For A While (1/3)
Title: For A While
Pairing: Harry / Louis
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~17,000
Disclaimer: Completely untrue; completely fictional.
Summary: Leeds AU - Harry's in a boy band and he just wants the perfect everything, including the perfect Leeds weekend; he meets Louis.
There are 12 or so tents already propped up in the immediate area when Harry and the boys arrive only a few minutes past nine. It's not too bad, not for coming on Friday morning, and though Harry would have preferred if they'd gotten here Thursday, interviews and everything else celebrity-related pushed their arrival to today. No matter.
He can’t remember the last time he set up a tent, can’t remember his last real outdoor adventure that didn’t actually amount to anything more than a night in his stepfather’s bungalow. But he’s so hopped up on excitement and caffeine from an early morning energy drink that he’s willing to try it on his own, even if it means having a shoddy excuse for shelter later tonight.
He’s easily distracted, though - diverting his attention from the task at hand whenever girls walk by, pointing and simpering none too subtly. The fans are at the heart of everything, really, and Harry knows that. One Direction wouldn’t be One Direction without their support, so who can blame him for wanting to appreciate them appropriately?
Sometimes, he wonders if he’s the only one in the band who’s still as interested in this dynamic of their fame as he is. It’s not that the other boys aren’t thankful for their amazing year because, really, they are, it’s just - Liam’s got Danielle, Zayn’s got more X Factor contestants than he can handle, and Niall is just Niall so he’s just never an issue.
But Harry hasn’t gotten tired of the screaming crowds, of the groups of people stationed diligently outside hotels, his flat and even his family home (though Gemma’s not too fond of that, not if her tweets are anything to go by). He’s still infatuated with the simple notion of signing his autograph, so much so that he never goes outside without a Sharpie on hand, just in case the situation calls for it.
He thinks it might be because he’s the youngest, but he’s happy and on top of the world with his best mates and so, so happy to be living the life that boys like him don’t normally get to live that flirting shamelessly with a few girls (or boys, whatever he’s feeling) here or there shouldn’t really matter in the long run.
“Oi, keep it in your pants, Hazza!” Zayn snorts from where he’s setting up his and Niall’s tent, always prepared to take the piss when it comes to Harry. “Stop ogling!”
“Ha, ha,” Harry replies, feeling his cheeks flush when the girls laugh from overhearing. And once they’ve walked away, he adds, “I wasn’t ogling.”
Zayn rolls his eyes and returns to his tent - somehow already standing and looking sturdier than Harry’s could ever hope to be - while Liam and Niall look on sympathetically.
“Need some help?” Niall offers, walking over from the cooler of food while Liam finishes with the tent he and Danielle will be sharing once she arrives later this afternoon. “Zayn’s more than capable and you’re - you’re a mess.”
Harry should feel insulted, but he can’t bring himself to care when Niall is willingly taking the poles and tarp from his hands. So he grabs a cold beer from the icebox and steps out of Niall’s way long enough that his tent is standing up within ten minutes, even with Zayn squawking at the Irish boy for being a useless tent-mate.
“What’ll we be doing then?” Harry asks, more alive than someone running on a few hours of sleep has any right to be. “Grimmy and the others won’t be getting here until later…they have stuff to do.” He likes Nick, finds him really fun. Leeds will be fun.
Liam unfolds a chair and settles into it like he has aches when all he really did was drive up here. “Dunno. It’s early yet.”
“And it’ll be those weird bands first,” Zayn chimes in, dropping into a similar chair. Niall is unpacking the car, loading his guitar into their shared tent.
“Hey,” Harry says, folding his arms. “I like those weird bands. I’d like to go.”
Zayn shrugs. “That’s on you, mate. We could kick the football around while we wait?”
Harry quirks an eyebrow. “I might embarrass you again.”
But Zayn rises to Harry’s threat, standing up with fists on his hips and his mocha-colored skin somehow glinting in the sunlight. “Niall, get out here! You’re on my team! Liam, you’re on Harry’s.”
Liam groans, muttering something about having to make sure everything is set up properly before they start fooling around. But Harry smirks; he plans on being drunk within the hour and Liam or not, he plans on having Zayn and Niall suffer the full extent of his football prowess.
Within minutes, he’s swiping his leg and sending the ball flying into the gap between Zayn and Niall, yipping and gloating when they almost collide in an attempt to block. They glower but not very threateningly; they give as good as they get and aim for spaces between Harry and Liam, high-fiving when Harry nearly trips on himself to kick the ball back. Even Liam can’t help from laughing, not when doing so at Harry’s expense seems to be a favorite band pastime.
But Harry’s so high on the moment, so high on the fact that he’s here at Leeds with his boys and surrounded by people that know him or at least know of him that he wouldn’t mind if they laughed at him every day for the rest of his life. It’s not a big deal, not when life is this amazing.
He’s on his third beer and he’s going for the ball when he suddenly slams into another body that wasn’t there before.
“What the -?” He rubs at the blooming pain in his shoulder and for a moment, he wonders if he’s barreled into an innocent girl who just wanted a picture or something. But when he hears slurred laughter that’s decidedly male, he realizes he’s wrong.
“Tommo!”
Harry blinks and when his vision comes back into focus, he takes note of the kid standing - no, wobbling - in front of him and looking very much like he hadn’t even registered running into Harry in the first place. He’s wearing red jeans and a shirt with mysterious wet stains along the front. And it’s not even midday but he’s clearly very, very drunk.
“Lou-is!”
The kid - this must be Tommo, Harry thinks, or is it Louis? - spins in a half-circle toward the voice calling his name, which Harry assumes to be the very panicked boy emerging from the clearing with Harry’s ball tucked under his arm.
“Stan!” The drunken boy is grinning from ear to ear, his arms outstretched toward the sky. Then his arms drop as his brows constrict in concern. “This isn’t the stage, is it?”
“Christ, Lou, what the fuck?” The guy that must be Stan is finally looking over at Harry and his eyes widen in half apology, half amazement. “Shit, you’re-”
“Okay,” Harry graciously finishes for him. He looks over at Louis, who’s slinging an arm over Stan’s shoulder and breathing on his neck. “Is he okay, though?”
Stan shrugs Louis off, grimacing. Louis seems unimpressed, but beams at Harry when they make eye contact.
“He will be,” Stan says, none too pleased. “But no, you’re that guy. The one in the band. His sisters listen to you guys.” He points over at Louis.
Harry can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips, hopes that it doesn’t come off as smug as it feels. “Really? They here?”
Louis laughs and Stan only scoffs, saying, “They’re not old enough to be here, really. Listen.” He hands over the ball as he looks over Harry’s shoulder, where the rest of the boys are bound to be watching with curious eyes. “Sorry to have bothered you. And sorry for him. He’d say sorry himself, but he’ll sober up in a few hours yet.”
Harry gives Louis an appraising look. He’s objectively attractive, more so with his drunken glow and even with the sloppy, lilting grin plastered on his face. Louis is even looking back at Harry, albeit through the messy fringe falling haphazardly over his glassy eyes. The whole thing is enough of an entertaining distraction.
“‘S fine,” Harry says, turning back to Stan. “I’m not about to begrudge somebody a good time.”
Stan stares at Harry a little bit like he’s surprised. But then he’s smiling with gratitude and pulling Louis in close by the arm. The other boy definitely reeks of beer now that he’s standing closer, but he’s still smiling dopily at Harry and Harry definitely appreciates the attention.
“Well, cheers,” Stan says, offering a salute. “We’ll be off now, before I do something stupid like ask for your autograph.”
And before Harry can even dig into his pocket for the Sharpie that’s probably there, Stan is dragging Louis back to the crowd of people setting up camp across the way. Before Harry turns away, he catches a glimpse of Louis waving at him.
"Bye, bye!" Louis calls out, grunting when Stan smacks him across the head.
Yeah, Harry really loves his life.
“Everything okay?” Niall asks, crowding Harry’s side.
Harry nods. “Definitely. Let’s get drunk, shall we?”
***
Harry’s never really been in a relationship, not one that really counts, anyway.
Friends from back home always tease him, always tell him that he can pretty much get with anyone now that he’s “remotely interesting,” as they put it. And that might hold true for someone like Zayn, but it’s never really been a thing for Harry.
He likes people - loves them, really, especially new people. They’re bright, shiny, and fascinating, like everything else about his life lately.
But when it comes to romance or whatever else one might call all of that, Harry’s relatively more conservative.
He thinks that maybe he’s just perpetually stunted at 16-years-old, but he can’t find it in himself to ever really do anything without any type of commitment. He’s had sex, sure, but that was before The X Factor and only a couple times with a girl he thought he’d loved, maybe. But that didn’t come out to much and since then, there’ve been hand jobs and blowjobs here and there, but nothing more. No real attachment, at least.
It’s that same kind of old-fashioned thinking that has Harry just the slightest bit mournful at Leeds.
He tried explaining it to the boys once, back when they asked why he didn’t want to go to fest with Gemma the year before. But he’s never really been able to articulate the meaning, the significance he’s assigned a music festival that really should, for all intents and purposes, be very insignificant.
But…
Harry loves music. Loves it so much that it drew him out of that bakery in Holmes Chapel and into that long queue for X Factor auditions. Loves it so much that he can appreciate the pop-driven, radio-friendly fare that he’s built a career on and still sing the obscure songs from freaky bands that almost know one else knows about.
He’s always wanted to come to Leeds with someone that could love those bands with him, someone that knew the lyrics the same way he did, someone he could hold from behind during one of his favorite songs. That was why, as nice as it was for Gemma to invite him, he just couldn’t. Not with his sister.
It’s not like anything has changed this year, but the boys had really wanted to go and it didn’t make sense for them to go without him. And because he didn’t want to be the reason that they didn’t go (because, really, that would have been so stupid), he gave in and tucked that sort of wishful thinking aside.
Now that they’re walking around the area, going from band to band, Harry can kind of see the silliness in his grand plan; with his luck, he wouldn’t have gone until his mid-20’s or later. At least now, he’s with his brothers.
That’s just about as good.
It’s late afternoon when they’re walking back from some band he can’t remember the name of but he really liked anyway (“I didn’t like them, I don’t think,” Zayn had said, to which Harry sighed, “Well, what’s new?”). They only get stopped three or four times on the way back by some fans, and Harry makes sure to smile his brightest for the pictures they take.
It’s half-heartedly spitting rain and the first thing he wants to do when he gets back is slip out of his wet socks and into a pair of boots, maybe even a jacket. His stomach grumbles a little, and he looks around for somewhere nearby to get food. Their group has expanded to include Danielle, who’s trailing behind with her arm looped around Liam’s.
Harry definitely doesn’t feel the slightest pang of jealousy when he sees how happy they are.
So he slings his arm around Niall’s neck, wondering in the back of his mind why he isn’t completely wasted yet.
“Hey, Nialler.”
Niall steps in time with Harry. “Alright, Hazza?”
“You’d date me, wouldn’t you?”
Niall snorts and Zayn frowns, overhearing. “Not interested in me, then?”
Harry gives this a moment of consideration, glancing over at the other boy. “Nah, your hair’s too tall.” Then he sticks out his tongue, just for good measure.
“Twat,” Zayn mutters, but he’s smiling.
He turns his attention back to Niall. “What do you say, Nialler? I can cook, and you love food.”
Niall’s eyes twinkle at the mere prospect of food. “True. I’d date you regardless, though. You’re bloody adorable, you bastard.” He plants a messy open-mouthed kiss on Harry’s cheek, making him squirm and crow out in surprise.
“And my music taste isn’t, like, freaky, or anything,” he asks a little quieter once they’ve walked around a little more. “Is it?”
“Nah, Haz. You’re perfect.”
Harry nods, dropping his arm from around Niall and not missing the tone in the other boy’s voice that seems to say what’s the matter with you, we’re at Leeds, be happy. Even after having spent virtually every day of the past year with these boys, he’s still surprised by how finely attuned they are to his thoughts, his emotions. It’s mostly amazing, if not disconcerting sometimes.
He fiddles with the bracelets around his wrist, the Leeds one in particular, and swipes his fingers at the sweaty dampness beneath the bands. Niall’s right; mostly everything about this weekend is perfect, so why sully it with melodramatic thoughts of eluded romance?
He spares a brief moment of consideration for the otherwise cooling weather when he hears Zayn oomph from behind him, followed by a resounding “What the fuck?”
When Harry wheels around, he sees Zayn in fighting stance with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He’s glowering at another guy - he’s around their age, from the looks of it, maybe a year or two older - who’s got his arm wrapped around a girl half his size. Liam is stepping between them, obviously trying to keep some distance.
“Oi, what’s going on here?” Niall marches up to Zayn’s side, defensively.
“He slammed into me,” Zayn spits, and it’s obvious from the otherwise empty space around them that it was deliberate. “What the fuck?”
“Zayn - ” Liam tries, his eyes flicking between the two of them before darting to Danielle, who’s standing off worriedly to the side.
“You’re that fucking fag band,” the other guy sneers. And while his girlfriend giggles, Harry feels his stomach drop. “Aren’t you? You fucking are!”
He’s obviously drunk and he’s looking at all of them with a challenge in his eyes, and Harry wonders how something so similar could have happened this morning with such a different outcome. He wants to involve himself, wants to help Zayn defend the rest of the boys, but he’s rooted to the spot.
“Shut the fuck up,” Zayn warns, and Harry wonders how much Zayn has had to drink just as he notices the veins pop in his right arm.
“You’re shit. They’re shit, aren’t they?” the drunken guy says, turning to his girlfriend for confirmation but she’s too pissed to even agree. He laughs.
“Thanks for the opinion,” Liam responds coolly before turning to Zayn, pleading with his eyes. “Zayn, c’mon, please, it’s so not worth it - ”
“What are you even doing here?” the guy continues over Liam’s voice, causing Niall’s ears to turn a violent shade of red. “Shouldn’t you be blowing Simon Cowell’s dick or something - ”
Harry sees it before it’s about to happen, and somehow, it’s the only thing that can thaw him from where he’s been standing frozen. He rushes over and catches Zayn’s fist before it collides with the other guy’s face. Zayn is visibly surprised by the interference, but his would-be victim is unfazed.
“Go away and leave us alone.” Harry wants to be more intimidating than how he must sound. “Now.”
The other guy stares before breaking out into a smug grin, and Harry wants nothing more than to hit it off his face.
“I’m out of here.” And after pulling on his girlfriend’s arm, they disappear into a passing knot of people.
They’re silent for a time and all Harry can pay attention to is the heat in his face and the sound of a band playing somewhere in the distance. Liam is unreadable when Danielle tucks into his side, and Niall is blinking like he’s not all there. But Zayn is staring at Harry, and Harry can feel the intensity of it cutting into his skin.
“What?” he asks finally. He winces; they shouldn’t turn on each other.
“What the hell, Harry?” Zayn is - he doesn’t seem as angry anymore, but he’s riding on some residual rage, and he’s looking over expectantly.
Harry doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to face what just happened. He ignores the way the others are looking at him, too.
“He - it wasn’t worth it.” Harry huffs a sigh. “It would’ve leaked and…” And I just want to have a good time, he wants to add, but it sounds stupid even in his head.
“And?”
Niall tugs on Zayn’s sleeve like he wants him to stop, but Zayn shrugs him off.
“And it wasn’t worth it,” Harry repeats. He can’t explain himself quite articulately, but he didn’t want this, didn’t want the high to end.
“He deserved it,” Zayn says, unimpressed.
“I’m not saying he didn’t.” Harry sighs again, exasperated. “Can’t we just forget it?”
"Fucking hell." Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut tightly. "Everything doesn't - just because you have girls throwing themselves at you all the fucking time doesn't change the fact that there are some assholes out there, and you can't fucking keep ignoring them just because you want everything to be perfect all the goddamn time."
Harry's stomach flip-flops pathetically. "Zayn - "
"You want everything to go your way all the time and you're acting like a child." Zayn sighs miserably. "Whatever. I need a smoke."
Then he tears off from them, Niall hot on his heels. Harry looks over to Liam and Danielle helplessly, and they seem just as lost.
“Did I do something wrong?” But even as he asks it, he feels the weekend slipping away from him.
“Haz…”
But Harry doesn’t want to hear whatever comforting falsities Liam has to offer him. He knows Zayn’s passionate, just as passionate as he is, but it’s still very different. And even though Zayn’s quiet, he’d rather confront things directly whereas Harry -
Harry doesn’t know how to deal with the reality beyond the hero worship and adoring fans, doesn’t know if he can. And he’s suddenly never felt younger than in this moment, fumbling and blindly groping for whatever wide-eyed expectations he’d had for the weekend.
“I need…I’m going to…” He doesn’t even realize that he hasn’t finished his thought until he’s completely walked off in the opposite direction, undoubtedly leaving Liam and Danielle in stupefied silence.
But he doesn’t really want to think about that; he doesn’t really want to think about much of anything right now, quite honestly. He wants to be somewhere else. He’s at fucking Leeds, and his head is spinning and he just wants to be somewhere else.
Harry’s feet are moving beneath him but it’s all aimless motion since he doesn’t know where to go, so he goes to their makeshift campsite; he’ll be alone there, at least.
He does a decent job of keeping his head bowed down that no one stops him on his way. He hears the whispers once or twice, sees the double takes in his periphery, but he’s fast and determined enough that he gets to his tent without interruption.
His thinking isn’t quite where it should be. He’s here and he knows he should wait for the other boys to come back so they don’t think he’s gone off and ditched them or something stupid like that. But there’s electricity or impatience or something jolting through his body and he doesn’t want to be in one place, can’t be here of all places right now. He wants to escape and he thinks it’s not too much to ask this weekend, so he steps into a pair of boots, shoves a beanie onto his mat of tangled hair, and stomps back outside with a jumper thrown over his shoulder.
And if he grabs the rucksack hiding a bottle of whiskey from the boot of his car, then that’s his business.
***
He hasn’t really had a chance to familiarize himself with the festival arena (already covered in a sparse layer of rubbish), nor does he really know which bands are playing when and where. So it isn’t all too surprising when he arrives at another clearing not even ten minutes later, lost and slightly crestfallen.
The moon is already out when Harry looks up at the sky, and the horizon is a dusky sort of orange that means it’ll be dark soon. Music is still throbbing from everywhere, it seems, and yet he can’t find it in himself to just walk in a particular direction and feel okay about the whole thing.
He knows he’s being immature, and that he’s probably doing an excellent job of justifying Zayn’s frustration by failing to confront the issue. Not everything is perfect all the time, he knows that. But while he’s here for the weekend and for however much time he can manage it, he’d like to pretend that it is. He’s young and hasty and mostly irresponsible and all he wants most in this moment is for everything to stay okay.
That, and a hug maybe. A chill runs up Harry’s spine and he thinks, yeah, a hug might be nice.
He’s still just standing there when he hears a group of people from off to the side, their whooping and hollering getting closer and closer the longer he fails to move. And he knows it’s too late when he finally distinguishes one voice from the rest of them.
“Hey, is that - is that that Harry Styles guy again?”
The commotion dies down for all of a fraction of a second before it picks up again, louder than before, and suddenly, people are crowding his space and Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“You look lost, mate.”
Harry turns to the side and it’s that Stan kid again, this time a little rosier in the cheeks and wearing a haphazard grin that seems to say he’s having more fun than Harry has had all day. Well, someone should.
“Er.” He feels stupid right now. “Not really. Maybe, yeah.”
“Everyone!” Stan calls out, and Harry can’t help but duck his head. “This - is Harry.”
There aren’t actually that many people, maybe around five or six of them, but they’re all screaming some variation of ‘Hi, Harry!’ and he wants nothing more than to change his name to something else, like Colin or Dave or Billy, even. But they’re all so happy and no one else around them is really paying attention, so he can’t seem to fault them.
“Hi all,” he manages, clutching onto the strap of his rucksack dangling by his side.
“Harry had the lovely pleasure of bumping into good old Tommo earlier,” Stan explains. “Didn’t you, Harry?”
“Erm?”
“Shit, did you really?”
The second voice is familiar, too, and it isn’t until the other boy steps out from behind two gawking girls that Harry even recognizes him, recognizes the nickname from earlier that afternoon.
“You’re Tommo?” he asks in spite of himself, glancing once, twice, three times at the boy peering at him from behind caramel-colored fringe. He’s sporting a rucksack and still wearing those skinny red jeans, but this time with a gray zip-up appropriate for the cool weather.
The other boy laughs. “Fair enough, seeing as I was so pissed out of my mind that I didn’t even remember running into you. Quite literally, apparently.”
Harry offers an uncertain grin.
“You can call me Louis,” he clarifies, beaming so hard at Harry that it looks like it might hurt.
“Right. Louis.” Harry likes the name, plans to remember it this time, even.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stan interrupts, clapping Louis hard on the back. Harry looks around and notices that the others have dispersed and continued their migration elsewhere. “Can we eat now, though? I’m fucking starving. Harry, you can come if you want.”
“Uh.” For whatever reason, Harry looks to Louis first, like he’ll tell him what to do.
But Louis is still smiling and shrugs. “Yeah, come with.”
“Excellent!” And then Stan is running off, yelling and making inappropriate passes at the girls in their group in his not-so-sober state. Harry can’t help but be utterly amused.
“Right,” Louis says, nodding quickly. “Sorry about that. Sorry about everything, really. About this morning and about - well, we don’t really have food. Just loads of greasy shit that isn’t really suitable for a meal. I was going to try for one of the canteens actually, if you wanted to join.”
Somehow, it’s the best offer Harry’s had all day, and from a stranger no less.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Aces.” And Louis is smiling again, and it makes Harry…well, it makes him something.
They walk in silence - comfortable silence, Harry notes meaningfully, because that doesn’t happen with people he’s known for all of five minutes - for a while, letting the general white noise of the music festival cloud their senses. He’s quite thankful to be walking toward food, especially now that his stomach is grumbling rather obnoxiously.
“Really though,” Louis says suddenly, hand on the back of his neck. “Sorry about this morning. That wasn’t, ah, my finest moment. I spent the whole day sleeping it off, if that makes it better.”
Harry chuckles, remembering their brief exchange. “‘S okay, I promise. I’ve seen worse.”
“You’ve seen other people drunk as fuck, bumping into international pop stars? Really?”
Harry snorts, surprising Louis and himself. “Christ, I - not international.”
And Louis barks out in laughter at that, for whatever reason. It makes Harry’s belly all warm.
“All right. Not international then,” he amends. “But soon enough. It’s only a matter of time.”
Harry doesn’t reply then, just looks down at the ground and smiles privately to himself.
“This isn’t weird, is it?” Louis sounds very worried all of a sudden.
“What?”
“Like, you walking with me or whatever? I’m not holding you up, am I? You have - I mean, you’ve got the others and whatever and I’m not - I can get food on my own, or whatever. It’s just, yeah. Pop star, you know,” he adds, waving his hand in front of him as if to make a point.
Harry bites down on his lip. He thinks of Zayn, Liam, and Niall and the others, like Danielle and Nick and that whole group of friends probably gathered at their campsite. Normally, he’d feel even the slightest bit of jealousy at missing out on time with them.
But that’s not what he needs right now. He needs something else, something more. And this might not be it, probably isn’t it, but it’s something different and he’s going to take it.
“No,” he says. “Not weird, no.”
“Cool.” And if Louis sounds relieved, Harry pretends not to notice.
They keep walking, passing small groups of people and one or two canteens that have already closed down for the night, no doubt short on supplies. For the first time in who knows how long - if ever -, Harry keeps his gaze low and on the stretch of earth in front of him. He thinks he might look a little like a turtle with his neck dipped down and his shoulders hunched up to his ears.
Louis notices immediately, and tries repressing a laugh when he asks, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Harry says half-heartedly. He doesn’t know how to answer honestly without sounding completely full of himself. ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t want anyone to notice me.’ It’s never been a problem before and it’s never been a judgment he’s given much thought to, but for whatever reason, it’s a judgment he doesn’t want Louis to make.
But he seems to understand anyway, most likely from the way Harry actually almost topples over in terror when he hears one of their songs blasting from a nearby campsite. Louis’ eyes peer over at him knowingly.
“Ah. Gotcha.” It sounds innocent enough, understanding even. But Harry wants to choke.
“Sorry, I - ”
“No, it’s totally fine! I completely understand. Well.” He pauses, rolling his eyes a little. “Not really. But I get it. Listen, that stand over there looks open. D’you want to wait here while I get us hot dogs? Or you can help yourself to a tree branch and hide there for the time being, if you fancy.”
Harry groans at the seriousness in Louis’ voice, digging his hands into his pockets. But he’s a little reassured to see that Louis is smiling at him.
“Really,” Louis emphasizes.
“Shit, sorry, yeah, if you don’t mind,” Harry says, frowning.
“Wouldn’t have offered if I did,” Louis replies, fist over his heart.
Harry flips his rucksack onto his chest and starts digging through it. “Here, let me give you…wait…fuck…” Of fucking course he’s left his wallet in the tent.
“Yeah?"
“I - shit, left my wallet. Just go ahead - ”
“No,” Louis cuts in. “I’ll get it.”
“Louis - ”
“Harry.” And it’s the first time that Louis has really said his name; he’s fond of it. “I’ve got it. Please, just let me. I rarely ever get to look this cool. It’s a big moment for me. Major, really.”
Harry would laugh if it weren’t for the earnestness in Louis’ sea blue eyes. He has the briefest thought of getting lost in them.
He would protest some more, but he’s kind of really hungry.
“Fine,” he concedes, and he can’t help but grin at the way Louis’ entire face picks up. “I’ll be over here. Or in a bush, somewhere.”
“Don’t stray too far,” Louis says before leaving.
Harry has to bite down on the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling, even though there’s no one around that’ll call him out for it. He’s only been with Louis for twenty minutes and he can already feel the weekend’s redemption, can already feel himself drifting further and further away from depending on the bottle of alcohol tucked in his rucksack.
Still, he figures that now is as good a time as any to check on his mobile, if only to see what kind of wrath Zayn might have sent his way, what kind of panicked concern Liam might have relayed, and what kind of food Niall might have demanded of him.
It’s not too bad when he sees the screen. Only three missed calls and a text from Liam predictably saying: wer r u? All in all, nothing to worry about.
“Didn’t know what you’d want on your hot dog,” Louis says, appearing at Harry’s side just as soon as he’s put his mobile away. “So I did the sensible thing and went with ketchup and mustard. If you hate it…well, fuck off.”
Harry stifles a laugh and just grabs the hot dog from Louis, tearing a bite into it like it’s the first bit of food he’s had in weeks.
“Perfect,” he says with a mouthful of food.
Louis’ eyes gleam. “Excellent.” He takes a bite and chews messily. “What now?”
Harry shrugs. He doesn’t really know what band he could see right now, doesn’t even know what bands Louis might like. Then he catches himself, figuring it might be a little presumptuous to think that Louis might accompany him. But then again, he doesn’t know why anything would necessarily have to change once they’ve finished their food.
“I dunno,” he admits. “I’m a bit knackered. But I also want to get drunk. Does that make sense?”
Louis’ face lights up with newfound mischief, and Harry thinks it’s a suitable look for him.
“What?” he asks, curious.
Louis tosses his foil wrapper in the nearest litter bin, and then pats his rucksack with a twinkle in his eye.
“Want to have some fun?”
***
( Part Two)