If You're For Real and Not Pretend (2/3)
Parts: 1
“You like Salinger?”
But Harry is walking out of the kitchen with two beers in hand, so he doesn’t hear.
“What?”
Louis pulls the yellowing book from the dusty bookcase and holds it up.
“Salinger?”
“Oh,” Harry says, feeling inexplicably exposed. He sits down on the couch and sets the beers on the coffee table - using coasters, of course. “Yeah, sort of. I’m more of a Nine Stories fellow than a Catcher in the Rye one, though.”
Louis blinks in mild surprise before shelving the book back in its proper place. He collapses on the sofa next to Harry’s and grabs one of the proffered beers.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type,” he says in a way that should sound condescending, but somehow, it’s almost admiring coming from Louis. “Same here about Nine Stories, though. I love ‘For Esmé - with Love and Squalor’ in particular.”
“Really?” Harry sips from his bottle. “Why that one?”
Louis looks at him like he isn’t expecting the question. And in a glorious sort of alarming kind of way, he stares at Harry with a potent energy, almost like he might be seeing him for the first time. It’s rather unnerving, if Harry is being completely honest, because he hadn’t expected his simple question to elicit this sort of reaction. He feels like he’s staring into the sun - or maybe vice versa - with no chance of turning away.
After a moment or two, Louis finally breaks contact and leans back, resting his head against the back of the couch and rubbing his temple with a free hand.
“It’s romantic,” he says finally, voice soft and contemplative. “But not in the way you’d think.”
Harry decides to press more. “You like romance then?”
Louis laughs. “Truthfully? No, not really. Never really had time for romance.”
There’s a strange sinking feeling somewhere inside Harry that he can’t quite pin to anything.
“But - then why that one? Why bother if it’s romantic?”
This time, Louis doesn’t have to think much. Instead, he shoots forward and he’s bent over, and though he isn’t particularly close, Harry still feels like he has to back away or something.
“Because it’s life-affirming, I suppose.” His eyes kind of glaze over, and if he’d had more than just one beer, then Harry would have attributed it to drunkenness - or a buzz, at least. But there’s also something like clarity behind those blue orbs. “He’s off at war - gone for years. And here’s this girl and - well, with one letter, she manages to keep him tethered to reality while giving him hope at the same time.”
“So?” He’s genuinely curious by now.
“So,” Louis replies with a hysteric sort of laugh. “It’s not love in the sense that they fall in love with each other. It’s love in the sense that she reminds him that life is worth living, in spite of all the shit that comes with it. He’s adrift and…well, she brings him back. And it’s beautiful.”
Louis looks genuinely exhausted after his explanation, and he falls against the back of the sofa again, nursing his beer in earnest.
All the while, Harry is just looking at him, and yeah, Nine Stories is one of his favorite works of fiction but no, he’s never really thought about it like that. Suddenly, he feels like a fraud in Louis’ company, pretending to enjoy things that he really has no business enjoying - not when he can’t find beauty in things quite like Louis can. It’s not entirely overwhelming, this sense of inadequacy, but he still feels like maybe he’s not the person that should be here sitting with Louis right now.
Louis might be able to tell - no, he can definitely tell, because he shoots up from where he’s sitting and moves to position himself next to Harry. He wraps an uninhibited arm around the younger boy’s shoulder and pulls him in close, closer than they’ve really ever been, and Harry can smell something like apples and - huh, that’s not what he was expecting.
“You’re such an intriguing person,” Louis whispers, patting Harry’s shoulder simultaneously.
“Thanks?”
“You’re very welcome.”
Harry feels like maybe he should pull away, even though he’s not the one responsible for putting them in this position. But still, it feels more intimate than he should be comfortable with and he can’t help but look at the clock and wonder when - or if - Louis plans on leaving tonight. He doesn’t know if the older boy’s circumstances have changed, or what brought him back to Holmes Chapel to begin with if he didn’t plan on staying that first time around.
But before he can move away or even express any of the thoughts circulating in his head, Louis lets go first, only to give Harry a very serious sort of expression.
“Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you smoke?”
And yeah, that’s the furthest question he could have expected.
“Weed, I mean,” Louis expands, as though it needs clarification.
“No,” Harry says, and immediately, he thinks he should’ve said something else because now, maybe he’s ruined something.
But Louis seems unfazed. “Have you ever?”
And honesty is supposedly the best policy even though it feels like the stupidest one at the moment.
“No.”
“Would you like to?”
And before Harry really knows what’s going on, they’re outside under a cloak of darkness and stinking up his patio. He’s sure that his neighbors can smell everything, and yeah, they can probably hear him giggling madly because he’s always a laughing mess when he gets drunk and who’s to say that the same thing doesn’t happen when he gets high?
He realizes that he actually lied to Louis earlier and that he has smoked before, but it was such a failure the first and only time it happened and it ended with him accompanying Niall to some dingy burger joint on the outskirts of town, so it wasn’t unreasonable to swear off the whole thing altogether. But something about being here with Louis, who repacks the bowl dutifully and wields the lighter effortlessly (he lights the bowl for Harry because they’re both sure he’d burn himself if he tried it himself), makes it enough of a redemptive experience that he wouldn’t mind trying it again down the road.
That is, if Louis is around long enough for another time.
So he’s high and his head is fuzzy and his mouth feels (and tastes) like sandpaper and there’s a tingling sensation creeping up his legs but the only thing he can do is bend over and rest his forehead against the small table that still takes up the most space in his tiny patio. He can feel Louis watching him amusedly, eyes wide and bloodshot, but he’s not really in the mindset to do anything. Instead, he can feel imminent hunger, and he laments the fact that he has class in the morning.
“This was the worst idea,” Harry says, breathless and already too far gone to sound like he’s really complaining.
But Louis seems well in control of his own faculties and he only shrugs, smirking slightly.
“You could’ve said no.”
Harry wants to say that, no, he couldn’t have, because saying no to Louis - though he’s never done it - seems impossible. So he slumps forward onto the table again.
“Heya, Harry?”
“Mm.”
“Curly,” he says, a little sterner this time. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’d like to make eye contact with you when you answer…just to make sure you mean it, okay?”
His head feels heavy when he lifts it, but it feels like it could fly off once it’s upright. He grins stupidly in Louis’ direction.
“Go for it.”
Louis licks his lips.
“Can I stay here again tonight?”
Harry laughs wickedly and it sounds wrong, even when it’s coming out of his mouth. But he feels like he could jump off buildings and he’s - no, Harry, that’s LSD.
“I thought you already were,” he offers.
And Louis laughs with him.
***
When he comes to the next morning, mouth feeling like he’s swallowed a cat, he smells ham.
This time, Louis is there when he wakes up, frying breakfast in the kitchen like he belongs there and grinning in Harry’s direction.
***
And Louis stays for a week. Harry worries about him while he’s off at work or classes - not because he thinks the boy will steal anything from his flat or whatever, but because he doesn’t know how to keep Louis occupied when he’s gone.
Then again, he reminds himself, Louis is the type to flit off and spend days - no, weeks or longer - on his own, so it shouldn’t be that much of a concern.
Still, for that week, Harry grows accustomed to returning to the flat with a bag of leftover pastries - the first few days, he brings cookies, and for the days after that, it alternates between scones and tarts - and finding Louis perched somewhere on the patio, smoking a bowl or strumming his guitar or both.
Liam, Zayn and Niall call several times during the week - especially Niall, who wants to come over and have Harry listen to this new song he’s written. But he doesn’t feel like letting them in on his private party (it’s not a party, but it feels like one) so he makes up an excuse about the flu or a stomach virus and he’ll see them when he feels better. Louis hears him each time, catches each lie, but he doesn’t ask any questions.
Harry thinks about asking Louis if he has anywhere to be, if he should call his mum or something and let her know where he is because that’s the kind of thing his mum would want to know. Then again, Louis doesn’t seem like the type to keep such courtesies at the fore of his mind, so he refrains. But that doesn’t keep him from wondering what someone like Louis - someone without any uni or work obligations - might do in their spare time.
Soon enough, Harry is dying to figure out when Louis plans on leaving again. It’s the worst kind of suspense, to turn the lock to his flat every evening, unsure of who he might - or might not - find behind the door. But for those seven days, he sees Louis, and for each of those seven days, he can feel the tension building and he has to ball his hands into fists to remind himself that this is a weird arrangement - no, not even an arrangement at all, just some strange happenstance, and he has no business getting attached or expecting anything.
One night, he hears Louis singing on the patio while he’s drying himself off in the bathroom after a shower. He takes his time patting himself down, pressed against the door and listening intently. He can’t make out any of the lyrics, but yeah, Louis’ voice is nice from what he can tell, and it’s almost like a lullaby with the way it matches the gentle chords coming off his guitar.
As expected, Louis stops playing when he hears Harry open the door, and there’s mild disappointment in the way the music stops. When he comes out, he finds Louis reading a book, of all things, one from his collection. He looks up at Harry like he’s been doing this the whole time and just smiles before going back to his reading.
Harry sits there in the silence, kind of in awe that this has been his life for a week.
He can’t bring himself to be too surprised when he wakes up the next morning and finds the guitar gone and the flat empty.
There’s no note this time but, hey, you can’t always get what you want.
***
A week and a half later, the boys show up at the bakery. He’s put off hanging out with them long enough, and last week was no exception, not when exams piled up on top of each other. They’re not really cornering him because, well, he’s at work, but it’s not busy so they’re forcing him to sit down and have at least one pastry with them.
“Danielle had a pregnancy scare,” Niall announces proudly, and Liam actually spits out some of his tea.
“What - no, Niall, what are you saying?” There’s no truth behind the statement, but Liam’s face is beet red anyway, because, well, sex. “No, she didn’t.”
Zayn smirks across the table and Harry watches the exchange with increasing amusement and curiosity.
Niall shrugs, taking a bite from his custard tart and ignoring the vehement glare Liam is throwing his way.
“Okay, she didn’t,” he admits easily. “But Hazza’s been out of the loop for a while and I wanted to make him feel like he missed something.”
Harry snorts and Liam frowns.
“So you threw my girlfriend under the bus?”
Niall shrugs again because there’s nothing Liam could say to make the Irish boy apologize, much less care.
“So, Harry,” Liam says, pointedly changing the subject. “Niall’s right. Where’ve you been?”
Harry breaks off a corner of his scone.
“School. Work.” He ignores the way Zayn’s dark eyes seem to doubt him.
But Liam is looking at him like he’s another problem to contend with. The concern and skepticism is palpable.
“That’s never been a problem before,” he points out gently.
“Something came up,” he goes with, and it’s unmistakable how Niall’s head suddenly shoots up from his side of the table and turns in Harry’s direction. It’s getting hot under his collar.
“Something came up?” Liam repeats.
Niall scoffs. “More like someone.”
That’s enough to make Zayn audibly interested, grinning like he’s ready to take the piss.
“Someone?”
Harry wants to throw something at Niall’s head, anything to smack the smug smile off his face. Zayn’s smirk comes at a close second, and Liam’s eyebrows are perked upward, undeniably intrigued. He loves his boys, but really, they shouldn’t meddle where they’re not welcome.
“No, not someone,” Harry deflects. “I’ve just been busy, that’s all. And sick. I told you all this.”
No one seems prepared to accept his answer, but he shoots them all a warning glance that he rarely ever takes advantage of, so they keep any lingering questions at bay. But that doesn’t keep Zayn from smirking, Liam from frowning, and Niall from shaking his head, arguably struggling to stifle a knowing laugh.
“We’ll find out eventually,” Niall promises, and it’s followed by a chorus of ‘yeah’ and ‘yes’ from the other boys.
Harry groans.
***
The third time that Louis shows up, it’s early evening and Harry is almost certain that they can be called friends. In fact, he’s certain enough that he voices this assumption.
“We’re friends, yeah?”
If Louis is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he sets his guitar against the wall and peels off his coat, tossing it on the couch with a surprising degree of familiarity. He cants his head to the side and gives Harry a peculiar sort of expression.
“Thought that would’ve been obvious by now, mate,” is what he eventually responds with.
Harry breathes easier after that, and he didn’t even realize he’d had trouble breathing in the first place. He grabs Louis a requisite beer from the fridge, not entirely surprised to find the older boy already splayed over the couch with his feet dangling off the edge. He stifles a chuckle because, really, it’s not that funny.
But because they’re friends, he takes it upon himself to sit on top of Louis’ knees, a smug smile spreading across his face.
“Ouch,” Louis complains. “You’re heavy, Haz.”
“Rude,” he replies, taking a swig from the bottle meant for the other boy.
“Hey,” he chastises before Harry hands him the beer. “By the way, I’m only here until tomorrow night. A mate of mine has a gig lined up for me a couple towns over. I don’t know where, but he’ll text me in the morning with details.”
“Oh.” He thinks he should be upset, but at least this time, he knows when to expect Louis’ departure, and something about that is redeeming enough.
“Mind if I leave behind a few records? I think I’ll be back soon enough that I won’t really miss them on the road.”
And - that’s new. There’s no explicit timeframe, but there’s that.
“Uh.” He clears his throat and jumps a little when Louis bends his knees upward. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Great. Mind fucking off then? Can’t really walk around when you’re sitting on me like this.”
“Oh - yeah, sorry.” He slides off, not entirely sure of what to think at the moment.
Louis slinks off to his rucksack over by his guitar, pulling out several vinyls that Harry can’t really glimpse from where he’s sitting, although he’s half-certain he sees something that looks like Of Monsters and Men and huh, he’s learning more about Louis’ music taste as the days go on.
So Louis is filing his records along with Harry’s own on their designated shelf when he laughs, low and rumbling. Harry snaps his head up, disconcerted.
“What?”
Louis turns around with the record that he’s pulled out from the rest of them and - oh, it’s Pet Sounds.
“The Beach Boys? Really?” The older boy is clearly amused as he inspects the distinctive cover art.
“So?” Harry manages in an even voice, though his cheeks are getting warmer.
“Nothing, I just - ”
“‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ is one of my favorite songs,” Harry is quick to defend. And for good measure, he adds, “Ever.”
Louis blinks, processing this new piece of information. If Harry is subtle about the way he stores away all things Louis-related, then Louis is just the opposite. He always gets this look on his face, like he’s constantly surprised every time Harry offers something about himself, like it’s a big deal that he has an affinity for cats or warm milk. These are things that everyone around him should know, and yet Louis takes it and analyzes it in a way that allows the rest of the world to see.
And it’s only mildly unsettling to realize that he’s responsible for the way that Louis’ face flickers through about a thousand different emotions in half a second.
“Okay,” he finally says, like he’s decided something. He shelves the record away. “It’s a good song.”
“Yeah,” Harry says resolutely. “It is.”
Louis slumps down next to him, and Harry can’t even remember when they’d gone from sitting on opposite couches to sharing the same one. These aren’t thoughts he’d be having if it were anybody else, but.
“So,” he says, kicking Harry’s foot playfully. “What were you doing before I interrupted your evening? Something exciting, I’m sure.”
Harry scowls, but ends up smiling anyway.
“I dunno. I’ve had this French film out from the uni library for half a month now and it’s due tomorrow, so I was going to watch it tonight.”
Louis groans. “A foreign film? A French film?”
Harry chuckles. “Why? Do you have something against the French?”
“Nothing that hasn’t been held against them before,” Louis muses, brandishing an arm dramatically. “Anyway, I hate foreign films. I like reading, but not when I’m watching a movie, yeah? And they’re never nearly as profound or meaningful as others make them out to be. Don’t you have a horror channel or something?”
Harry squirms. “Yeah, I do. But I hate horror films.”
Louis swats his arm, obviously in an attempt to chastise his life choices. “What? They’re gory, atrociously acted, and altogether just horrible cinema. They’re perfect!”
Harry shrugs. “I hate them for all those reasons. Besides, I’m not nearly as lion-hearted as I might have led you to believe.”
“Oh, Hazza.” Louis cards his fingers through Harry’s wavy locks and - that’s not something he expected to enjoy. But he almost hums into the older boy’s palm. “No worries. You haven’t led be to believe anything of the sort.”
“Utter twat,” Harry grumbles, tearing away from Louis and aiming for his stomach with a fist before it’s caught in mid-air and thrown to the side.
“Try harder next time, love.” Louis stands up, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ve got a plan then.”
Harry sighs. “Should I prepare myself mentally beforehand?”
The older boy frowns. “No - shut up. Since neither of us seems content to see reason - ”
“See reason? This is my flat, you know. I don’t have to see anything.”
Louis waves him away. “Regardless. What I was saying was - we can just watch half of each movie.”
“What?”
“Half of each movie. You can even choose the half of each that you’d like to watch.”
“What?”
“Honestly.” Louis shakes his head, though he’s smiling. “It’s called compromise. Heard of it, Curly?”
Harry scowls, but he’s well aware that arguing won’t exactly solve anything, so he acquiesces with a light nod and Louis is practically bouncing when he leaps onto the couch and sits himself next to the younger boy.
“Brilliant. Your film first, then. Get the boring stuff out of the way.”
He can’t think of anything else to say to that, so he fetches the remotes and turns on the film. Only five minutes into it, Louis is already feigning sleep, throwing in several loud, obnoxious snores for the hell of it. And it isn’t until Harry has to elbow him sharply in his side that he stops, but by then, he’s already ruined the mood (“What mood?” Louis asks. “The mood to watch a fucking foreign film,” Harry returns, but he’s not actually that upset) and neither of them can really concentrate.
So it’s with a giddy smile on his face (one that Harry wants to slap off) that Louis takes charge of the remotes and skims through several channels before he lands on the horror one, and he immediately turns off all the lights, sending Harry careening into his room before he pads back out with a pillow and a blanket - for comfort and not protection, he insists.
Still, they’re barely twenty minutes into some terrible movie called Shadow Puppets and Harry is burrowing his way under the sheets and into Louis’ chest. He’d be more self-conscious of his shamelessness if he weren’t more concerned about pissing himself in fear. It’s almost pathetic how easily terrified he gets - it doesn’t help that it’s dark, and he’s not the biggest fan of the dark - and he wishes he were at least strong-willed enough to keep from dragging Louis down with him.
But Louis doesn’t seem to mind. He inches closer - impossibly closer - to Harry, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and muttering something reassuring that ends up unheard when a loud clatter explodes from the television. He practically jumps and grips at the fabric of Louis’ shirt.
“Christ, Hazza,” Louis says disbelievingly.
But his grip on Harry’s shoulder is steady as ever.
***
When Louis leaves, he feels exactly how Harry thinks he will: disappointed if not a little numb, though he thinks he has no business feeling either of those things. It’s not like he falls into mild sadness whenever Liam, Niall, or Zayn leave his flat.
But there’s the comforting notion of having several of Louis’ records there, and it’s not really supposed to mean anything, but it’s just nice to have a little something left behind. He pulls one out on a whim the day after Louis leaves and pops it onto the record player. Within three days, he’s listened to all of them several times over, and he decides that LCD Soundsystem is his favorite.
At any rate, “I Can Change” plays on repeat in his head for the remainder of the week - on his walk from class to class, on the walk home, and when he pulls a tray of biscuits out of the oven at the bakery.
It’s later that weekend when there’s a knock on his door and he’s home for once, and not working at the bakery, which is great but not really at the same time, because he might actually miss it. Besides, it’s the only welcome distraction from the very apparent lack of - well, it doesn’t matter.
Still, he practically leaps from the couch to the front door in one stride, and he tries not to let any trace of disappointment show when he sees Niall standing on the other side.
“Hey, mate.” The blond boy doesn’t bother with any invitations; he makes his way in.
“Nialler,” he greets, shutting the door behind him.
“The boys and I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says, plopping down on the couch. And when he sees the shiftiness in Harry’s eyes, he’s quick to amend it. “Oh, don’t worry. I mean, Liam and Zayn are obviously heartbroken, but I’ve managed rather well without you, to be honest.”
“Arse,” Harry grumbles, kicking his friend lightly in his calf and sitting down next to him. “Sorry, I’ve been - ”
“Busy,” Niall finishes, rather knowingly. “Understandable.” Then after a beat, “Have you been seeing Louis, then?”
By now, he’s used to Niall’s brazen attitude regarding, well, just about anything. And there’s no point in pretending like he’s been doing otherwise, so he just nods.
“Nice. When’d you see him last?”
“About a week ago.”
Niall looks around the flat, his eyes sweeping every open space and corner for no discernible reason. They finally land on Louis’ vinyls, which have since been splayed on the coffee table ever since he made the subconscious decision to not listen to anything else.
“Those aren’t yours,” he comments obviously.
Harry swallows. “He let me borrow them.”
But Niall just offers that same grin that always seems to suggest he knows more than he lets on, and it makes Harry’s insides squirm because he should feel at ease talking to his best mate about things like this. But he doesn’t exactly know what ‘this’ is, nor does he quite know if Louis would be comfortable discussing it with outside parties - not that there’s a discussion to have, anyway.
“Okay,” he eventually says, though his eyes have wandered back to the incriminating vinyls. “Oh, don’t forget about my show.”
“Show?”
“The one over at the coffeehouse down the street?” Niall frowns. “You mean to tell me you’ve forgotten already?”
“Niall,” Harry says wearily, rubbing his eyes. “That’s a month away.”
“Still. I expect you to keep track of these things.” Then, after a few moments, “Bring Louis if you want.”
Harry almost says ‘okay,’ but bites his lip at the last moment. There’s no guarantee that Louis will be in town within a month, if he’ll even be in a thirty-mile radius. And it almost frightens him how easily his acquiescence almost came, how easy it is to include Louis in future plans. It’s particularly unnerving when he considers that Louis probably never figures Harry into his plans - not that he has plans to begin with.
He doesn’t even know if Louis plans his visits to Holmes Chapel - Harry’s flat, in particular - beforehand, or if he just ends up there because he needs a place to stay. The latter seems most likely and somehow, it makes Harry feel dispensable.
But Niall seems to catch onto his hesitation and just says, “Ah, yeah. If he’s around. Well, here’s hoping that he is.”
“Yeah, here’s hoping,” Harry mutters.
Niall shoots up and walks off to the kitchen.
“I’m getting the beers. The least you can do is order the fucking pizza.”
***
But Harry doesn’t have time to think about when or if Louis will even come back sometime in the future, because he’s there now, and now is all that matters.
There are shoes now where there shouldn’t be. It’s when he walks into the flat after a long night at the bakery and the lights are off in the living room and he knows that Louis is sleeping, so he doesn’t turn any of them on and he keeps as quiet as a church mouse. But that all goes to hell when he trips on a pair of boots - it’s never really occurred to him that Louis wears boots; he figures Louis must do a lot of walking whenever he’s gone - that aren’t normally in front of the door. He yelps and goes careening several feet before flopping on his stomach, jolting Louis awake and it only takes a fraction of a second for the older boy to piece together what’s happened and he’s laughing and Harry’s belly is sore, but he’s laughing, too. Louis says he won’t leave them there anymore, that he’s usually very careful about that, but they’re there the next morning and the morning after that and the morning after that.
Then there’s a toothbrush in the bathroom where there usually isn’t one. He’s never really seen Louis brush his teeth, but that’s because he locks the door whenever he goes to the loo and it’s almost as if he hides his bag of toiletries like he hides everything else about himself. But there’s one morning when Harry is running late for class and he sticks the toothbrush into his mouth and he’s halfway through his routine before he notices that the stick protruding from his mouth is orange and his - the one that’s still sitting in a cup by the sink - is blue.
Suddenly there are new pairs of socks in his sock drawer, ones that vary annoyingly in color - green, red, purple, several neon ones, as well - and stick out very distinctly from his garden variety white ones. And it’s only three days after that when he pulls out a few boxer briefs from under the pile and - okay, he moves his socks into his underwear drawer because really, it’s not that big a deal to spare one drawer for Louis. By the week’s end, the drawer is bursting with pants and shirts that Harry didn’t even know Louis could fit into that little rucksack of his, so he empties out another drawer to make room.
One time, while Louis is out on a coffee run (“How the fuck don’t you have coffee in our flat” and “I’ll be back, I promise,” and he even makes a big deal of leaving behind his guitar just to emphasize his point), he’s flipping through his DVD collection to find some Disney movie that’ll distract him from the day’s low test score and it takes him several minutes to realize that there are more discs in there than usual, some of which he’s never even heard and - fuck almighty, at least half of them are horror movies that he’s never heard of nor wants anything to do with. When he confronts Louis about it that evening over some Chinese takeout, Louis shrugs and says something about not wanting to scratch the discs in his bag. And okay, that makes sense.
And it’s been a month and Louis hasn’t shown any signs of leaving and that has nothing at all to do with the way that Harry sits up one Saturday morning, complaining about how his couch has been hurting his back. Louis just gives him a dismissive look, mentions how he’s been sleeping on that couch for weeks now and it’s never done anything to bother him, much less upset his back. Still, Harry argues, that couch is old and it’s a hand-me-down from the old house he had with his family and isn’t it time for something new - so he drags Louis (who spends most of the day rolling his eyes and scoffing) to the nearest furniture shop to help him pick out a new couch, one that has a pull-out bed.
“Why do you need a pull-out bed?” Louis huffs, obviously distressed from having to spend time away from the flat and his guitar and the lyrics that he’ll never let Harry hear. “You have your own bed in your own room, after all.”
“For guests,” he replies quickly, walking as far ahead of Louis as possible, but never far enough that he can’t turn around and grab the other boy if he decides to dart off. “The boys like to sleep over sometimes.”
Louis mentions that the boys never sleep over and that he hasn’t even met the boys, but Harry pretends like he can’t hear because he’s too busy listening to this salesman inform him about all the merits of this particular couch that’s more or less the same color of the one that he’s replacing and yes, he’ll take it, much to Louis’ chagrin.
When the deliverymen haul the couch into the living room the next morning and take away the old one when they leave, Louis glares at it like he hates it, like it’s something he can’t quite accept even though Harry will swear to the moon and back that this has nothing to do with Louis, but the way the old one started to get all stiff and lumpy.
But Louis is cautious and silent for the rest of the day and keeps to himself on the patio, humming some tune that Harry desperately wishes he could know the words to. By mid-afternoon, Harry decides he’s had enough of this, so he leaves without telling the boy and comes back with several rented horror movies and a week’s worth of sweets and junk food. When Louis looks up at him, Harry silences him with an expression that he hopes resembles resoluteness and not something silly like affection and directs him to the living room, where the pull-out bed is…well, pulled out, and draped in sheets and yeah, it looks like a real bed.
Harry plays one of the movies and Louis is more or less coming to terms with the new couch, and it only takes ten minutes before the first on-screen death and Louis is practically bouncing in excitement while Harry clutches off to the side, wrapped in his cocoon of blankets.
And once all the gummy bears have gone and half the licorice is depleted, they’ve started the third movie and Harry isn’t off to the side anymore, but wrapped in strong arms that smell like Louis, who’s trying his best to pay attention to the movie but it’s so hard when the new couch or bed or whatever you call it is so comfortable.
***
Time doesn’t really have meaning when one’s not paying attention to it, and Harry knows that’s not the best mentality for someone with dual obligations to university and the bakery, but who gives a fuck.
He’s climbing the stairs to his flat where Louis is waiting, and that’s what makes him breathless each time, and not because of the stairs. Miraculously enough, Louis has been around for longer than Harry could have ever dreamt of, though it’s something he’ll never express out loud because he thinks it might be equivalent to holding a glass from the top of a three-story building and letting it fall. But the fact that he can pretty much depend on seeing the older boy on his couch or on the patio each time he comes home is sort of a miracle in and of itself.
But when he gets to his floor, he’s more than a little surprised because he sees Louis, but he’s out in the hallway and not in the flat where he’s used to finding him.
He’s out in the hallway and he’s talking to Liam, Zayn, and Niall.
Harry nearly trips over himself on his sprint down the hall to the unlikely cluster of boys, all of whom turn upward just in time to catch the panicked expression on his face. Zayn and Niall share a smirk while Liam offers a genuine look of concern, like there’s real reason for him to be running right now. And Louis just beams.
“Met your mates,” he says cheerily. “Finally.”
Harry shoots his three friends an accusatory glare, and they seem unperturbed.
“We thought you’d be here,” Liam says softly, and he seems genuine enough. “But Louis opened the door instead.”
“Almost right away, too,” Niall cuts in, decidedly unapologetic. “Sometimes, Harry’ll be a prat about it and make us wait at the door until he feels like opening it.”
“Princess Harry, we call him,” Zayn offers, and they fall into a fit of chuckles.
Harry feels his cheeks flush with color because no, they don’t call him that, except for that one time but one time doesn’t warrant mentioning it in the first place. And his face must be getting redder because Louis is laughing, too, legitimately amused by the nickname. His laughter is light and bubbly and Harry wants to keel over.
“What’re you doing here anyway?” Harry grumbles, his feet shifting awkwardly.
Niall actually frowns at that one and Harry can’t fathom why.
“What?”
“My show,” Niall says exasperatedly. “You know, the one that I told you to keep track of? It’s tonight?”
“It’s tonight?”
“Yeah,” Louis interrupts before Niall can shout any one of the expletives threatening to burst from his mouth at the next second. “And the boys were nice enough to invite me.”
The boys.
Harry stares at them, mouth agape, and Liam and Zayn are nodding enthusiastically and yeah, it looks like they really want Louis to come.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want - ” Harry starts to tell Louis.
But Niall’s expression tempers out and instead, he’s giving Harry his best shit-eating grin.
“No, Louis has to come,” he says with a subtle arch of his brows. “At least he seems to care enough about my show to want to come.”
“He didn’t even know about it until today,” Harry mutters under his breath.
“No thanks to you, Curly.” Louis walks over to him and slings an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in for a one-armed embrace.
He notices the way his mates share knowing glances with each other out of the corner of his eye, but he can’t bring himself to say anything, not when it’s been two months and Louis is actually here.
***
It’s really just an unassuming coffeehouse with concrete floors and local artwork lining the walls of exposed brick. It’s only slightly bigger than the bakery but it’s nothing special, and when he says as much out loud, Louis nudges him in the side and calls his loyalty to the bakery ‘admirable,’ whatever that means.
They’re seated just in front of the small performance area set up toward the back of the building, which has since been cleared of its usual chairs and tables. It’s not decorated with much to set it apart from the rest of the room, save for a patterned rug and a stool and a microphone standing in front of it. There aren’t too many people here, but Niall tells them that it should fill up with the usual evening crowd just in time for his set. Then he disappears into the back room.
“This is kind of cool,” Louis whispers in Harry’s ear midway through the second act of the night.
Harry swallows some of his chai. “Really? You don’t think this is lame?”
“Nah, it’s nice. Never would’ve pegged Holmes Chapel as a breeding ground for things like this.” He shrugs. “Why, do you think it’s lame?”
There isn’t really a challenge in the way Louis asks him that, but he feels like it’s a test, nonetheless.
“No,” he replies truthfully as Liam shushes him for talking too loud.
Louis smiles at that and moves along the curve of the table so that he’s a little closer to Harry, causing their elbows bump against each other.
When it’s Niall’s turn, they’ve gone through four other performers altogether, yet somehow the coffeehouse is filled with more people than when they first arrived. Niall seems to really know this place like the back of his hand, and the idea is only further emphasized when there’s a light smatter of applause as he sits on the stool with his guitar. Several people in the crowd shout his name and he shoots them a familiar smile.
“Go Niall!” Louis’ cry of encouragement startles Harry and - well, it’s not like he, Liam or Zayn are catcalling, and that makes him feel a little like shit on the inside.
“Yeah, Niall!”
“You’ve got this, Nialler!” Liam and Zayn tack onto the end, and by then, Niall is blushing under the spotlight.
As Niall tunes his guitar a final time, Harry can’t help but look at Louis in the meantime. He wonders if this is what it’s always like for the other boy - surprising the people around him by making them want to become better versions of themselves. He wonders what it must be like to have that kind of impact on people.
But Louis is so immersed in Niall’s stage presence once he starts, and why wouldn’t he be? It occurs to him that this is the kind of thing Louis lives for, the kind of thing he must do whenever he’s out and about and not spending his time consoling Harry through horror movie after horror movie. As Niall strums the first chords to his opening song - one that he recognizes because it’s one of the first songs he ever played not just for Harry, but for anyone - Harry notices the mesmerized quality to Louis’ intense stare, and he senses something like yearning in the boy sitting next to him.
Niall’s voice is sweet; it always is. But it took a long time to be more than just sweet, took practice and refinement before he felt confident enough to play in front of crowds - before it became the smoothness that it was now. And Harry feels that pang of jealousy once more, the one he only ever feels when he sees his best mate doing whatever it takes to make his dreams come true.
Harry looks over again, and as he wonders what it would be like to see Louis onstage eventually, he thinks - yeah, it’d be nice to make his dreams come true, too.
***
“Excellent set, mate! Really, that was fucking amazing!”
Louis is clapping Niall on the back, and if Harry is surprised by the older boy’s sudden burst of affection, then the blond boy is even more so, turning an embarrassing shade of pink from the contact. Liam and Zayn stifle a chortle each, and Niall swats at them both with his free hand.
“Erm,” the Irish boy says, clearing his throat. “Thanks - I mean, really?”
But Louis is beaming, like there couldn’t be any other truth in the world, and the genuine emotion there is enough to unnerve Harry.
“Yeah, really,” he replies, sobering a little as the lights in the coffeehouse dim impossibly lower. “Trust me, I’ve seen a fair share of acts on the road and - shit, Niall, you’ve honestly got something going for you. Real talent. I’m a bit jealous, if I’m to be honest.”
And Niall is blushing even more and Harry thinks he might be joining him. Even if it’s not, it feels like a monumental occasion; he thinks that Niall probably hasn’t heard as earnest a compliment as Louis’, and he thinks that this is probably Louis’ first time giving one, too. He’s seen Louis get excited before - for tea, for a chance to shower before Harry, for a doughnut whenever he manages to bring one from the bakery - but this is a different kind of excitement, borne from some kind of untouchable passion.
“Wow,” Niall breathes disbelievingly. “We’ll - you’ll play guitar with me sometime, yeah? We have to now.”
Harry watches Louis for a reaction and expects him to blanche or frown or something of the sort. Instead, he knits his brows together before relaxing into warm smile.
“Definitely.”
And Niall is content enough with the promise (it’s more of a promise than Harry’s ever gotten from Louis, but he won’t think about that now) to turn around and set Liam and Zayn straight for whatever mocking comments they’ve been making under their breaths.
“Drinks, then?” Zayn shifts away from the other two boys and directs the question at Harry and Louis. “C’mon Lou, you’ll have to get pissed with us eventually.”
“I can’t drink,” Liam says as if by reflex, appearing at the mocha-skinned boy’s side. “But you can drink on my behalf. Nialler’s treating, after all.”
“Oi, no I’m not.” Niall looks like he might whack Liam across the head with his guitar, but thinks better of it at the last possible moment. “I’ve just played a show for free. I doubt I can afford to buy a pint for each of you, love you all though I might.”
Louis laughs comfortably, like this kind of banter is familiar to him, nevermind the fact that he’s only properly known them for all of an evening. They’re looking at him expectantly with a sort of eagerness to hang out that Harry’s never really seen before, and he can’t really blame them; the four of them are best mates, but it’s been forever since they added a new element to that dynamic.
“Honestly, I’m sort of tired. I had plans to lounge around on the couch - though I’m incredibly glad I didn’t!” he adds when Niall puts on a show of feigned offense. “But even a sip of beer might send me off completely, so I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check. Take Haz, though, and make sure to send me pictures when he’s completely gone.”
“You’re no fun. At least Harry’s fun when he’s drunk,” Zayn observes casually and Niall agrees from beside him.
Harry frowns and Louis nudges him in the back.
“Seriously, you’ll have loads of fun without me. Thanks so much for inviting me, though - ”
“I’m staying in with Louis,” and four pairs of eyes travel to where Harry is standing.
After several requisite whats and whys, he rolls his eyes and wishes that everything didn’t need an explanation with them.
“I’ll be fine, Haz,” Louis says reassuringly. “You’ve left me in the flat alone before, and I swear I won’t steal anything.”
“Nothing worth stealing in that dingy old flat anyway,” Liam quips, and it has the other boys barking with laughter.
“No, I’m tired, too,” Harry says, adding a yawn for emphasis. “It’s best.”
He thinks he might see a flash of something like disappointment in the other boy’s blue eyes, but he’s not sure.
***
“Is everything okay?”
Harry toes off his shoes and watches as Louis makes a beeline for the kitchen the moment they walk through the front door, only to emerge with furrowed brows and a beer in hand. The journey back to the flat was spent entirely in silence, other than the occasional cleared throat or sigh of exasperation from the older boy, who seemed mentally distracted even as he kicked a discarded soda can along the pavement.
Louis doesn’t look up from where he’s collapsed on the couch, gripping his bottle with two hands and resting his socked feet on the coffee table.
“Yeah.”
He probably shouldn’t assume that he understands Louis in any real capacity, but he just knows that the older boy is lying.
“You’re sulking,” he says. He resists the temptation to sit by Louis’ side and settles on the adjacent sofa instead.
“I am not sulking.”
“I thought you had a really good time,” he continues anyway. “You and the boys seemed to get along really well and it looked like you really enjoyed the music.”
Louis sips from his beer before replying with, “I’m fine, Harry.”
And it’s said in a way that’s meant to imply ‘back off’ or ‘leave me alone; I don’t want to talk about it,’ but Harry doesn’t think he could listen to any of those warnings when it comes to Louis. He’s too far-gone as it is.
“No you’re not.” So he stands up and actually sits next to Louis, who squirms from the sudden proximity and instinctively angles his body away and closer to the armrest. “You were happy and now you’re not.”
“Happy,” Louis says carefully, like he’s getting a real taste for the word. Then he scoffs.
“What is it?”
“Harry - ”
“Louis.” He hopes that his voice is steady and stern enough, but he’s shaking on the inside. “I know you think you’re opaque and unreadable and all that, but you’re rather obvious when something is bothering you.”
Louis opens his mouth like he might protest, but his shoulders slacken as though he’s given up and he brings a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He sighs for what must be the seventeenth time that night.
“I wish I could be like Niall.” The confession sounds exhausting coming from his mouth, and Harry waits for the rest of it with bated breath. “It’s all so natural for him. He doesn’t have to wander around, searching for a place or an audience to play his music. He just plays, and it’s like that’s all he needs, like he’s happy enough with that. I just - I wish I could be like Niall.”
Even if Harry wants to say something, even if he wants to tell him that Niall is a naturally happy person, even if he wants to tell him that he can finally stop searching - he doesn’t get the chance. Louis puts his bottle on the coffee table and stands up.
“I’m going to get ready for bed.” Then he pads off to the bathroom.
Harry takes it as his cue to drop the subject. Now he understands the look of disappointment from earlier; Louis wanted to be alone. But none of that matters at this point because Harry knows that when he wakes up, Louis won’t be here anymore.
***
( Part Three)