery that opens too early and closes too late: long days and long nights. But it’s hardly anything to complain about on most days.
It’s also been somewhat of a slow day, so he’s wiping crumbs off the counter and cleaning smudged fingerprints off the glass display case when the bell above the entryway jingles and sigh.
“Be right with you,” he says without looking up.
“Don’t mind me,” replies the voice, and it’s one that Harry thinks he’s heard before. “From the size of your selection, it might take me a while to choose anything.”
Harry dusts off his apron and looks up and - well, there’s a face he didn’t think he’d see again.
***
It’s like this.
Holmes Chapel is a cozy sort of village, one with empty streets and looming churches and lampposts that flicker at night. And for the longest while, all Harry knows of his humble little town is his quiet home and his small school.
He remembers the first few weeks of secondary school and being so lost without Gemma, who runs off to her group of friends every morning, giggling and squealing to high heaven about things he’ll most likely never understand. He comes home every night to his mum’s same encouragement and reassurance, telling him he’ll find his place and things will be better.
It takes a year before he meets Liam, and another one before he meets Zayn and Niall. Zayn is a year older, but he’s never really gotten along with his year, so he fits right in with their unlikely group.
He’s fifteen when he first notices Louis walking out of a classroom with his sister at the end of the day. They’re talking for all of a few seconds before he heads off in a different direction, blue eyes flashing quickly in Harry’s direction and then he’s gone.
They’re not friends or anything, she tells Harry, just classmates. There’s nothing more behind it, but it’s enough to make him wait for Gemma outside the classroom every afternoon, just to catch a glimpse of the older boy with the really nice smile and the even nicer eyes.
The last few months of term fly by too quickly, and by the time Harry thinks that yeah, maybe he’s got a crush on someone he’s never met or spoken to, Louis is done with sixth form and out of his life altogether.
***
When Louis finally approaches the counter, he doesn’t know that Harry’s been watching him the whole time. Perhaps it’s better that way. Less creepy, at any rate.
The boy drums his fingers against the countertop, eyeing the glass display case like something new might appear. And the whole time, Harry is holding his breath because this is the closest he’s ever been to the boy that only he knows about. Well, everyone knows who Louis is, but no one knows just how Harry thinks of him.
But it shouldn’t matter after all this time, anyway.
“Right,” Louis finally says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He’s pointing, too. “That croissant in the back…”
“Delicious,” Harry fills in for him. “And I’m not just saying that.”
Louis grins this time, nodding like he’s made the right choice. “Excellent. I’ll take that and some tea, if you have any.”
“Croissant and tea,” he repeats. “Alright.”
Louis hands him a few bank notes and Harry thinks he’ll disappear to the back of the empty bakery, but he actually chooses a stool at the bar and makes himself comfortable. He’s wearing a bulky overcoat and he’s got a small bag at his side and a guitar slung over his back, but he doesn’t set any of it down. Instead, he leans against the counter, eyes wandering and examining the place that Harry has memorized every nook and cranny of.
Minutes later, Harry sets a plate and a mug down in front of Louis. The croissant is golden and flaky, and the tea piping hot and sending swirls of steam into the air. The boy looks genuinely pleased, closing his eyes and breathing in contentedly.
“Mm,” he says, eyes still closed. “Thanks, mate.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Then he’s off to the kitchen, pretending like there’s something to do when in reality, he’s finished just about everything - alone, no less. But that’s the blessing and the curse of a slow day: by afternoon, everything’s done but there’s nothing left to do.
So he comes back out and sees Louis gingerly picking his croissant apart, sending buttery flakes onto the countertop that Harry just cleaned. But he can’t bring himself to be too bothered.
It’s actually dark outside by the time Louis finishes with his pastry, moving onto the tea that must have cooled down by now. He’s sipping at it carefully when his eyes flick upward to where Harry is propped up against the doorway.
“Long day?”
Harry coughs a bit, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. But he manages to reply with, “You wouldn’t believe.”
“Hmm,” Louis muses in a way that seems like he might understand. Instead of expanding, he draws another sip from his mug and brushes aside caramel fringe from his forehead. Harry’s limbs feel too long for his body.
It’s strange being one of the two only people in the bakery. Normally, he’d just leave them be and go along with the rest of his chores. But he almost feels compelled to make the most out of this slight situation.
“I know you, by the way,” Harry says before he can stop himself, and yeah, that might just be the stupidest segue ever. He can feel color rising to his cheeks and he wants to disappear into the back again, this time for good, when he sees Louis’ eyes widen in intrigue.
“You - know me?”
“I mean.” He clears his throat, stands a little straighter. “You’re Louis Tomlinson, right?”
Surprisingly, the older boy nods and owns up to the claim. He even chuckles a bit.
“Yeah. And you?”
“Harry Styles,” he answers without missing a beat.
“Ah,” Louis says. And it takes a moment before the look of understanding dawns on his face. “Styles. You’re Gemma’s younger brother.”
The statement isn’t false, and yet something about the way Louis says it makes Harry feel incredibly small. It’s like he can remember being fifteen all over again.
“Yeah, I am.”
“What’s she up to now?”
“Lives in Sheffield.”
“I was there the other day,” Louis says with a shrug. “Oh well. Still, it’s nice to see you, mate. Thanks for all of…this. Tea was excellent, and the croissant was even better.” He’s standing up and pushing the used dishes in Harry’s direction. “I’ve got to go, but really. Thanks.”
He smiles quickly and darts out the door before he can hear Harry’s ‘welcome.’
***
There’s still another hour left before he’s a free man. In that time, he mops the floors, puts away the leftovers, and scrubs the counters one last time out of good sense. All that’s left to do is take out the trash, but he always does that once he’s closed up; the trash bins are on his walk home anyway.
As he locks up, he thinks about how he’ll be back early tomorrow morning and it’s not a bad thought; it’s just a thought. He even wonders if Louis will stop by again now that he knows the place exists, but really, it’s more wishful thinking than anything else.
He makes sure to stop by the alleyway around the corner with the two trash bags before heading down the main road. It’s a narrow, secluded space, one that he’s escaped to whenever the kitchen gets a little too hot. And there’s a rusty fence back there that random children have fastened small locks to, and it’s quaint in a way that only someone from Holmes Chapel could ever really appreciate.
The alleyway is dimly lit and he’s about to head off after throwing away the garbage when he notices the silhouette of a huddled figure down by the fence and - well, that’s a guitar next to it.
He heads over quietly, like he’s stumbled onto something that he’s not meant to have seen, and he can’t quite shake the feeling that yeah, there’s a good chance that this is exactly what this is like. The lighting hasn’t improved any, but he can make out the mat of honey-colored hair sticking out from under the heavy overcoat turned into a makeshift blanket. His limbs are sticking out from underneath, his left arm splayed to the left and holding onto the guitar lazily, almost pointlessly.
He shouldn’t bother, shouldn’t intrude. But…
Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s kicking at the sole of the boy’s shoe.
“Louis?”
The boy’s head pops out from underneath the jacket instantly, his eyes frantically searching around him. But when they settle on Harry, there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of panic there.
“Harry.”
“Louis, what’re you - ?”
“I’m not homeless or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Louis says suddenly, sitting up straighter against the wall and letting the coat fall and crumple around his waist. “I just - it’s too late to take any buses or trains out of Holmes Chapel, and I didn’t have a place to stay for the night.”
“You didn’t have a place to stay for the night?”
“And it’s more a nap than anything else, really,” Louis says, drawing his guitar closer to his side. “I’ll be out of here early in the morning, so there’s no point in looking for a room or anything.”
Harry still doesn’t understand because he’s just found Louis sleeping in the alleyway behind the bakery.
“I don’t - I mean - don’t you live here? In Holmes Chapel, I mean?”
“Not anymore,” he says, his eyes fixated on his shoes. “Not since my mum and the girls moved to Durham after the divorce. I stayed for a bit, but I hate it there, so…”
“So?”
Louis looks up at him fiercely, and it makes Harry’s heart start a little.
“I’ve been focusing on my music and traveling from place to place, instead,” he says quickly and without blinking. “And I’ve got a couch to sleep on most places I go. I didn’t expect to get held up here, that’s all.”
“But you’re not - ?”
Louis rolls his eyes, but he seems slightly chuffed under Harry’s intense scrutiny.
“Not homeless,” he repeats. “No one to call on here, that’s all.” And it’s almost a little hard to believe, seeing as this is where he grew up. But then again, Harry can’t imagine he’d be sleeping on the streets if he had a choice.
“Oh,” is all he can really say.
“Sorry if I scared you or anything,” Louis says. “I didn’t think I’d be staying so close to the bakery, but this alleyway seemed as good as any.”
“I’ve got a bed, you know.”
Louis blinks.
Shit, that came out wrong.
“I mean,” Harry amends almost instantly. “Not a bed, necessarily, but my flat isn’t too far from here and I’ve got a couch that you’re welcome to stay on for the night.”
Louis looks like he might protest, but Harry cuts him off before he can.
“Better than sleeping here, at any rate.”
And the truth in the statement isn’t lost on Louis, who’s suddenly smiling and getting to his feet, wrapping the coat properly around himself.
“I don’t want you to think that I’m normally this easy to proposition, because normally, I’m not.” He’s smirking in earnest at Harry, and it makes him squirm somewhat. “But it is a little cold, and I’ve got my guitar to worry about so - yeah, thanks.”
He’s reaching out a hand and Harry’s not stupid, so he takes it in his own and shakes firmly.
“Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.”
***
Harry is in the kitchen preparing hot cocoa while Louis cleans up in the bathroom. He’s not sure how many mini marshmallows to put in the other boy’s drink, so he decides to play it safe and adds a handful of the pillowy sweets to the mug - the same amount in his own.
He sets the mugs down on the coffee table in the living room, unsure of etiquette.
When Louis pads out from the hallway, he’s wearing a ratty band shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms - both of which are too big and hang loosely on his body. He flashes a grin as he settles on the adjacent couch (already piled with more pillows and fleece blankets than any one person could need in a night), and Harry returns the gesture, albeit sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he says, frowning slightly. “My clothes are too big on you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis tells him with a wave of his hand. “You’re taller, that’s all. And it’s better than sleeping in clothes that haven’t been washed in two days. Is that for me?” He nods at one of the mugs.
“Yeah, yeah.” Harry hands one to him.
Louis grabs the mug and cups it with both hands, leaning in and inhaling deeply.
“And you’ve put in marshmallows,” he says, pleased. “A man after my own heart.”
Harry takes the small blossom of pride in his chest and tucks it aside, filing it away under ‘Things Louis Likes,’ just for good measure.
“So,” Louis says, and Harry ignores the light layer of froth on his upper lip. “Harry. How’d you manage a place on your own? Tired of living at mum’s?”
“The whole family moved to Sheffield and I didn’t want to. So I stayed here. Found a place on my own.”
“Hmm.” Louis’ brows scrunch together. “You wanted to stay in Holmes Chapel?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. That’s just - well, it’s a first, that’s all.” Louis smiles, eyes cast down into his mug. “Any particular reason why?”
“The bakery,” Harry says mindlessly and as soon as it’s out, he can hear how stupid he must sound - first for staying in Holmes Chapel at all, and second for staying behind because of a bloody bakery. “I mean - ”
“That’s great.” Louis cuts him off, eyes gleaming. “You’re doing what you want to do. I’m guessing you like it, then? Baking and all?”
He shifts in his seat. “Love it.”
Louis nods thoughtfully. “Funny that.”
“What is?”
“Guess that makes us like two peas in a pods, if you think about it,” Louis muses. “Family moves and we stay put. Following our dreams and all that.”
Harry laughs a little wildly and licks his lips of chocolate. “No, you’re following your dreams. You and your music…you’d rather sleep on the streets than - oh, sorry.”
He’s worried that maybe he’s offended Louis for some unknowable reason, but the other boy just laughs in return.
“That’s because I’m insane,” he offers, although his face is completely straight as he says it. “I’d sooner lose my left foot to frostbite than lose my guitar, I’m afraid.”
Harry shrugs. “If you’re insane, then I am, too.”
Louis cocks his head to the side. “How so?”
“Because I stayed in Holmes Chapel,” he says, enunciating carefully. “To bake cakes.”
He expects the other boy to reply with something quick and sharp; it’s barely been three hours since Louis walked into the bakery and Harry is already conditioned to expect as much. However, he just leans back and sizes Harry up properly, eyes wandering but intent with purpose. Then he shakes his head.
“Nah.” He sips some cocoa and resurfaces to follow up with, “That’s pretty admirable, if you ask me.”
They sit together in silence for a while afterwards, because it’s not like there’s not much else that can be said in a situation such as this. But it’s not laced with the awkwardness that Harry’s been bracing himself for all night. In fact, it’s almost natural - comfortable, actually - to just be there without conversation or a silly television program to serve as a distraction.
When Harry finally stands up, he thinks that Louis looks a little relieved, but he attributes it to the fact that he’s probably tired, that’s all, and he could really do with some sleep.
“Goodnight then,” he offers lowly after depositing the mugs in the sink and turning off the lights in the living room. “Don’t hesitate to, uh, you know, if you need anything.”
But Louis is already bundled up on the couch with his face turned away.
And Harry’s halfway down the hall when he hears Louis call after him.
“G’night, Harry.”
***
When he wakes up the next morning, the finds that the couch is empty with the blankets folded and stacked neatly beneath the pillows. On top of the pile is a note that reads:
Thanks for last night. Glad I ran into you xx
***
Harry is the kind to let things linger, to make things more meaningful than they ought to be. It’s not a particularly flattering trait, but it’s the way he’s wired.
So he holds onto the note and the memory of that night in the living room with Louis for a while after that, and it’s just about the only thing that gets him through another week of classes and routines away from the bakery.
He has schoolwork to focus on, assignments to complete and textbooks to read and exams to study for. He wishes that he could show the same amount of dedication as Liam when it comes to uni, or at least the same degree of ‘I really don’t give a fuck’ as Zayn, but he’s not really like either of them, so he’s caught somewhere in between wanting to do better and wanting to do nothing at all.
Maybe he’s more like Niall, who can’t bring himself to worry about more than one thing at a time. And in his case, he’s all about his music.
It kind of reminds him of Louis, which is why Harry chooses to tell Niall first.
“Hey, Nialler?”
The blond boy doesn’t look up from the couch, where he’s absently strumming his guitar and it’s nothing musically coherent but it’s still pretty to listen to. It’s become rather routine for Niall to come over after classes with his guitar, demanding that Harry order a pizza and hey, fetch him a beer while he’s at it.
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember Louis Tomlinson?”
That makes Niall look up, and it’s not like Harry ever explicitly said anything about Louis Tomlinson during their time in secondary school, but he remembers seeing the way his curly-haired friend would fawn after the older boy at the end of the day, and yeah, he remembers.
“Sure,” he goes with. “Why?”
“He came into the bakery the other day.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Niall scoffs. “Is that it? Is that the end of the story? You’ve got me on tenterhooks, really.”
“Twat,” Harry grumbles, reaching out with his foot and lazily kicking his mate from his seat, nearly knocking over several beer bottles in the process. “No, it’s just - he doesn’t live in Holmes Chapel anymore. Did you know that?”
“Not really, no.”
“Anyway, he was in the area for whatever reason, and he didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night, so - ”
“Oh, Harry.” And the way Niall says it is part concern, but mostly amusement. He’s staring over at Harry like he’s a wounded animal or something, but a wounded animal he’d rather laugh at than help.
“What?” he returns hotly.
“You let him stay the night, didn’t you?”
He’s not admitting to it, nor is he denying it, so Niall just nods and chuckles lowly.
“Oh, Harry,” he repeats, plucking at a few strings.
“He hasn’t got a home, or anything,” he says quickly, like it’ll help. “I mean, he does, but he’s not really staying with them. He’s…traveling, I suppose.”
“Traveling? Doing what?”
“Music,” he answers simply.
“Hmm.” He looks down at his guitar.
“What?” This time, he’s a little more nervous for Niall’s follow-up assessment.
But he shakes his head. “Nothing. Interesting, that’s all. Was the sex good, at least? Oh god, was it on this couch?”
Harry nearly tumbles off the couch, very certain that if he were drinking something, he’d be sputtering right about now. Instead, he just gapes at Niall mutely, who, in turn, is staring at him expectantly, completely unfazed by his little display.
“We didn’t - there wasn’t any sex.”
Niall blinks, clears his throat, and then blinks a few more times. But before Harry can even say anything, Niall sets his guitar on the couch and pads off to the kitchen, undoubtedly for another beer.
“You let him stay at your flat and you didn’t even get laid?” He laughs in disbelief from the fridge. “That was the most pointless story ever.”
***
It rains all day one Wednesday, and it also happens to be the one day of the school week that Harry finds himself working an evening shift at the bakery. It’s a little busier than it should be at this time of day, much less this time of week. But he has no choice other than to oblige each customer, and he’s more than a little thankful to have another person - a sixth form student named Rebecca - helping him in the kitchen.
He’s thinking about how he’s probably never sold this much tea on a Wednesday evening when the entryway bell rings again. And before he can even greet the new customer or call Rebecca to the front for some back-up, he looks up to find a pair of startling blue eyes gazing into his and -
“Louis?”
He looks, more or less, exactly how he did when he first walked into the bakery several weeks ago, wearing the same overcoat with the same bag and guitar slung across his body. His hair is wet and matted down with rainwater that’s running down his cheeks and pooling on the countertop, but Harry can’t think of reasons to care. Louis laughs and it rumbles throughout the room a little too comfortably for a sound that’s mostly foreign to this bakery.
“Sharp memory, Curly.”
Curly - okay.
“You’re back, then?”
Louis shrugs, shuffling his fingers against each other and peering into the glass display case on his right.
“Dunno. For a bit, maybe.”
Harry knows better than to press for further information, knows that asking anything else could sway Louis against wanting to stay for a little bit. Not that it would affect him, really, if Louis chose to do so. His life would - shouldn’t - change.
So he just says, “Brilliant.” Then asks, “You hungry?”
Louis grins.
“I could use some tea, actually.”
“Coming right up.”
When he glances around the emptying bakery for Louis, he finds him sitting in the back this time, hiding in a corner and pulling out a book. He doesn’t even look up when Harry approaches the edge of the table and sets the steaming cup of tea down.
He looks down at the book in Louis’ hands, tattered and dog-eared in some places. Upon closer inspection, he sees it’s not so much a book for reading as it is a notebook, one covered in indecipherable chicken scratch.
“What’s that?”
Louis pulls out a pencil and scrawls something quick, something Harry can’t read.
“For lyrics,” he explains simply. He looks over at the tea. “Thanks.”
Harry glances back at the counter, relieved to find that there’s no pressing need for him to return to his post. So rather than waiting for an explicit invitation (this is his bakery, after all - if only technically), he just sits down in the chair opposite Louis.
He folds one leg over he other and watches Louis carefully, watching to see what he might do. But he doesn’t really say anything; he sips tea and goes back to writing.
“Can I hear some?” Harry finally asks, curiosity getting the best of him. He thinks that maybe he’s crossed some sort of boundary, but - well, he let Louis stay overnight at his flat.
Louis peers over at him, eyes somewhat widened in surprise.
“Hmm.” He licks his lips. “Afraid not, sorry. It’s nothing personal, it’s just - I don’t really share, you know? Not yet, anyway. At any rate, it’s shit.”
Harry looks down to his lap so that his disappointment doesn’t show.
“It’s probably not,” he mumbles.
But Louis only laughs, and really, is that his solution for everything?
“Listen, what’re you doing after this?”
Harry blinks. “This as in…work?”
“Yeah.”
“I dunno. Home, probably.”
“Great,” he says rather genuinely. “I couldn’t help but notice during my last visit that you’ve got a record player, and as it so happens, I stumbled upon a vinyl copy of Helplessness Blues. I know, I’m like, a year late, but still - do you listen to Fleet Foxes?”
Harry isn’t quite sure of the implication behind Louis’ question because, yeah, he’s got a record player, and no, he’s never listened to them, but Louis looks really excited, like this is some secret he’s been dying to share with someone. But he isn’t about to lie and make a (further) fool of himself, so he just shakes his head shamefully.
“No. No, can’t say I do.”
Louis thinks about that for a minute, then smiles anyway.
“No matter. They're American, but I’ll make you love them. I can already tell,” he says slowly, leaning over the table and whispering. “You’ll love them.”
Harry swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat and he hopes that Louis doesn’t see.
“Yeah, okay.”
And then Rebecca is screeching at him from behind, something about a plastic bin left in the oven or something, and he’s out of the chair, glancing over his shoulder to see Louis writing in his notebook, lost in his own world.
***
( Part Two)