Archive of Our Own

Eleanor tells him as they walk out of 5^th, fingers toying with the edge of her collar, and that’s how Louis knows it’s a big thing, because Eleanor is the baddest bitch around and she never gets nervous, but he never expected this.

“Harry Styles asked you about auditions?” he repeats, halting abruptly in the hallway, a few underclassmen caught in his wake. “About our auditions?”

Eleanor shrugs, but she’s still got a hand on her collar. “It’s just, we have Gym together, and I guess he didn’t make it on the football team again—“

Louis interrupts. “He tried out this year too? He’s shit Eleanor, they never let him on.”

“Yeah,” Eleanor shrugs again. “Well, he told me he thought maybe they’d let him on this year because they felt bad, but they didn’t, so he signed up for auditions.”

And this is a whole different situation now because she had not mentioned the actual act of signing up for auditions, which is as permanent a commitment as anyone in theatre can make, but sure enough when he drags Eleanor down to the auditorium, Harry Styles’ name is written neatly in slot number seventeen.

“Why is this happening,” Louis says, “What is he doing.”

Eleanor scoffs. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s actually interested in trying out for the play, Lou? God, you’re so weird.”

He’s got a hunch that Eleanor has never truly forgiven him for dumping her four years ago because he’d realized he was gay, but their similar drive to achieve notoriety and avoid the general populace of high school has kept them too drawn together, and it’s difficult to hate someone when you’re so busy hating everybody else, so Eleanor is his sort-of-best-friend and they just let it sit like that.

Zayn is disappointingly nonplussed by the whole situation when Louis recounts it to him at lunch, choosing to roll his eyes and continue eating his chicken wrap without much excitement, only offering a regurgitation of Eleanor’s sassy response: “Maybe he’s just exploring new opportunities, Lou. What are you freaking out about anyway?”

And the thing is that they’re right, honestly; it’s not as if auditioning for a school play is something so violently out of the question for anyone, it’s just that it’s Harry, and he’s that guy, the one who always volunteers for everything and once kissed a donkey for charity and slums it with the cool kids like it’s no big deal, and Louis’ had a crush on him ever since he wore red sequined shorts in a pep assembly last year. He’s tall and dimpled and happy, and people like him the way people like puppies—wholeheartedly and without question. But Harry Styles venturing into the theatrical realm, his realm, the proverbial D-List of the educational system, could mean so many things. Could mean possibilities that had previously never been more than a passing math class daydream for Louis.

It’s just that he so desperately wants for his life to be exciting and fun like the movies, and he thinks that maybe this break in the status quo could be just that. Harry, in all his bushy-haired glory, could be A Thing that shifts Louis’ otherwise mediocre teenage existence into something big and fabulous and proportionate with the idea of youth that he has created in his mind.

It’s difficult to explain that though, even to someone as supposedly philosophical as Zayn, so instead Louis sighs and launches into his well-known dissertation on the horrors of frozen cafeteria food, and Zayn seems satisfied for the time being.

The way it plays out, anyhow, is that Louis waltzes into auditions fifteen minutes late with a thermos of tea and Eleanor trailing close behind him, marching all the way down the auditorium aisle to take his seat in the front center and plucking two scripts off the stage with a flourish while Mr. Archer calls out, “Okay, Tomlinson, that’s enough please,” and Louis offers a small bow and sits. It’s one of those drama club perks.

“Who’re you trying out for again?” he asks Eleanor, not even bothering to whisper while some freshman stammers through Shakespeare onstage.

“Who do you think?” Eleanor rolls her eyes. “Hermia is the bitchy short one.”

“It’s almost like Archer picked this play with us in mind,” Louis muses, running his finger over the binding of the Midsummer script.

“Why? Because there’s also a tiny gay fairy who jumps around annoying everyone?”

“You know what, fuck you.”

“Tomlinson, don’t make me tell you twice!”

Louis considers blaming Eleanor when Archer flares up, but decides that’s more trouble than it’s worth and has just sunk back into his seat to read some of Puck’s monologues when he feels a shift on his other side. Zayn doesn’t normally sit with them for auditions (he’s “too cool” or whatever the tech crew thinks they are), so he turns with the intent of saying something mouthy and ends up slackjawed at what he sees instead.

“Hi,” says Harry Styles, folding himself into the auditorium seat. “Um, I think I’m late.”

Louis reaches blindly for Eleanor, finding her hand and squeezing it roughly in warning, to which she replies, “What, god damn it—oh.”

“Hi Eleanor,” Harry waves, which is—he waves, and Louis doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t know why Harry is sitting with them and he just wants to feel cool for a moment so he turns to Harry and says, “I’m Louis,” and Harry says, “Cool. I’m Harry,” and holds out his hand to shake which Louis does, promptly.

“You, ah… you read Shakespeare much?” he asks tentatively. Harry shrugs, looking down at the script in his hands.

“Not much outside of Lit class. Heard of this one though. ”

A voice in Louis’ head screams at the thought of walking into an audition so incredibly unread, but he stifles it and manages, “Lots of good guy parts in Midsummer.”

“Which one do you want?”

“Puck,” Louis says, taken aback by Harry’s interest. “He’s the—“

Eleanor swoops in, leaning across his lap and smiling curtly at Harry. “He’s the tiny gay fairy who jumps around annoying everyone.”

Harry laughs, then clamps a hand over his mouth when he receives a disapproving stare from Archer. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Who should I try out for?”

Eleanor glances down at her script. “Titania the Fairy Queen does make out with an ass at one point.”

Harry’s cheeks color. “Why does everyone still remember that? It was for charity.”

“Relax,” Louis says, pinching Eleanor on the thigh. She glares. “Just try out for Lysander, he’s the least douchey guy in the play.”

It’s the last thing he thinks will happen: Harry Styles getting a role in their play. Louis knows he sucks at football and he’s pretty darn sure that the earnest worry in Harry’s eyes betrays his imminent theatre suckage as well. A pity, he thinks, because it was a worth a shot, might have gotten people to actually go to the play. Real people, people besides his mum.

Eleanor calls him five times early Saturday morning while he’s half-asleep, and when he finally picks up she hisses, “I’m at the Cast List.”

“You wench, you know I hate it when you—“

“Harry Styles is in the play,” she says, “Harry Styles is Lysander.”

“What the fuck,” Louis replies, sitting up in bed. “He’s not.”

But he is, and when Louis manages to shove a beanie on over his hair and drive on over to see the list himself, it’s right in front of his face in bold print. Eleanor’s Hermia, and he’s gotten Puck, and then there’s Harry, and he’s Lysander.

Louis knows their theatre department is lacking in the male area, but he’d never thought Archer would cast a novice in a lead role like this. Clearly he had underestimated their need for testosterone.

When he calls Zayn, he just says, “Maybe he’s actually good, Lou,” in that annoying Zayn way where he always has to be a step ahead on the moral high ground, and Louis answers, “If he’s good I’ve got your word that you’re buying me lunch next week,” and Zayn just sighs.

Monday is their first rehearsal, and they all sit in a circle onstage with their scripts and their highlighters. Harry sits by Louis and Eleanor again, buzzing with nervous energy, and Louis hasn’t got the faintest idea what to do with him.

“I’m so excited,” Harry tells him, chattering away, “I’ve never really done stuff like this before. You know, performing. I always tried to do something with sports but, uh, that never worked out.”

“Welcome to the land of ‘never worked out,’” Louis answers wryly, gesturing at the circle with a swoop of his hand. “These are your people.”

Harry grins. “Cool.”

They only do a read-through on the first day, like usual, and Louis has to remind himself not to scare the newbies with his enthusiasm (after all, Puck’s been his dream role for years and everyone knows it was tailor-made for him, and, well, he’s been working on his character quite a bit already). It’s all well and good until he hears Harry read his first few lines, and his face lights up even more.

He texts Zayn: i like steak xx ;)

Zayn replies a few moments late: not for lunch u little shit is he that bad?

checkmate.

---

No one actually tells Harry that he’s bad because he’s sweet and he tries and sometimes when Archer gives him notes he focuses so hard that his eyebrows knit together in this determined way, like he’s really honestly going to figure out what “minimus” means, Shakespeare be damned. Louis likes this about him; it makes him laugh from offstage and Harry always smiles at his laughs, even when he’s trying to be in character, and Louis thinks that might mean they’re friends.

Sometimes they chat, little offhand comments thrown at each other in passing. Louis likes the way Harry’s face brightens when he talks about things he loves, like football or his friends or his family, and he likes that he’s just cheeky enough to pass for a theatre kid, even though he’s completely awful at acting. Harry seems to like Louis as a whole, and that in itself is enough to bring him a wild burst of joy each day when he wakes up remembering he has people to talk to other than Eleanor and Zayn now. Not that he minds them; in fact, they are quite likely his favorite people. But Louis Tomlinson was not born to have only two friends, this he is certain of.

He stays late after rehearsal one day because Eleanor gets stuck in an arduous conversation with the costume director and he’s always her ride home, so while she sorts out dress options he wanders into the scene shop where Zayn is designing the sets. Zayn ‘s favorite thing to do is pretend he has no talent, and Louis’ favorite thing to do is bother him with compliments, so it makes for a nice few minutes as he sorts through sketch after marvelous sketch of backdrops Zayn’s thought up.

“Oh, Zayn,” Louis says dramatically, holding the back of his hand to his forehead, “This one makes me swoon. Look at the coloring on those lilies—just superb!”

Zayn snatches the drawing away from him, rolling his eyes even as he smiles. “They’re daffodils, idiot. This is why actors don’t do tech.”

“Don’t talk shit, you know I’d be a Grade A set designer.” Louis crosses his arms. “El got me a Pinterest so I’m a regular design guru now.”

Zayn shakes his head, plucking the rest of the sketches from Louis’ hands and putting them back on his workbench. “God, Lou. You would have a Pinterest.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? There’s loads of great tips on there. Did you know you can wash your hair with mayonnaise to increase the shine?”

Zayn sighs, but Louis catches him touching the back of his hair gingerly and throws his head back in laughter. “You’ve absolutely looked at the hair section, haven’t you? Oh, Malik, you’re too good.”

Zayn turns back to him, as if he were going to say something in his defense, but just as he opens his mouth the door to the scene shop opens and a familiar voice trails in, slow and sweet: “…so if you guys ever decide to help out, then this is where they make all the props and backgrounds and stuff.”

Harry Styles ambles in, hands shoved in the pockets of his too-tight jeans, followed by none other than Liam Payne and Niall Horan. Liam and Niall, the captains of the football team. Liam and Niall, who are dressed in their uniforms and have clearly just finished practice, judging from how sweaty and dirty and roughed up they look. Liam and Niall, who are maybe the coolest people ever to have graced the scene shop. Louis glances over at Zayn and can almost see his heart drop several floors.

“Oh,” Harry says, stopping a few steps from the doorway. “Sorry, I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

“No problem,” Louis says quickly, knowing that Zayn (what with his secret desire to peruse amongst the elite) will need a bit of time to compose himself. “Just doing a bit of work with Zayn.”

“Oh!” Harry says again, this time a bit more pronounced. “Liam and Niall, this is Louis and Zayn. They’re in the play with me. Well,” he looks over Zayn, brow furrowed, “Zayn’s not exactly, uh…”

“Zayn’s the Stage Manager,” Louis supplies cheerfully. “Makes sure we all get our shit together.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “And Louis, Zayn, this is Liam and Niall. They’re my two best mates. I was just showing them around before we head out.”

Niall grins, stepping further into the room and looking around at the tools and various props strewn about. “I’m just glad to see Harry’s got something to do with himself this year.”

Liam, who’s got an athletic bag slung over his shoulder, follows after Niall slowly, like he’s worried he needs an invitation to touch anything, but once Harry starts chattering they both seem to lighten up considerably.

“I used to work in a bakery,” Harry announces, still smiling brightly at Louis. “I always told the manager she’d have to replace me if I got on the football team, but I’m pretty bad, so she never did. Gave her a shock when I finally told her I’d have to quit.”

“Too bad it wasn’t for the football team,” Niall jokes, elbowing Harry. Louis watches their dynamic with awe. He has worshipped these boys quietly all his life, and now they are here. In his domain. Speaking with him. He feels as thought there should be some dynamic background song playing so as to capture the essence of the moment in guitar solos.

“Do you draw these?” Liam asks from behind him, and when he turns he sees that Liam is holding up Zayn’s set designs, and Zayn is still perched at his workbench looking like he has never seen something so lovely as Liam Payne Captain Of The Football Team holding his set designs.

“Zayn draws them,” Louis tells him, because he knows Zayn sure as hell won’t. “He does all our sets too; he’s a real Leonardo DiCaprio.”

Trust art to snap Zayn out of his reverie, because he’s quick to sigh loudly. “Lou, DiCaprio is the actor, not the painter.”

Louis waves a hand dismissively. “Okay, whatever, he probably paints in his off hours. The compliment still stands.” Niall laughs, the kind where you can’t help but smile too, and soon they’re all standing around smiling and Liam is still holding Zayn’s designs and telling him how good they are and Harry is beaming like a proud father.

Eleanor comes traipsing through the door a moment later, arms laden with fabric and ribbon and maybe some turf grass, it’s hard for Louis to tell, but he knows by the drag in her step that it’s time to leave. “Was lovely meeting you,” he tells Liam and Niall, nodding at both of them as he slides down off Zayn’s desk. “My lady awaits.”

“Help me carry this,” Eleanor says, voice muffled by a large straw hat, the cherry on top of her costume room vomit. Louis grabs the hat, places it delicately on his own head, and waves back over his shoulder at the boys while he follows her outside.

“You’re a little bitch, you know that?” Eleanor tells him once they’re out in the open air. “Flirting should not be a higher priority than the future health of my aching back.”

“Don’t worry,” Louis informs her sweetly, “your back will be straight as a rod if you keep the stick up your ass.”

---

Things don’t get unnaturally weird until Tuesday, when Louis is sitting quite happily at his lunch table with Eleanor and Zayn, munching away at Eleanor’s chips and listening to them both drone about some boring Lit assignment he doesn’t have. They’re so obnoxious, in fact, that mid-crunch he declares, “Zayn’s got a thing for football players,” just to lighten the mood a bit.

Zayn turns to glare at him defensively. “Do not.”

“Do too,” Louis pokes him in the nose with a finger. “You couldn’t even speak yesterday when we met Harry’s friends.”

“You met Harry’s friends?” Eleanor chirps, looking at Zayn gleefully. “Were they hot? Did Zayn cry?”

Zayn buries his face in his hands and groans loudly, but Louis has already scooted closer to Eleanor in order to engage in dramatic gossip about Zayn’s wide-eyed stares at Liam Payne, and he’s so engrossed in her snorting laughter that he barely registers the voice from behind him saying, “Anyone sitting here?”

Zayn lifts his head just as Louis turns, looking up to meet the eyes of Harry Styles, who for some reason would like to know if anyone is sitting in the vacant seat next to Louis.

“No,” Eleanor answers before he can. “Feel free.”

And then suddenly Harry is sliding in, dropping his lunch down on the table and grinning happily at them all. Before Zayn can even truly compose his look of confusion, none other than Liam and Niall of scene shop fame slide in to occupy both the empty seats on his side of the table.

“Hey!” Niall greets them cheerfully, pulling a McDonalds bag out of his backpack and unloading it. “How’s the weather over here?”

Louis doesn’t understand what’s funny, but Niall cracks up and elbows Zayn like he’s in on the joke, so Zayn laughs along too, albeit with a note of confusion. When Niall’s finished his bout of laughter, he leans back, stretches, remarks, “This is my favorite time of the day,” and starts in on his food.

He’s eating four cheeseburgers, Louis notes. Four.

Louis, Eleanor, and Zayn exchange glances. No one appears to have any more idea than the other what is going on or why the cool kids have deigned to relocate to them for lunch, but it appears that at this point the only thing they can do is try to appreciate the situation.

“How was your last game?” Zayn asks, the first one of their trio to speak. Louis looks at him quizzically, but Liam brightens at the question, setting down his peanut butter sandwich to answer.

“It was brilliant,” he says, smiling, “We were down by two at the first half and I thought there was no way we could pull through—the team’s a lot better than us, honestly, and we hadn’t been doing so well since we had to bench Josh—but then it was like wildfire once we came back onto the field and we pulled ahead to win. Madness, isn’t that? Three goals in a half? Best game of the year so far.”

“I usually go to the home ones,” Zayn offers, smiling back at Liam, his food forgotten. “You guys were great last week, especially Niall in the goal.”

Niall takes a mock bow, mouth still full of cheeseburger, and Louis turns to whisper to Eleanor. “I didn’t know Zayn went to the matches.”

Eleanor shrugs. “Who knows what Zayn does, honestly.” Which, well, is the truth.

Louis leaves them to their chatter and reaches over to eat one of Eleanor’s apple slices. He’s still flabbergasted by the thought that Harry Styles thinks they are friends, that Harry Styles has invited his actual real friends to sit with them because they are all friends. Somewhere in the spectrum between Eleanor and Zayn, he had no idea he had been missing out on this kind of social environment.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Niall asks him, like it’s completely casual, no big deal. “You guys should come to this party we’re going to in the next town over. It’s going to be sick.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “More like you’re going to be sick.”

Niall laughs again, one of those full-body laughs that launches Louis into an involuntary smile, which somehow triggers Niall to reach over to him for a high five. Although Louis has no idea why it’s happening, he obliges Niall with a quick smack and Niall grins, nodding at him before going back for the third cheeseburger.

“Seriously,” he says around his food, “You guys should come. The more the merrier.”

“El and I will be there,” Louis says, before the glow of the high five can wear down and cause Niall to realize he is inviting the pond scum of high school to a party with him. “I don’t know about Zayn, he’s into artsy shit, might be going to a museum or something.”

Zayn lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, but Liam interjects. “You go to museums? That’s so interesting,” and suddenly Zayn is lost again in wonderland. Niall reaches across for more high fives, jovially cheering something unintelligible, perhaps along the lines of ‘wey hey,’ Louis can’t be quite sure through all the fries he’s got in there.

Harry smiles. “I’m really glad you’re going,” he tells Louis, “It’ll be fun to have you there.”

And if ever there were a chance in hell Louis would miss this party, the sincerity in Harry’s tone has erased it.

Rehearsal that day is made only slightly less weird by the fact that, when it runs long (as rehearsal inevitably will), Niall and Liam end up coming over to watch after practice. They stay under the guise of taking Harry home, but Louis knows for a fact that Harry has his own car (not that he’s a creep, he just… notices) and Liam in particular is decidedly too intrigued by Zayn showing him the rigging to be innocent in his intentions.

Louis quite likes the attention, however, and he can’t help but wonder why Harry Styles was never invited to join the theatre department in the first place if this is how the gig spruced up upon his arrival. There’s something oddly thrilling about knowing people are talking about you, are wondering how you’ve managed to capture the notice of the elite, and Louis takes a small pride in shooing the underclassmen away from his props backstage, remarking loudly, “I only do autographs after a performance, loves.”

Harry laughs at him from aside, script rolled up in his hands. “You’ll crease it if you hold it like that,” Louis tells him, swatting his shoulder with his own rolled up script as he walks by. “Shouldn’t be creasing if you’re a novice.”

“Do novices still get autographs though?” Harry teases, catching Louis off-guard. He turns, surveying Harry approvingly while he searches for a witty response.

“Novices can get autographs,” he says, “Novices could even be deigned the honor of a photograph, provided such novices bribe the star with flattery and gifts.”

Harry laughs again, and Louis thinks he would like to spend more time making Harry laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

As he prances off the stage, Louis runs straight into Eleanor, who grabs him by the elbow and pulls him against a curtain, eyes alight. “Are you seriously flirting with Harry Styles?”

“No?” Louis says, giving her a skeptical look. “Please release me.”

“You’re totally flirting with him.“ Eleanor raises her eyebrows. “You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows.”

“What thing with my eyebrows?” Louis reaches a hand up to touch his forehead. “I do not have a thing.”

“That thing!” Eleanor hisses. “That eyebrow thing you do when you’re flirting that you think makes you look more seductive. Don’t think I don’t see you, Tomlinson. You are wandering into uncharted waters.”

She stalks off, shoulders straight, and Louis watches her, perplexed and just a bit flabbergasted. “I literally have no idea what you mean!” he calls after her, hands cupped around his mouth. She ignores him.

And that—well. So what if he is? A bit of harmless banter with Harry can’t hurt, and if perhaps he plays for the right team (alas, not the football team, but Louis can still dream), then flirting can only serve to launch Louis further towards having his long-awaited High School Musical-esque romantic adventure. Otherwise, Harry would totally think it was bro stuff. No big deal.

Harry walks by in the midst of Louis’ contemplation, smacking him on the ass as he passes and offering nothing but a grin and a thumbs up at Louis’ answering look of shocked indignation.

Which. Bro stuff. Yeah.

At lunch the next day, Harry is a few minutes later than the rest of his friends to join them. When he finally arrives, he’s got two lunch trays with him, one of which he sets down firmly in front of Louis. Louis looks up at him, puzzled, and Harry just says, “I like your beanie. Do I get a picture now?”

Louis grins, tilting his head to the side. “Perhaps a step up from novice.”

Harry looks so pleased at this that Louis can’t quite think of anything else to say on the matter, and they both continue about with lunch as usual. Thankfully, Zayn only eyes Louis warily for a few seconds before diving back into his banter with Liam.

His phone vibrates in his pocket a moment later. It’s Eleanor: Is this part of your mating ritual then?

---

Getting ready for the party (their big debut as cool kids, Louis thinks) proves to be a lot more difficult in practice than in theory. For one, as soon as Eleanor had arrived she’d completely commandeered his best bathroom and continues to refuse to allow him enough mirror space to get a handle on his hair, which is impossibly rude of her. And for two, he hasn’t got the faintest idea what to do at a party like this, and therefore has no idea how to mentally prepare himself for the experience.

“You probably just get drunk, right?” he says, voicing his concerns to Eleanor for the tenth time that evening. “That’s what everyone always seems to do at parties. But then what happens if you just come off looking like a giant shit?”

“Why are you asking me?” Eleanor leans forward into the mirror, practically engaging it in an Eskimo kiss while she coats on mascara. “It’s not like I know anything about these things.”

“You’re the only one I have to ask,” Louis whines, leaning against the counter and pouting. “Does my outfit look good?”

“Sure.” She doesn’t bother to look. “You’re smashing. Big hit.”

He sighs, long and drawn out for drama. She still doesn’t look over at him. “If we don’t get totally wasted then, provided we’re trying not to be giant douchebags, are we supposed to like—what, dance? Eat?” He frowns. “No, scratch that, no one eats in public anymore.”

Eleanor pulls back from the mirror, giving herself the once over and pausing to touch up her lipstick again before she turns and announces, “I’m ready!”

“It’s about time.” He rolls his eyes. She sticks her tongue out at him and begins gathering up her supplies, and once she’s moved further away from the mirror he glances over himself in the same way, wondering what people will think when they seem him at a party with the football team. Twinky little Louis, his best hag at his side, drinking beers with the captains. He could’ve only dreamed such things last year. In fact, if he remembers correctly, he probably did.

“Let’s go,” Eleanor complains, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “We’re already an hour or so past fashionably late and I promised Zayn we’d meet him.”

“Since when did you start promising Zayn things?” She’s already started off down his hallway, and he has to call after her, but even through the deep hypocrisy that is Eleanor, he’s grateful that she’s going with him. He may be a truly top-notch human being, but even Ferris Bueller needed a Cameron Frye.

He tells Eleanor this in the car, much to her chagrin, and she asks, “Well then, who’s your Sloan?”

“The hot brunette with the sultry voice? Hmm, whoever would that be?”

Eleanor sinks down in her seat, inspecting her nails. “I’m sorry I asked.”

She’s right about one thing, though: when they get to the party, it’s clearly well past the time to arrive fashionably late. Once they manage to park Louis’ car, find Zayn, and navigate a path to the front door, it’s obvious that everybody inside has already had their fun with drinking and have dissolved into simply being drunk.

“This is not glamorous,” Louis remarks, watching a girl wearing what looks to be a large black tube sock but is probably a dress fall over against a bookshelf. Zayn grimaces.

“Let’s just find the guys and make an appearance,” he suggests, dodging a group of half naked rugby boys in an attempt to move through the front room quickly. “I’ve got sets to design.”

“Zaaaayn,” Louis follows after him, Eleanor close behind. “We can’t just make an appearance, this is a big fucking deal for us to be here, okay?”

Zayn pauses only so he can shoot Louis a look. “Lou, we could’ve easily found out about one of these things from a stoner in the back of the library and shown up.”

“Yeah,” Louis swallows. “Yeah, but. We’re invited.”

Zayn watches him warily, eyes scanning over the clench in his hands and the nervous set of his jaw. He sighs, like he always does with Louis, because for always and eternity there will never be a time that Zayn does not try, to the best of his known ability, to appease Louis. At the end of the day, Zayn will do anything for him, even if it means showing up to a party he’d clearly rather not attend in order to placate Louis’ not-so-secret dream of attaining teenage royalty status.

At least Zayn knows this might be as close as they’re ever going to get, and Louis is thankful to him for that.

Zayn turns back to making his way through the crowd, scanning for Niall or Liam or Harry. Eleanor grabs Louis’ hand so as not to be lost in the fray and they three of them traverse the jungle together, even with Zayn at the lead muttering, “Who owns a house this fucking big,” in his Angry Smoker voice. It’s one of Louis’ favorite Zayn personas.

He’s quite enjoying the whole ordeal, actually, marveling at the depravity of youth going on around him: teenagers vomiting into decorative vases, girls giving lap dances to vaguely uninterested boys, the slamming of his own heart in time to the throbbing bass of some terrible pop song he wants to go home and buy. “I love this,” he tells Eleanor, and she leans closer to him and yells, “What?”

He attempts to repeat himself, louder this time, but is interrupted by the loudest voice of all crashing into them with a jovial, “Up that lads!” before he’s soundly introduced to Niall Horan’s armpit. He smells like beer.

“Hey Niall, how’s it going?” Zayn shouts above the music. Niall either doesn’t hear him, or is too drunk to care, because he merely throws his arms around the two of them (Eleanor is left clutching onto Louis’ hand with a sour expression on her face) and steers them towards the kitchen, chattering on and on about beer pong. “I’m the champion!” he preens, taking a moment to point at some random girl and yell, “Nice ass!”

She looks him up and down and then smiles. Louis is so jealous of his prowess he wants to cry.

Niall claps his hands down roughly on their shoulders once they arrive in a room adjacent to the kitchen, where the infamous beer pong is set up. It’s clear to Louis that this is where the real party is at, and the trainwreck they’d encountered at the front of the house was merely storage for the riff raff. Even Zayn looks pleasantly surprised, eyeing the roomful of charmingly inebriated teenagers with less than his usual distaste.

“Guess who I found!” Niall cheers, slapping a hand on Louis’ back again. Everyone in the room cheers with Niall, and although Louis wants to think it’s because they’re so enamored with his presence, he’s pretty sure Niall is the kind of guy who everyone cheers with regardless of the announcement. It’s as if every word that comes out of his mouth is punctuated with a bold font exclamation point. Louis quite likes Drunk Niall, apart from the slapping.

Liam and Harry approach them soon after, cheeks just slightly flushed with excitement and arms reaching out to clap them on the back in a similar manner, although Louis does notice that Liam totally goes for a side-hug with Zayn and makes a mental note to investigate that relationship later.

Eleanor looks rather unimpressed by the crowd of football players and their girlfriends, and even though she’s managed to contain her expression to one of cool indifference, she’s still gripping Louis’ hand like it’s a lifeline.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Harry grins so wide you’d think it’s his birthday. He doesn’t seem to be as drunk as Niall, but the pink in his face in undeniably alcohol-related. “It’s been aces. You should come sit with us!”

‘Us’ refers to the massive couch situated near the flatscreen mounted on the wall, right in the heat of the action. Niall has already returned to the game, probably defending his status as “champion,” and Liam and Zayn have relocated to the side of the couch, fully engaged in conversation.

Louis glances over at Eleanor quickly. As much as they like to give each other shit, she is his sort-of-best-friend, and he feels obligated to her happiness, which appears to be most likely achieved outside of the beer pong premises.

“You good?” he asks her, patting her hair in what he hopes is an affectionate manner.

She makes a face at him, a tough veneer to conceal her inner uncertainty. “Don’t ruin my hair. Look, you guys have fun being… guys, or whatever. I’m going to go dance, I think.”

Louis nods in understanding and she kisses his cheek, throwing out a quick, “Love you,” before she’s heading back out through the kitchen.

Harry watches her walk out, smile dimming only a little. “So… Eleanor, then?”

“Oh,” Louis turns his head, but she’s already vanished among the masses. “Yeah, well. She’s a bit of a wine-and-cloth-napkins girl, so, don’t be offended.”

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Girls, right?”

Louis laughs, though he has no idea what Harry means. “Oh, girls. Great fun. Say, where’s the alcohol?”

Harry shoves his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know, Niall’s monopolizing most of the beer for his game, and I’d get you some punch, but who knows what it’s spiked with now.”

“Well, what’ve you had, then? Looks like it treated you well.”

Harry grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “Ah…wine coolers.”

Louis can’t hold it in; he snorts. “Were they pink?”

“Maybe?” Harry looks down at the ground, then back up at Louis. “Want some?”

The smile spreads out slow on Louis’ face. “Naturally.”

They end up in what looks to be a guest bedroom, sitting on the bed and sharing a pack of the girliest alcohol Louis has ever encountered. Not that he’s complaining, but they’re the fizzy kind, so, really.

There’s a moment after they’ve finishing giggling and opening bottles and have actually starting drinking where a void of silence fills the room, save only for the tiny thumps of Louis’ foot nervously tapping the floor. During this moment, Louis experiences a brief panic that Harry will suddenly realize how terribly boring and uncool he is and rethink their entire spontaneous friendship. Instead, Harry speaks, which Louis takes in relief.

“Did you ever date anyone before Eleanor?” he asks, a bit awkwardly. It’s the kind of conversation that stems from a lack of proper information between them, but it’s an offer of friendship that Louis readily receives, though he is rather mortified Harry remembers his one short-lived relationship with a girl.

“Not sure,” he answers, looking down at his feet. “Probably some girl when I was ten—I was a real heartthrob on the playground, to be honest—but that streak stops at Eleanor, obviously.” He laughs, and Harry laughs along softly.

“What about you?” He turns to look at Harry, whose cheeks are still flushed in that adorable way. “Ladies lining up the streets, yeah?”

Harry shakes his head, his smile fading into something more empty. “It’s not really like that.”

Louis elbows him, eyes still twinkling with mirth and fizzy wine cooler. “Oh, come on, the illustrious Harry Styles? I heard that you got asked to Sadie Hawkins last year by six different girls.”

“Actually,” Harry says, “No one asked me.”

Louis’ face falls.

They sit in silence for a moment, both of them tapping their feet against the floor now, and Harry plays with the foil on the top of his drink.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Louis says, “No one asked me either.”

“You went with Eleanor though,” Harry points out, a note that sparks something anxious and young inside Louis, who had always thought he flew terribly under the radar. Especially to people like Harry.

“Yeah,” he musters, trying his best to act nonchalant, “but that was a given.”

There’s a moment of silence again, enough time for Louis to assess the situation and wonder just how exactly did he end up at some high school party in a guest room failing to get drunk with a boy like Harry. The kind of boy who doesn’t seem to care that his friends are all downstairs playing beer pong. The kind of boy who is content to sit here with Louis under the guise of alcohol and keep up a pleasant, albeit slightly awkward, conversation, one that doesn’t seem to be forced on his part at all. Louis thinks of the red sequined shorts and something inside him glows with affection for Harry.

He pulls his knees up against his chest, hugging them against himself. “Well, I think you’re cool, Harry Styles.”

Harry smiles and looks down at the wine cooler in his lap. “Thanks, Louis Tomlinson. I think you’re cool too.”

Louis snorts. “Except I’m not.”

“You are,” Harry turns to look at him. “You’re the coolest.”

“Means a lot, that, coming from you.”

The sad thing is that it does, it really does, and he hopes that Harry can’t see through the air of indifference he’s trying so hard to maintain. Perhaps he can’t hold out much longer, anyway; if this keeps up too long he’ll probably end up babbling all his embarrassing cool kid ideals to Harry like some worn out Cinderella searching for a fairy Godmother.

Harry shrugs, something somber in his shoulders. He glances back down at the wine cooler, toying with the foil again. “I’m not really that cool. I can’t even make it on the football team.”

“Oh god,” Louis unwraps his arms, sitting up on his knees. “You’re a weepy drunk, aren’t you? You’ve lured me in here to tell me all your problems and then you’ll fall asleep crying on my lap and ruin my shirt. I see right through you, Harry Styles!”

Harry manages a smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not that drunk. And even if I was, I wouldn’t ruin your shirt.”

“Sweet even in his weakest hour,” Louis hums, “It’s precious.”

Harry sighs softly and falls back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, staring up at Louis. He’s still got that one empty wine cooler in his right hand, so Louis plucks it from his grasp and sets it aside.

“I’m so bad at being in your play it’s ridiculous,” he says.

Louis smiles at him. “That’s okay. Theatre is the most accepting place in the school, even for losers like me.”

“But that’s the thing,” Harry sighs. “You’re not a loser. You really are so cool, Louis, you don’t care what anyone thinks about you.”

“On the contrary,” Louis laughs, “I find that I am literally obsessed with my public opinion, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

“No, I mean,” Harry scrunches up his face in thought. “Like, you’re so funny? And you say these things, and you always make me laugh, and when you’re doing your part it’s like, you really just lay it all out there. I wish I could do that, just put myself out there like that.”

Louis is rather taken aback by the serious turn of their conversation, but he tries not to let it show. It’s a good thing, anyhow, that Harry trusts him with these things. It means they’re getting somewhere further than just the lunch table and the rehearsal stage. Even with all his superfluous banter, Louis wants nothing more than to have these conversations with Harry on the daily.

“Harry,” he tells him, and oh god be can feel the babbling beginning like he’s turned on the faucet and it’s going nowhere fast, “I pretty much peed myself when I found out you were auditioning for the play—no it’s true, really, you can ask Eleanor—because basically I have been obsessed with having a romcom moment where I magically become hot and popular in the last year of school for, oh, I don’t know, my entire life? And you are literally the most well liked person I have ever encountered, save for maybe Drunk Niall, and I have no idea why you think I’m cool or why you even want to be in a drama production, because let’s face it, you do fabulous things like this every weekend with the football guys. But, by some stroke of Pretty in Pink luck, we are now sitting here on this bed sharing wine coolers, and I’m shocked to find out how astoundingly normal you are, and I genuinely like you, and I want us to be real actual friends, even if you end up letting me cut my super awesome prom dress into shreds to make a statement.”

He takes a deep breath, and then falls back onto the bed as well.

Harry appears to let the speech sink in for a moment, then turns his head to the side to face Louis. “I’m confused, why are we in a romcom now?”

Louis sighs. “Yeah, I don’t know, I got a bit lost around that part, but you get the drift. Basically I’ve wanted to be friends with you since you kissed that ass for charity.” Or wore the red sequined shorts, he does not add.

Harry groans. “God, don’t say ass; it was a donkey. And why does everyone still remember that?”

“It was last year.”

“Well, yeah.”

“It was an impressive feat.”

Harry doesn’t answer right away. Louis splays out his arms like a starfish, staring up at the ceiling and wishing he talked less.

“I’d love to be your real actual friend,” Harry says quietly.

“Okay,” Louis answers, equally as quiet. “By the way, if you’d told me that last year, I would have totally asked you to Sadie Hawkins.”

Harry smiles.

---

It becomes somewhat of a tangible thing when Harry, mid-conversation at their lunch table (and Louis is still amazed by this, that the lonely lunch table his trio had occupied for so long is now theirs as well), suddenly stops to look over at Louis and remark, “Lou, I don’t have your number.”

(Harry calling him “Lou” is one of Louis’ proudest accomplishments thus forth. He quite wants to put it on his résumé.)

Niall rolls his eyes. “Don’t give it to him, Louis, he never actually texts. He just sends everyone cryptic messages in emojis all the time.”

Louis visibly brightens, just as Zayn’s face falls. “Oh god, but that’s what Lou does.”

“We’re perfect for each other!” Louis announces, smiling and spreading his arms out wide in a signal of his newfound adoration, ignoring the universal groan from the others at the table. “Come, give me your phone and I’ll put it in right now.”

Later that night, when he receives a message from an unknown number, only to find that it’s merely a single tempura prawn, he can’t stop himself from grinning for at least an hour.

That’s when Eleanor gets involved.

“Louis,” she says, very seriously, one afternoon at rehearsal. “I need to talk to you.”

She rarely engages matters with such force, so he’s already concerned by the time she’s managed to drag him off into their favorite chatting spot, an unused costume storage room, and give him a good long stare before speaking. “I think you have a crush on Harry Styles.”

Louis feels his face grow hot, even in the dark room, and he starts for the door. “That’s rubbish, El, I need to do my scenes—“

She grabs his hand, pulling him back to face her, and in the dim, shadowy light he can make out the seriousness of her expression. It’s a good thing she’s in drama; she does treasure a good dramatic moment.

“Do not even lie to me right now,” she tells him, “You are gone for Harry and this is a bad thing because we already had that Straight Boy Incident and I am not going back to those days, Lou. I am not.”

To be fair, the Straight Boy Incident had been a rather gruesome experience, and Louis still feels that he was terribly mislead in the affections of the other boy, Greg, who was tall and handsome and nice and liked to take him on the most lovely adventures. Even Zayn had approved, which was the worst part because Zayn is typically the most protective of Louis, the one who is supposed to tell him when he’s doing stupid things, but Greg had everyone fooled.

Louis goes silent, remembering their last excursion, which he had thought so romantic at the time, only to be driven home with a nice shot of reality up the bum.

“See what I mean?” Eleanor says, her voice gentler this time.

“Well,” Louis bites his lip, trying to think of something to halt the sinking feeling that’s beginning in his heart. “Well, maybe he’s not straight. Has anyone asked?”

Eleanor sighs.

“But really!” Louis continues. “Maybe he’s just quiet about it, you know? Not everyone can be a prancing unicorn of gay like me. I mean you’ve seen the way Liam and Zayn are attached at the hip recently. We are living in a new age of subtlety.”

Eleanor ponders this for a few seconds. “Alright, but you have to find out. Promise me you’ll say something to him? I can’t let you go on being a lovesick whale like this any longer.”

Louis squawks indignantly. “A whale?! Why am I a whale? Why don’t I get to be a puppy? Are you calling me fat?”

Eleanor reaches for the door, pulling it open and shooting him a look in the newly revealed light. “When you’re lovesick, Lou, it’s a fucking beached whale of a situation. Don’t mess with me.”

When she leaves, Louis feels a strange sense of awe wash over him. She really is the baddest bitch around.

But now the real problem surfaces: he can’t just ask Harry if he’s straight or not. Sure, it’s all fun and games for Eleanor, because when she confronts guys about their sexuality there’s no chance of her looking predatory, only curious. But if Louis asks then suddenly he comes off as interested, which—

He fidgets. Well, obviously not the best plan of attack.

He decides to go with an old classic: the gay-jà vu. He’ll just ask Harry out on something that could easily be misconstrued as a date and see how he handles it. If anything turns out awkward, he can always feign that it was a platonic bro outing taken the wrong way and embarrass Harry too much for him to actually get upset.

Yes. He smiles. Foolproof, that one.

He finds Harry standing offstage, script still rolled up in his hand (some people never learn), and sneaks up behind him, pressing his hands over his eyes. “Guess who?” he singsongs in Harry’s ear. Harry laughs, reaching up to pry his fingers off.

“Hey Lou,” he grins, once Louis has circled back around to face him. “What’s up? I have to go on in like thirty seconds.”

Louis shakes his head at him. “Alright, fine, be rid of me if you want. I was just wondering if you want to grab dinner after rehearsal.”

Harry’s smile brightens, which is a thing Louis chalks up as promising. “Yeah, of course! With Eleanor?”

Louis gives him a strange face. Of course not. Why in hell would he bring Eleanor on a gay-jà vu? She’d be completely insufferable and no help whatsoever. “No,” he answers slowly, being sure to make his intentions clear, “just me and you.”

“Oh.” Harry looks as though he wasn’t expecting that response, though Louis can’t fathom why. “Well… yeah. Okay. Sure.”

They take Louis’ car because he’s the one who knows where they’re going. It’s a really awful hand me down thing that cries when you go over 45, and it’s the color of muddy sand, and Louis hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his life (except that one time he took a job at the local grocery store, which, no). He calls it Francine, but when he’s angry he calls it Fran. Francine takes corners the same way old people take steps: slow and creaky. Louis doesn’t do anything slow, never has, never will, and the two of them make a terrible combination on the road.

Harry ends up looking a little worse for the wear when they arrive at the restaurant on the other side of town, but he doesn’t complain; however, his eyes do widen when he sees where Louis has stopped. “Oh,” he says, which seems to be his favorite word. “We’re eating here?”

“Yeah,” Louis answers brightly, flipping the ignition off and wincing as the car whines. “They’ve got like, the best burgers here. El and I go all the time after rehearsal.”

“I thought it would be fast food.” Harry climbs out of the car slowly, untangling his limbs from one another so he can squeeze through the tiny door.

Louis laughs. “What kind of man would I be if I took you to a fast food place? Anyway, it’s not fancy at all if you just get the burgers.”

He leads the way inside, careful to request his favorite table by the large bay window and the television. They know him here, anyway, and the waitress smiles when she comes to take their order and sees Harry. “Making new friends Louis?”

“Every single day,” Louis picks up a menu, pretending to be engrossed in selection. “What’s the special, Angela?”

“Meatloaf,” she tells him, and he makes a face. Harry looks amused by the whole situation.

“You really do come here a lot,” he says, once Angela has busied off to the kitchen with their orders. “They actually know you.”

“Everyone knows me,” Louis replies, tilting his head and giving Harry a winning smile. “I’m charming.”

Harry smiles back, and all seems to be well and good, the date progressing just as Louis wants it to, until Angela comes back with their food and remarks, off hand, “Where’s Eleanor today?”

“Oh, you know,” Louis shrugs, placing his napkin primly on his lap even as Angela sets a burger down in front of him. “Off somewhere else, probably missing me terribly.”

Something seems to change in Harry, and once Angela is gone and Louis has taken his first bite, he says, voice lowered, “You… you know it’s okay if you want to bring Eleanor, right? I wouldn’t mind. I know some people don’t always, ah… appreciate that, but it’s not a big deal with me. Eleanor and I are good.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow at him, because at first he has no idea what Harry could mean by that. Perhaps Eleanor is as widely regarded as a nuisance as Louis tells her she should be, in which case Harry is a sweetheart for suggesting her presence be requested and should be noted as such. But then, Eleanor is the entire reason Harry tried out for this play, so her social standing surely can’t be that bad, and unless Harry is entirely horrified at the idea of a bro date being crashed with estrogen—

And that’s when he realizes, mid-bite into a perfect California burger. Harry Styles is in love with his sort-of-best-friend.

It makes so much sense, honestly: the way he always brings her up, the way he watched her go at that party, why he brought his friends to sit with them, how he always asks Louis about her. Why he even tried out for the play in the first place—he and Eleanor in gym together. The pieces all drop into their slots slowly, and Louis is left swallowing down over something else that is threatening to well up inside him.

Not that he could ever blame Harry for it. Eleanor is a fine piece of ass, after all. But there’s a larger part of him, the hurt part, which wants Harry to know that he is way finer. Ass for days, all that.

The thing welling up inside him is monstrous now. Whale-sized, even, so he finally understands what Eleanor was getting at in their costume closet. She probably had no idea, and yet she’d saved him so much trouble while simultaneously causing him so much pain.

“I think I’ve got food poisoning,” he blurts out suddenly, wide-eyes looking out at Harry. “I think we’ve got to go.”

Harry looks bewildered, but thankfully he doesn’t question the existence of instantaneous food poisoning and responds accordingly. “Oh, okay. Are you alright? Do you need me to drive?”

Louis shakes his head. “No, that’s fine, only I can drive Francine. I’ll make it. Just get a box for your food, if you want.” He digs through his pocket to find his wallet and leave some money on the table, but then Harry is already calling the waitress over and handing her a card, and Louis likes him so much he wants to throw up, which makes the whole act even more convincing.

“You didn’t have to pay,” he says, once Harry has signed the receipt and led him outside with a hand on his back. “Technically I asked you to come.”

“But technically you got sick because you asked me to come, so it works out,” Harry replies, opening the door for Louis. It doesn’t work out at all, but he decides not to say anything. Harry probably owes him for emotional strife, anyway.

He makes quick work of dropping Harry off, careful to speed just enough so as not to cause death in Francine, but to get Harry home before further peril can be wreaked on his heart. He calls Zayn as soon as Harry’s out of the car and into his house, looking back over his shoulder at Louis for one last concerned wave.

“Are you home alone?” he asks as soon as Zayn answers. He’s got the phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, backing out of the driveway in a rather haphazard way. So sue him.

“Sort of,” Zayn says. “Why?”

Louis hangs up before giving him a proper answer, and if he maybe speeds through a few residential zones then it’s not really his fault.

When he arrives at Zayn’s, parking poorly and not bothering to correct it, Zayn is waiting at the curb. Louis bursts out of Francine and falls into him, burrowing his face in his neck and breathing in deep.

“You okay?” Zayn asks, after a minute or so of Louis pressing close against his shoulder. “You want to go inside? I’ll make you tea.”

Louis pulls his head back and nods, taking a second to get his bearings before following Zayn up the stairs to his porch and inside the house, which is warm and familiar and makes him feels somewhat better already. He beelines for Zayn’s room, climbing up on his bed and curling around one of his pillows, nestling into the covers. Zayn arrives a moment later, carrying a mug of Yorkshire tea, which Louis sits up to hold.

“What happened?” Zayn asks, climbing up onto his bed and sitting alongside Louis. “You look sort of sick.”

Louis sighs, taking a long sip of tea before answering. “So, I did a thing.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I took Harry on a gay-jà vu, right? And it was all well and good until—”

Zayn’s eyebrows knit together and he leans back from Louis, giving him a look. “Hold up. What is that.”

“What?” Louis takes another sip of tea. “A gay-jà vu? Duh, Zayn. It’s like when a gay guy takes a man of ambiguous sexuality out on a date to see if it dredges up his inner homosexual thoughts.”

Zayn shakes his head. “No. No, Lou. That’s not a thing. Oh my god. No.”

“It could totally be a thing!” Louis argues, brandishing his tea. “Eleanor said it was quite ingenious, and—”

At the sound of her name, he remembers, and he falters, pulling his tea back in towards him. “Zayn.”

“What?” Zayn says, still surveying him with an expression of resigned confusion.

“Harry’s in love with Eleanor,” he says, voice very quiet all of a sudden.

The way Zayn looks at him then makes him want to burrow away all over again, but instead he hides his face in his tea, taking one long drink after another. It burns going down, but it soothes him.

“Lou,” Zayn’s voice is soft, tentative. “Are you sure? I mean, sometimes you can get a bit dramatic about these things. Jump to conclusions and all that.”

“Of course I’m sure! He all but told me when we were out. He kept asking why she wasn’t there, did I want to bring her, it would be okay if I did.” He waves a hand over his shoulder. “Dumb. He’s dumb.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “I’m sorry Lou.”

“Don’t tell her, alright?” Louis looks over at him. “I mean, she’s a good friend and all, but she’s not blind and she’s lonely too and I just couldn’t…. I mean, maybe that makes me an awful person, but—“

“Hey,” Zayn reaches forward and touches his arm gently. “It’s cool. I understand. Won’t say anything.”

They sit there on the bed, Louis with his knees drawn up and his tea against his cheek, warm on his temple, Zayn with his hand rubbing soft circles on Louis’ shoulder.

“So,” he says after a pause, “Does this mean like when you go on a date, it’s a gate?”

Louis blinks, adjusting his position so he can look up at Zayn skeptically. “No offence, but what the fuck?”

“You know, like,” Zayn waves his hand. “A gay date? A gate?”

“Oh my god, Zayn.”

“You were the one who started it!”

“Yes, but gate is already a word, whereas gay-jà vu is a clever play on words. Not to mention, gay dates are exactly the same as regular dates, Zayn, a fact that you should know quite well.”

Zayn fidgets with his hair. “Why would I know?”

Louis shoots him a pointed look before draping himself across his lap, batting his eyelashes in the most ostentatious way he can. “Oh, Liam, let me show you some boring backstage equipment while I pout at you suggestively. Liam, why don’t you help me lift this box with your strong arms, Li-am—“

Zayn’s cheeks have progressively darkened in color during Louis’ taunting, but suddenly the annoyance in his eyes goes out and he sits up straighter, attention clearly focused elsewhere.

“Wait,” He says suddenly, voice brightening as he looks down at Louis, the teasing momentarily forgotten, “I remembered something that will cheer you up. Liam told me that they’re running a scrimmage next week against some local team, just a practice thing, so some of the guys aren’t going and they’re short a few, and he invited you and I to come play. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

Louis doesn’t even mind that this is obviously a diversion from the matter at hand because it’s such wonderful news. He smiles against his mug. “Okay. Yeah. That would be good.”

“And Harry won’t even be there because he’s shit at football,” Zayn grins. “It’s perfect.”

---

“Zayn,” Louis hisses, grabbing his arm and hauling him away from the field, cleats digging into the wet grass. “Why the fuck is Harry here.”

They’ve been out on the field for approximately ten minutes now, and Louis has all his football gear on and he’s terribly excited to play with people who are actually good, actually a challenge. And now this: Harry Styles, standing over in front of the bleachers, wearing one of his dorky school spirit shirts and cheering loudly for Niall, who’s running warm-ups in the goalie box.

“This is the worst day of my life,” Louis declares. Zayn sighs, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“Come on, it’s going to be okay. I forgot that he comes to the games, but it’s not even like he’s really here, he’s just on the sidelines, yeah?”

Harry jumps up and down and waves in their direction, calling out, “Hey Louis! Kick some grass!” He dissolves into giggles then, laughing at his own joke.

“That’s not even funny Harry!” Louis yells back, trying to come off serious but failing when he sees Harry’s laughter light up his face. “God, I can’t do this,” he mutters, leaning his head on Zayn’s shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay,” Zayn repeats, giving him a firm slap on the back. “Be a man.” Louis shoves him, still sulking.

“Why is he even here?” he whines, “It’s not a real game, it’s a scrimmage.”

“It’s probably the closest he can get to actually playing,” Zayn says. They both stop to watch Harry, who’s dancing around like some reject cheerleader, his hair messy and fallen across his face. Louis wants to be mad at him, but he’s adorable.

The other team pulls up in a line of cars minutes later, piling out of sedans and SUVs and one lone minivan. They look like a fun bunch, and Louis is starting to feel like the day might be salvaged. Liam jogs up to him, the ball tucked under his arm, and grins. “Are you ready?”

Louis grins back, apprehension fading. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Liam turns to Zayn, who answers, “Born ready,” and the two linger, smiling at each other, before Liam nods and jogs back over to Niall.

When Zayn looks back to Louis, whose eyebrows are pointedly raised, he sighs. “Not now.”

“Later, then,” Louis insists. “You’ll be giving me dirty details later.”

“Who said the details are dirty?” Zayn calls after Louis, who has already started jogging off to the center of the field to join their rapidly assembling huddle.

The captain of the other team is already chatting with Niall, goalie gloves tucked under his arm, and that’s when Louis knows the entire world is dead set to shit on him because it’s none other than Greg, perpetrator of The Straight Boy Incident of years past, who is still incredibly attractive and incredibly straight and incredibly tall. God, he’s basically towering over Louis now.

Zayn finally catches up to him, stopping next to Louis’ side, following his gaze, “What are you—aw, fuck, Lou.”

“This is the worst day of my life,” Louis breathes. The fact that Zayn doesn’t even bother to contradict him on this is evidence enough.

He always tries his very best not to talk about the Straight Boy Incident with anyone because, as much as he tries to brush it off as merely a mild setback in his romantic endeavors, it was actually one of the most shattering blows he had ever taken to his vulnerable side. Louis had never been keen on being vulnerable in the first place, but ever since Greg, it’s a no brainer. He can keep Eleanor and Zayn within that inner circle, and the rest can dwell amongst the sarcastic outer shell that serves to intentionally keep them at a distance.

He had almost gotten too close with Harry, anyway. He should have noticed. He should have noticed before Eleanor had to say anything, but he was already starting to fall back into those old habits of blind trust.

Greg had been unusual because Louis met him at a party Zayn had wanted to go to (one of those artsy parties with bitter tasting beer and people who actually smoke), and they had talked the entire time and it had been everything Louis had ever wanted a boy encounter to be. Greg had never seemed off-put by him, like other guys usually did, and he was patient and interesting and endlessly intrigued by whatever Louis had to say, always texting him to ask his opinion and calling him up so they could sample a new restaurant together and see what they thought. It was exhilarating and fresh and new, right up until the moment Louis told Greg how he felt and the truth came cracking down like a lightning strike.

He could’ve just let him down easy. It wouldn’t have been hard; Louis would have moved on. He didn’t have to say the things he said. No one should ever say the things he said.

So, really, no one could blame him now if he just left. Zayn would probably leave right with him and make him some tea and explain the whole situation away. Eleanor would probably come over and complain about something and make him smile and watch bad reality shows with him while Zayn made popcorn, and they could all three sit and forget the impressively awful track record he somehow has with men. It would be fine, it would be no big deal, it could happen effortlessly. No one would blame him if he wanted to cry or cuddle or even be alone. In fact, he considers all of these options briefly while looking at the face of Goalie Greg, but none of them seem to settle quite right.

Greg looks right at him, then. He smiles. He says, “Hey, Lou.”

As soon as the hilt of the ‘L’ leaves his lips, Louis knows—he is angry.

The game starts off with Liam as center forward, and it’s all Louis can do to stay back at his right, he wants the ball so badly. Liam passes to some guy in Louis’ English class, and he takes off across the line, only to lose the ball to one of the boys on the other team. Harry is still on the sidelines, waving his arms and smiling, shouting encouragement to whoever happens to be most in play. Louis tries to ignore him, tries to keep his attention on the game, but he finds himself watching Harry more often than not, his heart softening towards him. It wasn’t his fault, anyway. He wouldn’t want to hurt Louis.

“Louis!” Liam yells, and when he looks up he’s already lost the pass to the other striker, and his cheeks flare up when he sees the way the guys look at him. Louis Tomlinson, the little gay kid from the theatre. Louis Tomlinson, the pity player.

He starts off running again, following back after the striker, who is heading towards Niall with incredible speed. But Louis knows Niall, and he can tell from the set in his jaw that this guy’s getting nowhere. The kick he sends off is impressive, and Niall dives to his left. Save. The ball is back in play.

Their sweeper kicks off to the fullback and Louis glares him down so hard he has no choice but to pass to him, and then he’s dribbling down the field with the fierce determination of a man scorned. Not today, they will not beat him today.

He passes to Liam when the defense crowds him, and Liam manages to take the ball a few feet further before he’s forced to kick back to a midfielder who’s wide open. Louis charges on past him, flanked by an annoyingly large member of the opposing team. Greg looks on from the box, eyes set, poised to block at any moment. Louis is livid.

“Hey!” Louis yells to the midfielder, who doesn’t look over at him. “Hey!” He tries again, louder this time, more forceful. The guy gives him a glance, then passes to Liam. Liam seems to consider the shot, but when he looks up at Louis, he sends him a curt nod before hurtling the ball towards him with a well-placed kick.

The large guy is just seconds behind Louis, but seconds are all he needs. He sizes up the target, jaw clenched so hard he can feel his teeth grind, then backs up before sprinting forward and sending the ball sailing like a shot-put, hard and heavy, straight towards the goal.

Greg crumples like a leaf when the kick hits him, just where Louis intended it to. He’s doubled over on the ground by the time his first teammate gets to him, yelling about timeouts, and Louis takes a shaky breath and turns, searching for Zayn among the field. He’s back near their goal, the effort of holding in his grin coloring his face.

“Did you just hit Greg James in the balls?” Niall shrieks, tackling him once he’s sprinted back over to them. “Tomlinson, you’re a legend, I hate that guy!”

“You hate him too?” Louis says, smiling under the weight of Niall’s embrace. “God, Niall, as if I needed more reasons to love you.”

He’s grinning and glowing and wiping the sweat off his forehead when Harry approaches, big eyes all awash with laughter, and Louis can’t help but tumble into his arms, pulling him close. “You’re so good,” Harry tells him. “You should actually be on the team.”

Harry’s arms reach up around him, tentative at first, then full and warm. Louis sinks into him, forgetting about barriers and blindness, focusing only on happiness and comfort. On Greg whimpering in the goal. On Niall’s encompassing affection. On the way Harry feels, whole and heavy.

“Rather be in the play with you,” Louis says into his shirt. He’s not sure Harry hears him, but he means it either way, closing his eyes against Harry’s chest, knowing their pseudo-hug has gone on too long.

When he pulls back, Harry looks down at him and says, “I’d rather be in the play with you too,” and his face is so earnest that Louis lets his hand linger against Harry’s hip a bit longer than he should. Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

That night he goes over to Eleanor’s and tells her about the Harry thing, top to bottom, and they sit on the floor against her bed drinking cranberry juice.

“That’s such shit,” Eleanor says. “The one time a straight guy likes me and he’s your biggest crush since Nick Carter.”

Louis groans. “Can we not? He had frosted hair.”

“I seem to recall a time you wanted frosted hair.”

“A real tragedy, seeing as I wasn’t even gay back then.”

Eleanor sips on her juice, staring out at the expanse of her bedroom, seemingly lost in thought. Louis loves her, he really does. He doesn’t want there to be anything between them.

“If you wanted to date him, you could,” he offers, giving her a sidelong glance. Eleanor raises an eyebrow at him, until finally he admits, “Okay, yeah, no you couldn’t.”

“It’s alright,” she pats his knee. “I don’t want to. It would make me a real bitch.”

“It would make me a real bitch too, so I’m glad you won’t have to deal with that.”

“Lou, I deal with that every day.”

“Wow. See if I do something nice for you again.”

When they’ve finished their juice, Eleanor wants to make cookies, and seeing as he’s just cockblocked the hell out of her, Louis agrees. Anyway, he likes making cookies with Eleanor, because she hates it when he eats the dough, and that makes eating the dough all the more fun.

They watch wedding shows while the cookies bake and Louis only feels sad for like three seconds when he sees the girls talk about how happy they are with their fiancés.

He takes a stack of oatmeal chocolate chip home for his mum and the girls, and the drive back feels easer than the drive there. Of course, it’s better if he doesn’t think about Harry and Greg and all that, but having happier memories buoyed to the top, ones like cookies and tea and cranberry juice, they soothe.

He heads inside with the cookies tucked under his arm, all neat in a Tupperware because that’s the way Eleanor is, and he calls out, “Mum, I’m home!” before slipping his shoes off by the door and tucking his keys in his pocket. He barely even notices his mom saying, “I know, Louis,” before he’s halfway into the front room. Then he freezes.

“Hi,” says Harry Styles, giving him a quick wave. Harry Styles, who is sitting on his couch. Harry Styles, who is sitting on his couch having tea. With his mum. With Louis’ mum.

“How do you know where I live?” Louis blurts out, eyes wide. Harry looks sheepish. Perhaps this isn’t the normal reaction he gets upon breaking into others’ homes to have their mums for tea.

“Harry stopped by to have a chat with you, but you were over at Eleanor’s so I told him he could wait if he wanted,” his mum says cheerfully, stirring some milk into her cup. “You’ve not been too long, anyway.”

Louis still has his mouth hanging open, and his mum gestures sharply for him to close it. He obliges, still staring at Harry, before taking a deep breath and walking into the room, handing the cookies to mum in stunned silence.

“I’ll take these into the kitchen,” she tells him, standing up and kissing the top of his head. “Have a good time. Lovely to meet you, Harry.”

“You too,” Harry says, smiling after her. Once she’s gone from the room, Louis takes her seat next to him on the couch.

“Hey Harry,” he says, “Moving in on my mum?”

“She’s charming, all right, but I’m afraid I’m here on business,” Harry sets his mug down on one of mum’s floral coasters, trying to appear serious, though he’s failing miserably. “Would you like to accompany me on a drive?”

Louis blinks. “Oh, d’you want me to call Eleanor?”

Harry’s façade falls, replaced with blank confusion. “What? No. Why?”

Alright, so it’s some sort of manly man outing. Louis can go for that. Whatever, no big deal, he’s done these things before. “Sorry, nevermind. Where are we driving to?”

Where they are driving to proves to be obsolete, because as soon as they’re halfway down a back road highway, it becomes clear enough that Harry isn’t so much interested in the destination as he is the journey.

“Niall and Liam went to this party, you know, with the football guys and stuff,” Harry says, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping along with the beat of the song playing faintly over the radio. “I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to just go home either.”

“Didn’t want to go to a jock party? Can’t imagine why.”

Harry turns to grin at him for a split-second. “It was that bad for you?”

“Well,” Louis muses, nestling down into the warmth of Harry’s heated seats, “I did have some rather bland company.”

Harry laughs at this, a big jolt of a laugh that stirs up something safe and comforting in Louis’ chest. “Some asshole with wine coolers, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Louis smiles too, watching the tap tap tap of Harry’s fingers on the steering wheel.

The song changes on the radio and Harry perks up, reaching over and turning up the volume. “I love this song. Do you know it?”

Louis doesn’t know it; it’s some hipster shit that reminds him of this one time his mom took their family to see a jug band. Not his favorite life experience, but the look on Harry’s face as he sings along to the song is worth the ring in his ears. He knows the next one, anyway, so he joins him in the singing then, and it’s loud and unpolished, the bass rattling Harry’s change where he keeps it in his cupholders. Louis likes this: the easy sort of teenage memories you’re supposed to experience in your youth, singing in the car and all that. He finds it difficult to sing along to Eleanor’s dubstep.

Harry’s got a good voice, too, throaty and raw, and he’s the kind of annoyingly talented guy who sings harmony on autopilot, like he was born to be making music. Louis likes it. Louis likes the way he doesn’t seem to care that someone’s listening, he’s still just as loud and in the moment as anyone at home with a hairbrush might be. Louis likes how he plays the drum solos out against the steering wheel. Louis likes Harry.

When that song fades out, back into the rhythmic tap of Harry’s fingers, Louis says, “Okay, real talk, Elton John.”

Harry laughs. He laughs at every single one of Louis’ jokes, and one day his ego will explode from it. “Yeah?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I asked before: how the hell do you know where I live?”

Harry reaches back and runs a hand through his hair, tousling curls that are already mussed enough. “Oh. Well, promise you won’t think I’m creepy?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Caught you wooing my mum over tea, so jury’s still out there.”

A laugh again. Lord help him. “Alright, yeah. I just, ah… I asked Liam to ask Zayn for me? I wanted to surprise you.”

The smile that spreads out on Louis’ face is so startlingly genuine that he panics when he realizes what he’s doing, letting his guard down. It’s just, Harry wanted to surprise him.

He doesn’t have a witty retort ready, so he just says, “You got me there.”

Harry glances over at him, eyes just fast enough to catch the last glimpse of adoration on Louis’ face before he turns away, looking out the window.

“I didn’t think you’d come today,” he says, trying to change the subject. “To, uh, to the match.”

“Oh, I always go,” Harry says, “I like football too much to settle for never getting on the team, so I just show up and cheer for them anyway. I’m like a groupie.”

Now it’s Louis’ turn to laugh, sitting up straighter in his seat, eyes twinkling. “Probably the only high school with a football groupie.”

“Yeah, I’d reckon so.” Harry takes a long turn, furrowing his eyebrows in the same way he does when he tries to understand Shakespeare. Louis leans his cheek against the window, glass cool and gentle against his skin.

“Didn’t you ever, I don’t know… practice? If you really like it so bad, I mean.”

Harry bites his lip. “I do. I’m just really, really, genuinely bad.”

Louis looks over at him pityingly, but when Harry catches his eyes he starts laughing, and then Louis laughs too and Harry makes a ridiculous face just so Louis will laugh harder, which he does, and then Harry says, “Shit—“ and swerves the drifting car back towards the center of the lane.

“Maybe we should park somewhere,” Louis suggests, and Harry says, “Yeah.”

They pull into an overgrown field just off the road, lit only by the bug-swarmed stream of light from an old streetlamp across the way. Harry turns off the ignition, sitting in silence for a only a second before turning to Louis and saying, “Let’s go outside.”

They climb up on the hood of Harry’s car and sit there, Louis with his knees pulled up and Harry with his legs splayed out. They can hear crickets somewhere out there, chirping loudly, only ever halted by the sound of a distant car and the perk of headlights through the darkness.

“There aren’t any stars,” Harry sounds disappointed. Louis looks up, and sure enough the sky is clouded, all grayish blue like muddy watercolors. It could be raining, though, so he’s not complaining.

“Aw, Harry,” Louis sighs dramatically and lies back against Harry’s windshield. “You’ve gone and ruined the whole romantic moment now. No stars, what a fucking mess.”

Harry doesn’t say anything back, and Louis worries his joke has gone flat, feels himself blush a bit, but suddenly there’s a creaking sound, a gentle weight pressed next to him, and when he turns he can see Harry’s eyes, only inches away.

Harry just looks at him, blinking slowly, the backs of his knuckles brushing against Louis’ hand almost imperceptibly. Louis swallows, trying to regain control over his breathing, which has gone terribly erratic. He feels jumpy, flighty—he feels like he has to move or say something or do something or he’ll just—

“We start dress rehearsals soon,” he hears himself say, much, much quicker than he normally speaks. God, he hates himself. “Probably going to get an awful costume. I always do. Eleanor always looks like a princess, but I guess that’s what you get, being a girl.”

Harry’s big eyes close, then shift, and he turns his head to stare upwards at the cloudy expanse of sky once again.

“Was she your first kiss?” Harry asks, “Eleanor?”

“Um,” Louis thinks he gets it now, the whole crush thing, because if he had ever thought he was gone for someone before this exact moment, he was horribly wrong. Everything in his entire body is malfunctioning. He is shutting down. He has minutes to live at best. “Yeah? It was a pretty bad one, though. So. You know. Typical stuff.”

The eyes are back, all big and unreadable and watching him, just watching him. “You should get a do-over.”

“What?” Louis stammers. He could lean forward and press his forehead against Harry’s now. It would barely take an effort at all.

“First kiss do-over,” Harry is saying. Louis stares at his eyes. He tries to remind himself that Harry is thinking of Eleanor, that Harry has literally just asked about Eleanor. “Mine was bad too. I think we all deserve really good fairytale type ones, you know?”

“Sure,” Louis breathes. He is willing to agree with anything Harry could possibly say at this moment.

“Maybe I just like Nicholas Sparks too much,” Harry says, sighing softly. “And, anyway, I guess you don’t really need a do over too badly. You got Eleanor, after all.”

Shit. That one hurt. Louis bites his lip and turns his head back to the sky, chanting reasons why Eleanor is his sort-of-best-friend over and over in his head so as not to slay her graphically in a daydream.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Louis closes his eyes. “Shoot.”

“What… what was up with you and Greg James?” he says slowly, carefully. “At the scrimmage, you… well, that kick was brilliant but I think you might’ve aimed a bit too well.”

“Oh.” That was the last thing Louis had been expecting. He opens his eyes, staring up and wishing with all his heart for stars. For something. “Well, to put it one way, Greg is a big douche.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, well, we all know that.”

“Someone could’ve told me,” Louis says ruefully. “Fell for that gimmick hook, line, and sinker. God.”

Harry sits up, resting on his elbows. “Louis, I—“

A floodlight turns on several yards away, illuminating a house perched in the middle of the field that neither boy had previously noticed. Louis sits up too, and when they hear a door open and a voice yell, “Who’s there?” they both make muffled shrieking sounds as they scramble off the hood and back into the car. Louis barely has time to buckle his seatbelt before Harry has slammed his foot on the gas pedal and sent them pealing out onto the highway again.

They drive for a mile in scared silence, Harry’s hands tense on the steering wheel and Louis’ bottom lip pulled firmly between his teeth, before one of them starts laughing. They’re still laughing when Harry pulls into Louis’ driveway, his eyes shiny with tears, mouth stretched wide in a grin.

“Solid night,” Louis says, trying to regain composure and failing miserably. “Well played, my good chap.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Harry says, looking at Louis with such anxious expectancy he can barely stand it. “Lunch at the usual time?”

“The usual time,” Louis nods, slipping out of the car and holding onto the door longer than he should, just so he can wave goodbye. Harry waves back, nodding his confirmation as well, and then seems to think twice about something before reaching out towards Louis.

“Lou, wait,” he says, “I just… I really like hanging out with you. I’m glad you came with me tonight.”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis answers, taken off-guard for what seems like the thousandth time with Harry. “I, uh, I don’t have a life, so.”

“You make me laugh,” Harry tells him, still treacherously earnest, “I never laugh as much with anyone else. It’s… I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Me too,” Louis says. Harry doesn’t smile, but with the way his eyes stay locked on Louis’ for the longest second of his life, he doesn’t need to.

After Louis shuts the car door, he stands in the driveway watching Harry pull away until even his brake lights are a fading red memory.

His mum is sitting on the couch when he steps inside, slipping his shoes off once again. She looks up from the book she’s been reading, bemused. “Have a nice time?”

“A lovely time, thanks for asking,” Louis says, fixing his hair in the mirror by the coat rack.

She sets down her book, waiting for him to finish, and when he turns around she raises her eyebrows. “So. Harry…”

“Is in love with Eleanor and impossibly perfect,” Louis finishes, digging his hands into his pockets. “Would rather not talk about it, sort of breaking my heart, have a nice night Mum love you.”

He’s off down the hall to his bedroom before she can even sigh.

---

It’s Hell Week, formally known as Tech Week, which means that Zayn and his crew of techies finally emerge from their caves in the scene shop and are tasked with actually assembling the remainder of the show. Louis wouldn’t mind, normally (he owes the tech crew his ass, to be completely honest), but there’s this one guy who really drives him up the wall and Zayn has just so happened to pick him as Assistant Stage Manager this year.

“Sorry Lou,” Zayn had said, once Louis found out and confronted him. “He’s the best.”

And that is how Louis ends up sitting cross-legged center stage for fifteen minutes while he waits for said Assistant Stage Manager to sort out his lighting cues.

“Can you try a different gel on that?” he says, voice booming through the auditorium yet again. “I think Louis would look nice in a yellow light, don’t you?”

“Nicholas,” Louis shouts, “The microphone is intended to amplify important thoughts.”

“Oh, yes, Louis clearly favors the puce. How could I have forgotten?”

Louis is about to burst a vein in his neck when Zayn joins him onstage, clutching his big black binder, headset pushed up. “We don’t actually have puce gels, just so you know.”

“Got it, thanks,” Louis snaps, sticking his tongue out in the general direction of Nick. “What time is it?”

“It’s five thirty,” Zayn sighs. “We’re barely through Act One.”

“Have you seen my costume? It’s absolute shit.”

“Well, it’s not that bad.”

“It’s blue Zayn. It’s blue with fucking sparkles. I’m the blue fairy, Zayn.”

Zayn grimaces. “I’m sure they can get it sorted out.”

“Louis,” Nick’s voice appears again, but this time it’s from behind him, which is almost worse. “I’m going to need you to vacate the premises. I’ve got to do lighting for the leads.”

Louis stands up, whirling around to face him. “Fuck off Grimshaw, this is no place for amateurs.”

“That’s exactly why I asked you to leave.” Nick smiles, teeth bared so sweetly Louis can barely contain his fury.

“God fucking—“ Louis surges forward, only to be restrained by Zayn, who looks thoroughly unamused.

“Ladies, you’re both pretty,” he deadpans, yanking Louis offstage by his elbow. Louis flips Nick the finger as he’s dragged away, which satisfies him enough for the time being.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” he announces, once Zayn has deposited him back by the costume area and given him a pointed glare. “One of these days, he will choke to death on his own sad repartee, and you will know who to thank.”

“Right now though,” Zayn says, running a hand through his hair, which is in a rare state of disarray (though, to everyone’s annoyance, still so impossibly nice looking), “Right now he is my right hand man, and he is going to help make you look nice, I promise.”

“My best feature is my eyelashes,” Louis says. “Be sure to get shadow on my eyelashes, it makes them look longer.”

Zayn sighs again. Like he would fucking know though; his eyelashes are their own national park.

“Lou,” he hears from behind him. It’s Eleanor, and as Zayn leaves to go corral Nick, she swoops up, holding a big green lump of something in her arms. “I fixed your costume problem.”

“Oh, blessed woman!” Louis cries, throwing his arms around her and kissing her cheek. “Thou art the light of my life!”

“It’s just some shitty Peter Pan costume from the closet,” Eleanor says into his hair. “Let go of me.”

Louis pulls back, still smiling, and takes the green thing from her. It does prove to be, of course, a shitty Peter Pan costume. But it’s so much better than the alternative that he could cry. “I love it,” he tells her. “I love you.”

“Love you too, you big dunce,” Eleanor hits him on the arm, smiling. “There’s a matching hat, if you’re interested.”

Harry materializes around the corner then, looking all tall and sheepish and dressed in his Lysander clothes, which make Louis want to jump him quite terribly. Whoever is in charge of costumes this year (he thinks it’s some waifish thing named Perrie, which makes sense about his costume then, since she once wore bellbottoms to school) has put him in one of those white V-neck shirts with the leather laces, and with his hair puffed out like a halo around his head, Louis so wants to make daisy chains with him.

Among other things.

“Sorry,” he says, walking towards them. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Only the dramatic unveiling of my new and improved costume,” Louis answers, holding the green thing up to his chest and twirling. Eleanor claps. Louis loves her so much. Louis loves everyone. “I love everyone,” he says.

“Thanks Louis!” Nick yells from down the hall. “It’s mutual!”

“You don’t fucking count, Nick!” Louis screams back.

Harry follows this exchange with his eyes, smiling at Louis when he turns around scowling. “Not a fan of Grimmy, then?”

“Ew, you’ve given him a nickname?” Louis mimes throwing up, adding a few extra horrific expressions for emphasis. “Remind me to cut all ties with you.”

“It’s all the sexual tension,” Eleanor tells Harry. “Louis doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Louis barks out a protest, whirling on her indignantly despite her smug smile. Harry looks incredibly confused, brows all knitted together in that way of his. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then seems to think better of it.

“I need everyone on stage, please,” Mr. Archer’s voice crackles through the backstage PA system. “Actors and technicians, please report to the stage immediately.”

“Oh joy,” Louis says, “It’s time for his speech.”

“Speech?” asks Harry, ever the newbie. “He gives a speech?”

“He’s secretly always wanted to win a Tony,” Eleanor explains, “but since he’s stuck being a shitty high school drama teacher, he likes to spend an hour or so every show giving us a weird inspirational speech before he sends us home. We think it helps his blood pressure.”

“Come on,” Louis says, grabbing Harry’s hand. “If you sit in the back with us you can go on your phone the entire time, it’s great.”

Harry looks down at Louis’ hand in his, then over to Eleanor, who is already starting off towards the stage doors. Louis can’t quite read the expression on his face at first, but his heart sinks when he realizes what’s going through Harry’s mind. Doesn’t want Eleanor to get the wrong impression, probably. Doesn’t want her to think he’s anything but straight and available. Louis drops his hand, clears his throat awkwardly.

“You can, uh… you can follow me.”

While they sit in their back row positions, listening to Archer drone on and on about ethic and performance, Louis finds himself stewing even more on the twisting feeling in his stomach. He sneaks quick glances at Harry every once in a while, just to check if maybe he’s staring at Eleanor or something, but as far as he can tell Harry is intently focused on whatever Archer is saying. Poor guy, he doesn’t know not to listen yet.

Apparently Louis has learned all too well, or maybe he would’ve listened to Eleanor in the first place and not gotten himself wrapped up in this mess.

His pocket buzzes.

hi. i’m on my phone :)

Louis looks up sharply, but Harry is still watching Archer very seriously, nodding along with his key points, although there’s a twinkle in his eye that’s completely giving him away.

rebellious, styles.

Harry’s reply is almost instantaneous: i try to be.

This time, when Louis looks up, Harry is smiling at him, knee brushing against his own. Louis smiles back, a warmth growing in his chest.

Stop flirting with Harry for god’s sake

Eleanor shoots him a look across the way, pointing exaggeratedly at her phone. As if he hadn’t gotten her message. He makes a face at her, forgetting Harry’s gaze, and when he looks back Harry is thoroughly confused again.

“Tomlinson, I sincerely hope you are not using your phone right now,” Archer says, voice as unenthused as ever, “That would be an incredibly rude thing for you to be doing.”

“I don’t even own a phone, Mr. Archer,” Louis answers sweetly. Archer sighs for so long that Louis wonders how he even has the lung capacity, but at least he drops the issue.

When the coast is clear and Archer is back to his droning, Louis bumps his knee against Harry’s, prompting him to look over. “Harry,” he whispers, in his very quietest voice. “You wanna get dinner after?”

Harry’s lips quirk up. “You won’t get food poisoning?”

Louis holds up one finger and crosses his heart. Harry laughs, earning a glare from Archer. He widens his eyes, mouthing oops, then points to his phone.

A few seconds later, Louis reads: if you want you can come to mine?

Then: i mean only if you want to.

you wouldn’t get food poisoning that way.

my mum is making pasta.

Louis leans over to Harry and whispers, “Okay,” and he can almost feel the grin split across Harry’s face as he pulls away. Thank god Harry can’t feel what’s going on in him, or he wouldn’t have invited Louis over in the first place.

Regardless, he can’t stop smiling and bouncing his leg the entire way through Archer’s speech, which seems to confuse the guy every time he looks over to keep tabs, until finally he just starts ignoring Louis altogether. That’s fine by Louis’ standards; it means he can spend more time focusing on the night ahead and how lovely it’s going to be no matter what his current predicament might try to make it.

It’s whatever, anyway. They could totally be just friends. Louis would be chill with that. So chill. So utterly chill.

Once they’re dismissed, grabbing their stuff from backstage, Harry reaches over and wraps his hand around Louis’ upper arm, leaning in to say, “Hey, you can take Eleanor home and then I’ll text you my address, alright?”

Louis barely has the mental faculties to nod before Harry has let go, leaving behind a tickling sense of heat in the places his fingers had touched. In this moment, Louis is assured of one thing: nothing is remotely chill. At least on his end.

But, if being friends is the only option, he’ll sure as hell try.

Harry lives in one of those nice, Victorian-style homes up the hill. It only takes Louis a few laps around the block to find the right house, and a few minutes to gather his courage, but he knocks on the door just past six thirty, and for that he feels accomplished.

Harry doesn’t answer, but a girl who could pass for his twin does, giving him the once over before asking, “Louis?”

“Female Harry?”

“Gemma,” she says, opening the door wider and stepping back to give him room. “You can come in.”

The interior of the house looks exactly how Louis might’ve imagined it: bright, cheerful colors, cluttered by antiques and kitschy knick-knacks placed on every available surface, the inevitable evidence of a baby hipster boy living amongst feminine influence. They’ve got a record player on a table in the living room, and Louis has to keep from laughing just because it’s so Harry to want things on vinyl.

“Harry’s setting the table,” Gemma explains, closing the door behind her. “But I imagine he’ll be done soon, he’s been so excited for you to show up, wouldn’t stop talking—“

Harry appears around a bend in the wall, face lighting up the room. “Louis! You’ve made it! Don’t listen to anything Gemma says, she’s just jealous of my hair.”

Gemma rolls her eyes, but Louis comments, “He does have nice hair, though.”

Harry beams, stepping all the way into the room, and only now does Louis see the apron he’s got tied around his waist. He loses it, then, dissolving into giggles, while Harry’s smile falls into a pout. “I was helping mum,” he whines.

“Oh, yes, Harry’s quite the catch,” Gemma drawls sarcastically, “He’s got the hair, the clothes… what’s next, your winning personality? Better not tell him a joke, Harry, you’ll scare him away.”

Harry’s mum shouts from the kitchen, “Gemma, be nice to Harry in front of his new friend!” and suddenly Louis’ heart has that gripping feeling again, because he knows that the comfortable ease of this home is something he would like to fall into day after day, and when he imagines himself here again he can’t help but think of sitting on that couch, his head on Harry’s shoulder, their fingers laced together.

Harry notices the change in Louis’ face, the way his laughter has faded into silence, and offers him a cheerful smile. “You can sit down at the table now, we’re about ready to eat.”

Louis obliges, sitting down in the seat Harry gestures to. In front of his plate, his name is marked with a neatly handwritten card decorated in floral print.

“I made placeholders,” Harry says proudly. Louis wants to cuddle him up and never let him go.

Unfortunately, eating is almost worse, because Harry has set his own place right next to Louis and the entire dinner they’re brushing hands, bumping elbows, reminding Louis each time how very much he wants to touch Harry. Instead, he tries to focus on the conversation, but Harry’s mum and stepdad are so endearing, and Gemma so witty and sarcastic, that he’s fallen in love with the lot of them before Harry can ask him if he’d like some more spaghetti.

He tries to imagine Eleanor at this table with this family and he can’t. He can’t picture her manicured fingers picking up the mismatched napkins, her scathing retorts against Gemma’s good-natured jabs. He thinks of Eleanor and he thinks of marble countertops and cold wood floors; he thinks of Harry and he thinks of home.

They all clear the table together, passing plates and loading the dishwasher, Harry manning the sink and scrubbing down the bigger pots. It’s the type of thing Louis and his sisters do, and he’s more than happy to help, which brings Harry’s mum to say, “You’ve got to invite Louis more often, sweet,” as she passes him a dishtowel.

Harry beams over a saucepan. Louis drops a sponge on his foot.

When they’re done cleaning, Harry leads Louis out of the kitchen, practically glowing. “My mum likes you a lot,” he says.

“I think your mom likes everyone,” Louis retorts, trying to distance himself as much as possible from the situation at hand. Maybe this way it will hurt less. The warm feeling tickling at the top of his skin will cool eventually. Things will be chill.

“She doesn’t always,” Harry answers, “She’s protective of me. I’m the baby.”

“There’s only two of you.”

“Yeah, but I’m still the baby.” He stops in the hallway to open a door, turning to face Louis and nodding towards the room. “This one’s mine.”

Louis walks in tentatively, careful to take in bits and pieces of the space rather than overwhelm himself all at once with too much Harry. It’s spacious, but cozy: bookshelves shoved up against the walls, a dresser with another record player on top (which, he should’ve known), a bulletin board full of pictures and ticket stubs above the bed. Harry’s not neat, but he’s not irreversibly messy; there’s at least some sort of order in the haphazard way he’s attempted to sort his stuff into piles. Louis smiles when he sees a guitar propped in the corner near the closet.

“I can’t actually play it,” Harry says regretfully, once Louis’ reached out to brush a hand along the neck. “It’s my dad’s, and I always meant to get lessons, but.”

“You really like music, don’t you?” Louis asks, standing up straight and looking back over at Harry. “Why aren’t you in band, or choir or something?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m not sure I’m all that good. Anyway, I like being a football groupie.”

“I bet you’re good,” Louis says, “Do you play piano? What do you do?”

“I, um,” Harry leans against his door, shutting it with the weight of his body, almost like he’s embarrassed of someone hearing his answer. “I sing. Sort of. Sometimes.”

Louis thinks of the slow, deep sound of Harry’s voice, the drawl of his vowels and the slur of his consonants, the way he slipped into harmony in the car like it was second nature. He smiles, quirking one eyebrow. “I see. You want to grow up to be some heartthrob popstar someday, don’t you?”

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “No. Just a hobby.”

“Oh, I get it. Too alternative for that popstar life, yeah?” Louis cocks his head in the direction of the record player. “Going to wail into a banjo or something?”

“Yeah,” Harry’s still smiling. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. You’ve caught me in my secret dream right there.”

“Well then,” Louis claps his hands together, “Why don’t you give me the honor of attending your first concert? Right here in this exact moment. That way I’ll have something to brag about in my old age once my kids stop thinking I’m cool.”

“Sing, right now?” Harry’s face blurs into a mixture of panic and alarm. “No way, I really don’t—“

Louis picks up the guitar gingerly, sitting down at the foot of Harry’s bed with it and testing the tune with a few plucks. “I can play like four chords? So, I mean, if you know a song.”

Harry sits down next to him on the bed, and though he still looks uneasy he doesn’t move to take the guitar back from Louis or tell him to put it away. He just sits there, biting his thumb, watching the way Louis turns the tuners ever so slightly. Honestly, Louis doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, he only learned guitar so he could look punk back in his in-the-closet days, but he liked it all right and he still sort of remembers. He mostly just likes the awestruck expression on Harry’s face while he thinks Louis’ doing fancy things with the instrument.

Louis strums something low and does his best impression of a member of Mumford and Sons, complete with wailing and stony gaze. It makes Harry laugh, which is the best thing in the world.

The laughter soon fades into Harry’s soft gaze once more. Very, very quietly, almost under his breath, he says, “I like Stevie Wonder.”

Louis thinks for a moment. “I could do ‘Isn’t She Lovely,’ probably. It’s short and it’s got like, what, probably the four chords I know?”

Harry nods slowly, looking at his feet. After some hesitation, Louis takes this as a sign to continue. His fingers fumble around on the strings until he gets his footing again, and then he strums lightly, testing out the tune, until he finally feels satisfied.

“Ready?” he says, “Okay.”

Harry folds his hands in his lap, still looking down, and his voice is soft like butterfly kisses when he first sings, stumbling only a little on the words. Louis is completely shit at the guitar, anyhow, but whenever he loses his place for a moment and leaves Harry with only himself, it doesn’t seem to make much difference. Harry is still endearingly good, with the rasp in his throat and the hollow of his sound sending a chill up Louis’ arms.

They make it about halfway through the first chorus before Louis remembers he doesn’t actually know how to play that well and starts making up fingerings he hopes will work, which leads to Harry’s pink-cheeked laughter, ending in both of them collapsing backwards on Harry’s bed, feet dangling off the edge.

“Damn,” Louis says, “We had a good thing going there for a moment. I thought you might ask me to join your band.”

“It would be an awful band.”

“Wow, Styles, I’m gonna take that one to heart.”

Louis can feel the back of Harry’s hand brushing against his, the softest movement of skin against skin, and he bites down into his lip, tightening his hold on the guitar.

“You know we’ve got a musical in the spring?” he says, “You could totally go for that. Archer would cream himself over you.”

Harry shifts, that damn hand sliding up Louis’ arm, sending goosebumps as he readjusts himself. “Nah, it’s just a thing, I guess.”

“Harry,” Louis sits up, looking down at his hesitant expression. “You’re really fucking good.”

Harry smiles, and it’s lopsided, and Louis loves it.

“You can tell I mean it because I said ‘fucking,’ so I’m not kidding you around or anything. I like you.”

He doesn’t mean it to come out in exactly those words, and then he feels his face getting hot as well, but Harry is still there. He’s still looking at Louis with his eyes all big like you really think so? Like Louis’ opinion is the most wonderful, valuable thing in the world to him.

Harry sits up, and—

“Thank you,” he says. “I like you too.”

Louis realizes a split-second later that this is it. They are having a moment right fucking now. Harry is a literal four inches from his face and there’s staring and there’s crooked smiles and there’s I like you, and it’s a god damn moment right now on Harry’s bed with Stevie Wonder. And you know what? It’s like, Eleanor is not here. She is not here having this moment with Harry, and she did not eat dinner with his family, and she was not the person he asked to go driving with, and she is sweet but she is not Louis Tomlinson and she is not having this moment.

So Louis does the only logical thing he can when confronted with such a situation, which is to place the guitar in his hands over to the side, lean in and let his eyelids flutter closed, bracing himself for whatever might follow.

What follows is that he feels something on his lips, but it’s wrong, and when he opens his eyes he sees that it’s Harry’s fingers pushing him back. It’s Harry’s eyes, wider than they’ve ever been, closer than he’s ever seen them, and Harry’s strained voice saying, “Louis.”

He sits back, pulling away from Harry, face flushing red. Harry reaches out after him, brushing his hand against his chin, but Louis keeps backing himself up until he reaches the guitar. Harry’s guitar.

“Louis,” Harry says again. “Louis, I—look, I can’t be that guy. I can’t. Please don’t make me.”

“Is this about Eleanor?” Louis gasps out, trying to keep his voice level though he can feel the emotions clotting his throat. “Because it doesn’t have to be.”

Harry’s face falls, and he looks so sad that Louis thinks his efforts to keep the tears at bay might be very much in vain. “You’re not that guy either, Lou. I don’t want it to be like that between us. Not with her, she’s—“

“Don’t.” Louis says, biting his lip. “I get it. I’ll just. I’m going to go, okay?”

Harry doesn’t say anything in protest, just folds his own lip between his teeth and watches as Louis gathers himself, sliding down off the bed and striding quickly across the room, focusing desperately on reaching the door. He is outside before he can chance a look back, before he can wonder what Harry is doing or thinking or wanting to say. He’s grateful that Harry’s family are all tucked away as well, because it makes his unexpected departure easier. If it could ever be described as easy.

This time, when he gets in his car, he doesn’t bother to call Zayn, just texts, fingers clumsy against the screen, before he’s off down the familiar road, blinking over and over again and trying his best to stay calm. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just rejection. It’s okay.

i need you

He takes a deep breath, feels the pounding in his heart begin to settle, a slow burn in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s better or worse. He just feels sad.

ok

Zayn’s waiting outside his house again, only when Louis pulls up he doesn’t stay there, he just jogs over to the driver’s side and when Louis opens the door to get out he says, “Lou, Lou, are you alright?”

Louis holds open his arms and collapses into Zayn, burying his face in his sweatshirt and letting it all out. Zayn doesn’t waste time before he’s got one hand tight around Louis’ waist, the other rubbing circles in his back.

They stay like that for a long while, Zayn silent through Louis’ muffled sobs, the darkness swirling in like a sort of comfort, a sort of anonymity that shrouds Louis from the reality of his actions. In Zayn’s arms he can try to forget, and though it proves futile, it’s something.

He pulls back, wiping across his eyes with a sleeve, taking a deep breath. “I went over to Harry’s and I tried to kiss him and he stopped me because of Eleanor.”

Zayn’s concerned face slips into pity. “Oh, Lou.”

“It’s whatever,” Louis laughs, though he doesn’t even know why. He wipes across his eyes again, sniffling a little. “He’s just a boy and I’m young and it’s whatever.”

Zayn bites his lip. “It’s not whatever, alright? It’s shit. It’s shit, and you’re upset, and that’s okay. And now we’re going to go inside, and I’m going to make you tea and steal something sweet from the fridge and we’ll just sit in my room and do whatever you want. Sound good?”

Louis nods. He doesn’t trust himself to do much else. Heartbreak has never been a good look for him anyway.

---

School is slow and uncomfortable at first. They all sit together at lunch still, and Zayn and Liam still fall into their regular lengthy conversations, but Louis has Eleanor pulled closer than ever before and talks almost exclusively to her, if he can help it. It’s better than looking across the way and seeing Harry, glumly picking at his pizza, eyes downcast like they are now every single day. If Niall’s noticed the tension, he doesn’t let on, still jumping between conversations with acrobatic ease. Louis’ grateful for that; it diffuses some of the awkwardness.

He can’t avoid rehearsal though, not with the show coming up and Hell Week still making it’s terrifying descent. He wears his shitty Peter Pan costume with pride, and Perrie takes it aside one day for alterations (which he vehemently reminds her should not involve glitter) that inevitably make it look a lot better—and a lot more Shakespearean—than before. She’s even found him shoes: little brown moccasins that feel like miniature clouds on his feet.

The nice thing about being Puck is that at least he doesn’t have too much onstage interaction with Lysander, who mostly just wanders around being in love with Hermia. How perfectly wonderful for the pair of them, though: able to act out their real life romance on stage as well.

And that’s—well, it’s unfair to say, because Eleanor is being lovely about the whole situation, and she hasn’t said a word to Harry that might lead him on, but it doesn’t make the rejection sting any less. He sees the way Harry glances over at her while she’s talking to Louis, that furrowed brow of his etched deep in his face. He tries to shrug it off as best he can, but it hurts.

While he’s offstage waiting through a particularly gruesome love scene between the two (made only tolerable by the fact that Harry can’t act for shit and is mildly amusing to watch), an unmistakable voice from behind him remarks, “They’re cute, aren’t they?”

Louis grinds his teeth. “Nick, one of these days I will throw you into the orchestra pit. Watch your back.”

Nick crosses his arms, headset still looped around over his ears. “Seriously, Tomlinson? You couldn’t lift a puff to powder your nose on your own.”

Louis whirls around, leaning in with the intent to intimidate, but actually ending up a good several inches shorter than Nick. “Yeah, and my nose looks fucking great, Nick, so you can take a seat and light my stage.”

“God,” Louis hears faintly through Nick’s headphones, “Can you two not flirt for five seconds? I’m trying to focus on my cues.”

It’s Zayn. Louis’ face flushes, and he makes a mental note to reprimand him later, but at least Nick backs off after that.

He goes through the motions the rest of the rehearsal, trying his best to stay witty and charming and pull out his lines in a way that is creative and fresh, but he knows it’s not his best work. Archer gives him a note about it at the end of the day and he pretends to be wholly fascinated by the catwalks the entire time.

He follows Eleanor backstage and waits outside for her to gather her things in the dressing room, playing with the lanyard of his keys so he looks busy. She always takes a long time getting changed, which she says is a girl thing, but Louis knows he is equally as fussy about his appearance and he never takes as long as her.

Just when he’s about to knock on the door and yell for her, Harry Styles slips into the back hallway and stops at the entrance, staring blankly out at Louis, almost as if he’d forgotten the reason he came back here in the first place. Louis manages a tiny smile in his direction, but perhaps that wasn’t the best idea, as Harry’s whole face lights up with the gesture.

“Louis,” he says, approaching him slowly. “I… I’ve been meaning to—“ He stops short, biting into his lip and looking down at the ground, fingers toying with the edge of his sweater. “Sorry, do you have time for us to talk?”

Louis shrugs, turning his face away so as to seem nonchalant about it. “Yeah. Just waiting for Eleanor.”

Harry’s expression is a mish-mash of earnest happiness and curbed hopes. “That’s… good. I mean, yeah, that’s… anyway.”

Louis twists his lanyard around a finger. “What did you want to talk about?”

Harry steps closer, lowering his voice. “The other night? At my house?”

“Can we not, um,” Louis purses his lips. “I don’t want people to hear—“

Harry glances at the dressing room door and his eyes widen. “Oh. Yeah. Right, sorry. I just wanted to say, that, ah—look, I really want us to be friends, if you can overlook all that. I’m really sorry; I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I hope you can forgive me and we can still hang out?”

Louis doesn’t know what Harry’s apologizing for when he was the one who had started the whole stupid thing in the first place, but his heart melts a little at the way Harry looks at him while he asks to be friends, and he can’t help but lower his head in a quick nod.

They don’t have time to discuss anything further because just then Eleanor bursts out of the changing room, face sour, muttering, “Stupid zipper on that stupid Little House on the Prairie-ass dress…”

Louis, whose guilt over not telling Eleanor about the Almost-Kissing Incident has been overwhelming him the past few days, takes her bag from her and pets her hair with his free hand soothingly. “Don’t worry darling, your chauffeur will make you tea.”

“May the lord bless you,” Eleanor replies, snuggling in against his arm before pointing dramatically in the direction of the exit. “Shall we?”

By some unbidden instinct, Louis glances back while he holds the door open for Eleanor, and the look of longing he sees crossed over Harry’s face is enough to make him turn away instantly, like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have, intruded on some private moment.

A small, tiny, completely, utterly and totally insignificant part of Louis wishes that look were directed at him.

Well.

Maybe a large part.

And, truly, as the next few days progress forward in their attempt to return to the new normal Harry’s presence in his life demands, Louis makes an honest effort to squash that large part of himself, right beneath the thick green patterned tights Perrie is making him wear now. He really is. It’s just that, with Harry acting comfortable around him again, he’s starting to let his guard fall just like before. It’s too simple to fall into the trap of late night texts and raised eyebrows and slow laughter that Harry perpetuates with his very being. It is, essentially, just very hard not to like Harry. Or to like Harry, as the case may be.

He thinks that once the play is over, perhaps it will be easier; maybe Liam and Niall will want to go back to their regular table in the corner with the team, maybe Harry will follow suit and drift away into the kind of guy you say hi to in the halls out of principle. But as much as Louis wishes he could whisk away his crush with the crumbs of his lunchtime chips, he knows life doesn’t work like that.

Especially with Liam and Niall concerned, whose presence at lunchtime (and beyond, Louis learns, because they seem to always stop by at rehearsals when practice gets out) is inevitable and unshakeable. He finds it difficult to remember the days when it had just been Zayn and Eleanor to engage with, when the table itself had been a hole of solitude and a tribute to their own social inferiority. Now it’s a veritable haven for adolescent mirth.

“Liam and I’ve got our tickets to the show,” Niall tells Louis on a particularly mirth-y afternoon of his, hair windswept by perhaps his own whirlwind delight for life, “We’re coming opening night and we’re in the front center, like proper mates.”

“We’ve never been to a show before,” Liam adds, unpacking his sandwich with deliberate, careful folds.

“Didn’t even know we had a theatre department, to be honest,” Niall says, taking a bite of something orange that could potentially be a cheese stick, though Louis isn’t entirely convinced.

Harry rolls his eyes next to them, elbowing Niall in his good-natured way and looking over at Louis with a smile that seems to say, can you blame them? Which, yes, Louis absolutely can—but the earnest delight in their voices makes it hard to berate them for their previous ignorance of his art and existence.

“Let’s hope you don’t get anyone spitting on you then,” Louis retorts, brandishing a warning stick of celery (stolen from Eleanor, naturally). “Actors expectorate a terrible amount.”

Liam’s brow creases, and he looks over at Zayn. “Is that a word?”

Zayn, whose entire countenance has been torpedoed into submission by Tech Week, nods weakly, not bothering to look up from the black binder of show cues he’s been toting around all week. “Yeah. Word. Spitting.”

“Zayn’s having his time of the month,” Louis explains, patting Zayn gently on the shoulder, only to be swatted off reproachfully. “One of the many perks of being a Stage Manager.”

Liam’s eyes crinkle at the edges, soft and full of genuine admiration. “You must really run the show then. I bet nothing would be the same without you.”

This comment elicits the first full head raise of Zayn all day, a slow blink up at Liam’s warm smile, before he manages, “Thank you.”

Louis makes a disgusted face. Flirting in all forms is repulsive to him. He shoves Eleanor’s discarded vegetable munchies forward and stands up, stretching deliberately and flashing a grin out at the rest of the table. “Well, this has been charming as ever so far, but I’m going to excuse myself to the loo now, try not to miss me too much.”

Niall stands up too, just as Louis’ given Eleanor a parting kiss to the top of her head in an attempt to make up for stealing half her food again. “I’ll come with you. Could use a trip myself.”

Louis looks at him curiously, but doesn’t question the offer until they’re both a few tables away from the others, heading off down the hallway. It’s then that he makes his move, turning to Niall with one eyebrow quirked. “Are we really a bunch of girls now, or have you just pulled me away to have a quick gossip at the urinal?”

Niall laughs—because Niall laughs at everything—and shakes his head. “Nah. But, if you don’t mind, just wondering… did something happen with you and Harry?”

Louis’ mind flashes immediately to the dinner invitation and the night of the Almost Kiss, and he feels the heat rise in his face. Does Niall know? Did Harry tell him? Is this about to be the horrific moment television dramas have always promised where a friend finally confesses his inability to tolerate gay people? Louis bites his lip. No, there’s no chance in hell that would be Niall. Not if he has Liam “touch me Zayn I’m yours” Payne as a best friend. Perhaps he had simply come around to the air of discomfort that had settled so flagrantly between he and Harry last week. It’s only natural he eventually noticed something.

“Oh,” Louis finally says, taking his time stalling while he searches for an appropriate lie. “No, we’re fine. Maybe a bit on edge from the show coming up next week, but. Nothing out of the ordinary. All well and good.”

Niall surveys him, expression completely unreadable, and it’s at this moment that Louis finally sees the loyalty that must live beneath Niall’s party child exterior, because he’s not taking the lie and running with it, not where Harry is concerned.

“Yeah,” he answers, slowly. “Okay. I’m only asking because, well, he mentioned some stuff one night, and he’s been avoiding all our parties like crazy. Which,” he shrugs, “I mean, that’s Harry for you sometimes, but I didn’t want anyone giving him crap, you know?”

Louis fidgets. “Yeah. ‘Course. He’s a doll.”

“Not that I’m accusing you of that, or anything,” Niall adds, smiling to soften his words. “I’m just kind of, wondering?”

There are several ways Louis could easily divert this conversation, continue to cheekily evade the truth and persuade Niall away from anything suspicious, but he feels drawn to the other boy in some sort of camaraderie, and besides, he would never want Niall thinking there was anything bad going on between him and Harry anyway.

Especially when there is nothing going on at all.

He sighs, digging his hands into his pockets, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “We had a… um, disagreement? Of sorts. Basically. But that’s all over now, we’ve worked it out. I promise, no crap is being given.” He pauses. “Or was given.”

Niall nods. “Okay. Thanks, man. Harry’s just… he’s got a tender heart, yeah?”

Louis gives him a look, because, seriously—what the fuck?

“Oh,” Niall backtracks, “He, like, cares about people? A lot?”

Louis looks pointedly in the direction of the bathroom. Niall is still talking, “You know, like he does a lot of shit I don’t understand, like when he kissed the ass—er, donkey—for charity? Man, that’s gotta take some heart. Care. You know.”

“Yes,” Louis says, “So, I’m going to take a wee now.”

“Okay, that’s great. Great.” Niall runs a hand through his hair, stepping backwards. “I’m gonna, go back to the table and eat.”

“See you,” Louis answers, watching him turn and walk quickly back down the hallway. Because yeah, after all, Niall is just being a good bro. If not a strange one.

---

The last dress rehearsal hits like a full-force typhoon, huge and all encompassing in its madness. Eleanor has mysteriously forgotten all her lines while getting her hair done and locked herself in the girls’ dressing room to recite them over the script, which put on damper on Perrie’s last minute costume changes (including an entirely new ass head hand-sculpted from plaster for the unfortunate soul playing Bottom). Harry, in all his theatrical naïveté, is entirely dumbfounded by the whole experience, running around backstage trying to help everyone who needs help (which, it being dress rehearsal, is everyone) and continually bumping into the assorted fairies who can barely see through their layered gauze veils.

It’s Louis’ favorite thing, save for opening night, because he thrives on chaos and the ability to control it. Technically, controlling anything related to dress rehearsal is Zayn’s job, but Louis is ninety percent sure he’s three more curse words away from an aneurysm, so he likes to help where he can.

“Alright!” he shouts through his makeshift megaphone (rolled up script, works wonders), “We’re almost done with the intermission scene changes! Does anyone know where Oberon is?”

“He’s in the loo!” One of the nymphs pipes up.

“Go fetch him then!” Louis points at her, stepping on top of an overturned crate so as to further elevate his position.

She pales. “He’s in the boys’ though.”

Louis sighs. “Novice.”

“I seem to recall,” A smug, slow voice retorts from behind him, “that you shouldn’t be creasing if you’re a novice.”

Louis feels the prickle of Harry’s touch before his hand is even there, fingers slipping around Louis’ wrist and bringing the script down from his mouth. Even with the crate, Louis is barely taller than him, and the level gaze of Harry’s eyes is enough to waver his commandeering presence, if only for a second.

“I’m not a novice,” Louis answers primly, holding his stare. “I’m an artist.”

“Pardon me,” Harry says, “I was distracted by your tights.”

“You little shit!” Louis hops off the crate, brandishing the megaphone-turned-weapon, “My tights are the pinnacle of manhood!”

“Yes, we can all see the pinnacle of your manhood quite well, Tomlinson,” Nick Grimshaw breezes by, clipboard in hand. “Thank you for sharing.”

“You are literally the most irrelevant human being on the planet,” Louis calls loudly after him, wrinkling his nose for good measure. Harry is laughing, but Louis is suspiciously sure that his laughter is aimed at the former comment, and not his latter retort. Oh well, everyone has a fault.

“I actually came by to tell you something,” Harry says, once he’s fallen back into his usual lopsided grin, “Zayn was asking for you to help him. I think he’s up in the catwalks.”

“Oh dear,” Louis purses his lips, “Tell me, has he gone entirely mental yet? I fear for his sanity.”

Harry thinks. “Well, he’s been laughing a lot.”

“He’s fucked then,” Louis sighs, smoothing out his script against his knee. “Will you do me a favor and keep these young ones in check for me while I attend to his needs?”

Harry tilts his head toward the dressing room hallway, which is crowded with hormone-surged fairies and nymphs of various genders. “These ones?”

“Exactly,” Louis says, tapping Harry on the nose. “You’re lovely. Be right back.”

He finds Zayn standing in the light booth wearing two headsets, one on his head and one around his neck, and as if that weren’t enough cause for concern, he appears to be holding his giant black binder so tightly they are dents in the skin of his arm. Louis sneaks up behind him and presses his hands over his eyes, murmuring in his ear, “Deep breath, Zaynie. You’re on an island.”

“Lou, get your fucking hands off me,” Zayn hisses, twisting out of his arms and knocking one headset off in the process. He doesn’t bother to pick it up, only slides the other one up to take its place and continues whatever he’s doing with the monitor.

“Nick,” he says into his mouthpiece, “Can you please adjust the gossamer over the fountain? It looks like it was decorated by a family of blind Amish men.”

“Za-ayn,” Louis whines, “You need to take a break. Will you come with me to get a donut or something?”

“I don’t have time,” Zayn replies, pulling a pen out of his back pocket, scribbling something furiously in the binder, and then placing the pen between his teeth as he adjusts another switch on the lightboard. Louis doesn’t see any change, but whatever he’s accomplished must please him, because Zayn sort of grimaces around the pen in what Louis thinks is an attempted smile.

“Zayn,” he says firmly, walking towards him and pulling the pen right out of his mouth, “It’s me, Louis Tomlinson, your incredible better half, and you need to listen to me right now when I tell you that you need a break.”

Zayn closes his eyes, wrinkling his forehead. “It’s gotta be done by tonight, Lou. I have to figure this all out tonight, or we’ll be a mess tomorrow, and everyone will see, and they’ll know I didn’t do my job correctly, and I’ll have to hide out in my room like some godforsaken hermit the rest of my life.”

“Zayn,” Louis speaks slowly, placing emphasis on each individual word. “This is a high school play.”

Zayn groans, setting the binder down next to the lightboard and turning to look at Louis with bleary eyes. “What did you say about a donut?”

“I’ll get you two chocolate ones with sprinkles,” Louis smiles reassuringly. “But seriously, sit down or something. Make Nick do some of this crap; he’s a giant pain in the ass anyway.”

Zayn manages a weak smile in return. “Thanks, Lou.”

“Don’t mention it,” Louis claps him on the back, “Anyway, Liam’s going to think you look good in all black no matter how much you fuck up tomorrow, so there’s not really anything to worry about.”

“Lou—“

He puts up a hand, already making his exit. “Aright, alright, I’ll add a cream filled.” As and afterthought, he pauses in the doorway, swinging around to raise his eyebrows suggestively. “I know how you like those cream filled ones.”

Zayn lets out a long sigh. “Damn it, Louis.”

So perhaps making a donut run in his Puck costume wasn’t the most intelligent thing he’s ever done, but if Louis ever had a shred of dignity he’d lost it the first time he ever stepped into the theatre department. Besides, he happened to think the tights made his ass look good. Eleanor had agreed.

Swinging back into the building, box of a dozen in hand (because why get three when you could get twelve?), proves to be more difficult than he’d remembered. Dodging about a hundred hungry cast and crew members pawing at his side, he shouts, “Alright cattle, move along! Nothing to see here! Delivery for Mr. Malik!”

Eleanor swoops in among the fray, her Hermia dress enough to force back the more determined advancing mob of teenagers, and takes the box herself, slipping one arm around Louis’ back and leading him away. “Did you get a chocolate chip muffin for me?”

“Did I get you a muffin,” Louis scoffs. “We’ve been friends for how many years now, and you still have to ask? It’s right next to the maple bar.”

Eleanor pats him happily on the shoulder blade. “You’re lovely. How are you feeling?”

Louis shrugs, stopping to open one of the heavy catwalk doors for Eleanor. “I’m good.”

Eleanor quirks an eyebrow, balancing the box on the palm of her hand. “You’re good?”

“Yeah, well, it’s easier than saying what I actually am, which is mildly lovesick and impossibly stressed, on account of our opening night is tomorrow and Harry Styles is just as perfect as he always is and I’m still the same complete mess I’ve been my entire life.”

Eleanor reaches her free hand up to his face, cupping his cheek gently. “Not a complete mess. You is kind, you is smart, you is important.”

“Thanks,” Louis attempts a smile, “but you’ve just reminded me of that movie and I’m going to start crying.”

Eleanor pulls her hand back and smacks the side of his head.

“Louis,” she tells him, eyes sharp, “Regardless of you’re emotional state, you’re a hottie with a rockin’ body so please, shut up while I take these donuts to Zayn. Now, adieu.”

Louis watches her go, still holding the door, still vaguely feeling the inclination to cry (which he attributes partly to said emotional state and partly to the fact that Eleanor has just taken all of the donuts). When he looks out into the vast blackness of the catwalk stairs, lit only by a few blue lights strung along the wall, he can’t help but feel like perhaps it would be a nice time to curl up against the spiral staircase and just sit, listening to the fading echoes of footsteps, forgetting that they have a show tomorrow and that Harry is only attainable to him in the most ephemeral moments of his quietest daydreams.

His arm hurts. He pulls back, letting the door swing shut with a loud, empty thud. At least if Eleanor has taken all the donuts, he knows he can fit his tights over his bum come opening night. Small victories.

The hallways outside are once again a maze of pandemonium, voices Louis is unfamiliar with drifting over the loudspeaker every now and again, probably some new recruits Zayn has lifted from the back row of Intro to Drama. Their voices flow in the background like meaningless subway conversation, occasionally broken with the punctuation of Zayn’s own commanding agenda and—regretfully—Nick Grimshaw’s fussy commentary.

A girl with a headset rushes past Louis. Her nails are painted the color of eggplant. “I’ve lost my sock!” she wails. There is nothing quite like dress rehearsal.

The day comes to a close around 8:30 PM, which most of the new kids seem to find abhorrent while the seasoned veterans look pleased. It’s not terribly late, anyhow; there’s enough time to sneak in some food with the pretense of dinner and actually go to bed at a decent hour. As much as Louis likes the brief moments of solitude that come with late nights, he never attempts to open on less than eight hours of sleep.

Harry, being the newbie that he is, looks positively ruined after Archer calls them all together to give his final speech. His hair even appears less voluminous, as if it were a mirror into the weary shell of a person that must now be his soul.

“It gets better,” Louis tells him as they hang up their costumes. “Basically after your first show, you start to adjust to just Taco Bell, caffeine, and Advil and you become like this superhuman of the theatrical arts.”

Harry smiles, or at least attempts as much of a smile as he can muster after this ordeal. “Yeah, but this is my last year.”

“Yeah,” Louis bumps their hips together, “but the musical in the spring.”

This time, Harry gets out a real smile. “I already told you, I don’t really sing like that. In public.”

“You sang for me,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Harry looks down at his hands. “But it’s you.”

They are the only two people left in the dressing room. Louis has always been in charge of “cleaning and herding,” as he affectionately refers to his drama club duties, and Harry has always been helpful, and Eleanor had mentioned to him that she had gotten a different ride home tonight, so. They are the only two people left in the dressing room.

Louis looks at Harry, and to him Harry is the whole world.

“I have a question,” Harry says, not looking up, which is probably for the best. “When Zayn goes, like, in the catwalks… where is that?”

Louis blinks. Takes a focused breath. “You’ve never been up there?”

Harry shakes his head, glancing over at Louis with big eyes. “Are we allowed to?”

“No,” Louis lets himself return the gaze, lets himself smile. “You wanna go?”

The staircase up to the catwalks is always a bit touch and go, especially when everyone else in the theatre has abandoned it and Louis has to feel around on the wall for a while in order to find the switch for the blue lights. One perk of being the dorky kid in drama class since his Bieber-hair days is that now Archer doesn’t bother to wait until he’s gone anymore. Archer goes home when he feels like it; Louis prefers to stay.

He leads Harry up the stairs slowly, listening for the sound of his footsteps against the metal and the shallow hitch of his breath. There’s no real conversation between them as they scale the height up to the top, not even when Louis feels a hand against his waist, a tentative touch to test if he’s still there.

They break into light on the first balcony, because Louis has kept the house lights turned up, and Harry’s face falls into dimensions of shadow when he turns his head.

“Oh,” he says, “We’re so high.”

It’s such a stupid thing to say, so incredibly obvious, but Louis likes it, likes that he’s said it. He likes the way Harry marvels at the wonder of the ordinary.

“It’s just a bit more,” he tells him, his voice soft and feathery and quieter in the darkness. “One more flight.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers back, reaching again towards Louis’ hip, but finding his hand instead. He takes it without question. Louis pretends he is fine.

There is something so secret, so precious, about the way Harry’s fingers twist with his. It doesn’t require explanation, only the subtle realization of something that is warm and present and real. Something that is theirs.

Harry follows him up and out onto the second balcony with wide eyes, a muted awe spread across his face as Louis pulls him to lean over the edge and look. The stage is dim, the curtain still pulled back in the wings, but the majesty of its vastness is still fully present.

“There’s a step right here,” Louis points with his free hand, looking back at Harry to make sure he’s aware, “and then we’d be up in the actual catwalks, which is like, where they keep the spot and stuff.”

“The spot?”

“Light. Spotlight.”

Harry cranes his neck to peer out at the crisscrossed bridges spanning the width of the auditorium ceiling. “It’s like the skeleton of this whole place.”

His eyes wash over the rest of the structure, and Louis wonders what he’s thinking. The auditorium feels like it belongs to him, feels like home, and he’s never thought that his attachment to it and its various nooks and crannies was anything more than the long lost dreams of a boy who wanted to be A Big Deal. Truth be told, he still wants to be A Big Deal, but at least he’s gained perspective. Watching Harry watch the place, he wonders if maybe there is something more to a theatre than just those who inhabit it.

“Can I tell you something?” breathes Harry, face still trained on the empty room. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just continues talking as if he knows the answer will always be yes. “I just, like, I know this is dumb, but when I think about what I’m supposed to do with my future I just sort of… I want to be singer?”

He says it like a question, one that he really does need an answer to.

“I want to… he hesitates, “I want to, like, be on a stage like that, and make people smile, and just sort of be me, but with music.” He turns toward Louis. “You know?”

Louis does know.

Suddenly, he feels very small. He looks out at the stage and sees their sets and their blood and sweat and tears and feels small, as if the infinity of time has wrapped its arms around him and pressed him into this singular moment, this small, inconsequential moment with Harry that has reminded him of the fact that, as much as he has always wanted his life to be fabulous like a movie, a big-budget blockbuster with an astounding closing number, he is really just a boy with a crush. A boy with a crush in an indie movie that has a terrible soundtrack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with myself,” he admits, “With anything, really. I don’t know who I want to be today, or tomorrow, or next week—forget the future, I don’t even know what’s happening now.” He bites his lip, feeling the weight of Harry’s eyes on his face. “I guess I just want to make people smile, too. I just want people to see me when I walk into a room and think, ‘oh, that’s Louis,’ and something about that lifts their spirits a little, or a lot, and then they’re happy. So,” he pauses, tilting his head, “yeah, I guess that I just want to make people smile. I always have.”

When he finally does look over at Harry, Harry says, “You make me smile.”

He feels as though something has cracked within him, then—something that hurts in a way that demands to be felt. It’s as if every lovesick moment he had spent before has dissolved into an illusion now. Because before, those moments, they had never truly hurt. Because up until this moment, he had not been utterly in love with Harry Styles.

And that, well. That fucking hurts.

---

Opening night is a kind of dementia. All practice is thrown out of the window in favor of a lot of hope and cheap pizza, and virtually nothing that happens before call time (five thirty, as usual) seems to hold any notable importance. It’s as if the last weeks and months of their life had never even happened, as if Archer has just now passed out the script and everyone is trying to figure out who is who and—oh, would you look at that, we’re performing at seven.

Louis knows that every year the panic will set in as it always has: a lead will crack under pressure and start crying in the dressing room, the stage manager will lose something or forget something or start crying as well, everyone else in the cast will finally grasp that nothing at all is ready for public consumption. Every year, it is the same. And yet, when he wakes up to his alarm in a cold sweat, terrified by the realization that absolutely nothing is ready, the feeling becomes new all over again. Perhaps because this year, it’s not “the stage manager,” it’s Zayn, and it’s not “a lead,” it’s Eleanor or Harry or—god forbid—himself.

“Do you think I’ll be the one to cry this year?” Louis asks Zayn during lunch. Zayn’s eating leftover pasta salad straight out of the Tupperware and looks like hell, but who’s Louis to judge. “I mean, I don’t peg myself as much of a crier, but I’ll admit I do tend to be a bit dramatic—“

Eleanor snorts. “A bit dramatic.”

Louis sticks out his tongue. “Very ladylike.”

Zayn looks up from his pasta salad with an expression that dictates quite clearly the entire lack of fucks he has found to give. “Don’t ruin my show,” he says simply.

Liam and Niall are content to sit and listen to them talk about the upcoming performance, and appear to be even slightly amused at the level of stress it has forced into their lives. Harry, in particular, is reciting his lines under his breath at random intervals, paying little notice at all to the conversation, and Louis’ not quite sure he knows he’s been doing it.

“Is it really this bad?” Liam asks.

“Worse,” Louis replies. “You have no idea the amount of things that can plausibly go wrong in a show. Most of them are Zayn’s responsibility.”

Liam looks over at Zayn with a tender expression that makes Louis want to gag. “You’ve been working so hard, there’s no way this show won’t be good enough to win an Emmy.”

Niall sighs, followed by a collective look around the table that culminates in Louis saying, “Ah, Liam, it’s a Tony.”

“Oh.” Liam looks doubtful. “Are you sure?”

All ignorance aside, Louis is grateful for his and Niall’s support, as they have somehow managed to drum up real publicity for the show, and he’d overheard in English Lit that most of the football team is going (probably to see Harry) along with a large majority of those girls who really like lip gloss and jeggings (again, probably to see Harry, though Louis can pretend). Somehow, their brief venture into the world of popularity has established A Midsummer Night’s Dream as the happenin’ spot to be tonight. It is a scene out of Louis’ greatest daydream.

The only issue is that Harry has been acting increasingly weirder upon their foray into the catwalks, doing things like not really meeting eyes when he talks or saying things that, even for Harry, are much too concise. Louis chalks it up to pre-show jitters, the kind of thing that any newcomer should expect, but the whole day he feels a tug in his stomach that makes him wonder if maybe it could be something else bothering Harry.

Honestly, if he hadn’t been otherwise distracted, he might have thought Harry had been outright avoiding him all day. They’d barely seen each other outside of lunch (even though Louis had been trying to spot Harry at his locker during every passing period), and even Eleanor had remarked on how unusually sullen he’d been during gym. When Harry doesn’t even return his smile on the way out to their cars after final bell, Louis knows something is up. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.

He’s ten minutes late to call, as he always is, but he comes bearing the administration’s gift of pizza (the only financial support they care to give the theatre department, and frankly, the only support it needs). Eleanor helps him arrange all the different boxes by topping, spreading them out on tables in the hallway and passing out paper plates. He’s quick to shrug this duty off onto the first crew member he can get his hands on, but not after helping himself to several slices of pepperoni.

Backstage is already a chorus of pandemonium, with Zayn’s delegates ordering about props and set pieces and people, setting up for whatever behind the scenes magic they might need to produce. Zayn has already commandeered the PA system, voice booming over the loudspeaker at random intervals. “Sixty minutes until curtain, sixty minutes until curtain. If you’re on crew, get your ass in gear.” The actors are all huddled about, starting makeup routines or teasing their hair, some fiddling with costume pieces in the mirror. It’s a soothing kind of chaos for Louis, because he knows that the rising volume of the area can only mean good things.

In the makeup area, he hunts down Lou, the only girl he will trust with his face, and lets her get to work on him. “You reek of tomato sauce,” she says as she brushes foundation across his forehead. “Soon you will reek of hairspray.”

Halfway into Lou highlighting his cheekbones (“God, you’re prettier than Natalie Portman with only one X chromosome,”), he hears Harry behind him, sounding worried. “Louis? I’m… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing right now.”

Louis replies, much to Lou’s annoyance, but it’s the first real interaction they’ve had all day and he’s not going to miss out on that. “Well, have you got your costume on?”

“Yeah.”

“And your makeup done?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Then find someone to tame that hair of yours and go pace around with your lines for a bit,” Louis wrinkles his nose while Lou attempts to rub blush into his cheeks. “They’ll make announcements when we need to meet up for a pep talk.”

“Okay.” Louis doesn’t need to turn around to sense that Harry has not left yet, judging from the wary expression Lou is sending over his shoulder. “Um, I was just wondering, also… when you’re done, can you come find me? I want to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis replies, the gravity of Harry’s words not really setting in until he can hear his footsteps fading away, and Lou says, “Did you piss him off or what?”

“It’s not what you think,” Louis answers, “He’s just nervous, is all.”

“Louis, dear, you are nervous. That boy is nervous with a side of terrified.”

She powders his face with a large fluffy brush, sweeping it across his forehead with the deft fingers of a girl who deserves to be a professional, topping the whole thing off with a smear of lipstick. As much as Louis tries to retain the few shreds of his masculinity, he takes comfort in knowing that every other guy will receive the same treatment. He’s about to jump down off the chair and go find his costume, but Lou puts a finger to his nose.

“Don’t move,” she says. “Perrie wants me to do your face paint too.”

Louis stares at her. “What? No. That was not in her original designs. She cannot.”

She purses her lips. “I guess she changed her mind?”

He knows of course, in that moment, but he asks anyway: “Is there going to be glitter?”

The only thing Lou responds with is a sheepish shrug, which is enough for him to throw his head back dramatically and sigh.

The whole ordeal takes a good twenty minutes, and if Louis hadn’t already felt stupid with his makeup then a bunch of green vines and flowers painted all over his face sure does the job (“It makes you look more ethereal,” Zayn comments when he sees him, though the compliment is somewhat lessened by his barely stifled laughter). He tries his best to make it to the dressing room without further incident, quietly stewing over Perrie and her aversion to subtlety as he slips past group after group of flustered cast members.

He sees Harry has taken up with Lou now, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth while she fixes his hair. He looks dimmed, like one of those light switches pushed all the way down, and Louis thinks maybe there’s more truth to Lou’s comment than he wants there to be. He makes a mental note to corner Harry as soon as he gets his costume on and try to fix whatever problem he might be having before curtain.

Maybe it’s about Eleanor. Perhaps Harry was working himself up to a big opening night reveal of his lovesick heart, only to have his hopes curtly dashed by the leading lady herself. Louis looks frantically around the hallway, but she’s nowhere in sight, as usual. He pulls out his phone, typing frantically: where are you?????

When her reply is not instantaneous—because really, who are her other friends— Louis’ worry heightens. Oh god. What if something really had gone down between the two of them?

“Has anyone seen Eleanor?” he yells. The hallway mob replies with a few varied versions of “no.”

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself.

On the bright side, his costume is still hanging in the same place he remembers placing it yesterday, which is more than most actors can say on any given day. He hurries into it, trying to figure out how much time he has before they need to start the show and how much of that time should be divvied up between Eleanor and Harry for intense conversations. He knows with Eleanor he can always keep it short, but Harry could really go either way. He might even be one of those guys who like, cries. Louis wouldn’t know.

He shoves one leg into his tights, jumping around awkwardly in an attempt to get the other one in as well. The boy who plays Bottom looks at him curiously. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Your character literally turns into an ass,” he reminds the kid, who can’t be much older than sixteen and looks like a little shit anyway. “Literally the head of an ass.”

The boy points at his knee. “You’ve got a run.”

And—shit, when he looks down he can already see the thing: big and thick like an ugly caterpillar, crawling up the length of his thigh. He lets out a hissing string of swear words, before calling out to anyone who might hear, “Where’s Perrie?”

Everyone is stumped and ridiculously unhelpful, which, honestly, he doesn’t know what else he was expecting.

When he bursts out of the room, wild eyes searching everywhere for a speck of pink hair, he can hear Zayn making announcements over the PA system in an equally frantic manner. “Nick Grimshaw? Nick, where the hell are you? If anyone sees a big twat, let me know.”

Once upon a time, Archer cared about what they said on the PA system.

“Why is everyone lost?!” Louis cries out to no one, throwing his hands in the air as a symbolic gesture of his own surrender. “Where is Perrie?”

Titania, Queen of the Fairies (whose name Louis always forgets) waves at him from the counter where she’s perched doing her lipstick. “I think I saw her heading towards the wings?” she yells, making exaggerated pointing motions to her right. Louis salutes her, accidentally rubbing some glitter off on his hand, but hurries towards the stage when he feels the run climbing higher on his leg.

There’s too many people clogging the hallways, too many people who have no idea where Perrie is, and Zayn’s voice is back on the loudspeaker now, “Twenty minutes to curtain, twenty minutes to curtain everyone,” and oh god that’s barely enough time to fix anything, let alone without Perrie helping.

“Someone!” Louis stops and waves his arms frantically. “I can’t go on stage in my bare legs; I’ll look like a harlot!”

“Welcome to my life,” one of the nymphs replies.

He tries checking every costume related area he can find, opening the dressing room doors and shielding his eyes as he calls into each of the rooms. He even considers making a PA announcement, but that would mean finding someone with a headset, and with his luck, he would find Nick Grimshaw. So, that’s out.

He’s almost to the scene shop, doors still swinging in his wake, when he remembers the costume closet he and Eleanor always use for private conversations (mostly gossip, honestly, but he tries to pretend he’s classy). He doubles back towards the door, mentally crossing his fingers. Perrie’s new at managing the costume department, she might have actually garnered some use for this room, especially with such a big cast. Maybe this is it.

When he opens the door, he definitely does not expect to see two people making out amongst the discarded costume pieces. And he most certainly does not expect those two people to be Eleanor and Nick.

“Oh my god,” he squeaks, the same time as Eleanor opens her eyes and makes a horrified strangled gasp. Louis spares only a moment to stare at her, open-mouthed and in complete and utter shock, before slamming the door shut and looking out into the hallway with wide eyes.

He must escape. He darts towards the stage door, yanking it open and tumbling into the wings without so much as a thought towards his previous mission. It’s good then, that the first person he stumbles into is Perrie, who’s carrying around a lump of fabric that could either be a dress or curtains, and yet still looks fantastic in her tunic dress and glitter tights. Louis wishes he could look that good after managing costumes, but alas.

“Louis?” she says, when he turns his wild expression on her. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he replies, biting into his lip and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’ve just caught my sort-of-best-friend and worst enemy making out in a costume closet, which would be bad enough on it’s own, only I think I’ve got Harry Styles mad at me and I can’t figure out what I did, plus,” he points down at his leg, “these tights have ripped, and there’s not much time, it’s, what—“

“Fifteen minutes to curtain,” Zayn voice crackles through Perrie’s headset, an unwelcome answer.

“I don’t want to deal with this right now,” Perrie sighs, plopping her bundle down on the ground and bending to survey the damage of the run, which is now a full-on hole. “How big is your bum?”

“Pardon?” Normally, Louis would love to talk about his bum with anyone, even Perrie, but this doesn’t quite seem like the time.

“Your bum.” She straightens up, makes a curvy motion with her hands. “Is it Beyoncé big or could you settle for Jennifer Lawrence?”

Louis frowns. “Ew, please, my bum is worth at least a J.Lo.”

She sighs again, glancing around them quickly before saying in a low voice, “Just this once, just because there isn’t time for anything else,” and then reaching up under her dress and pulling down her tights.

Louis wants to die.

“Perrie, no, please,” he chokes out, watching helplessly as she kicks off her flats and drags the last of iridescent white fabric off her legs. No amount of protest seems to faze her as she holds the garment up to him, nodding towards it pointedly.

“Glitter,” Louis says weakly, before taking them from her and removing his own perfectly acceptable and normal non-spangled pair.

“Just for tonight,” she promises, though it does nothing to soothe him.

“Opening night,” he hisses back, hopping around until he can get one foot in. “When everyone is coming. The football team will be here, Perrie, the football team.”

She shrugs, toeing back into her shoes and picking up her bundle. “I don’t think that’s at the top of your list of concerns right now, is it?”

Louis, finally having struggled into Perrie’s tights and pulled them mostly up over his bum (thank god she wasn’t one of those white girls), sends her a withering look. She blows him a kiss, then breezes past out into the main hallway, flooding him with just enough fluorescent light to send a twinkle across his kneecap.

It’s official: this is the worst day of his life.

He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself, before following her out to the hallway. It’s almost worse in there, filled with gripping terror and adolescents chanting lines like satanic rituals, and oh—Helena, standing in the corner crying with Titania’s arm around her shoulder. At least now he can rest easy knowing one of the leads has already cried, and it wasn’t him.

Thinking of the leads has him thinking of Lysander, and of Harry, and of how he was supposed to find him as soon as he got his costume on and talk to him, and—god damn, it’s probably going to be an important talk about Eleanor which…

His mind flashes back to the costume closet and Nick Grimshaw’s tongue. Mother of god. How is he going to break this to the poor boy?

“Ten minutes to curtain, repeat, ten minutes to curtain. All cast and crew please report to the black box for a pre-show meeting. If you see Nick, kick him in the balls for me.”

Archer’s voice comes out weakly through the speakers: “Zayn, really?”

“Okay, sorry. Tap them gently or something. But seriously, ten minutes. Black box. Now.”

Shit. Louis looks around frantically as the sea of tittering teenagers begins to surge towards the meeting place, searching for a head of unruly hair. Where’s Harry when you need him?

“Lou?” Zayn sounds much less imposing when not over the PA, and when Louis turns he sees him rushing down the hall, headset still locked in place over his ear, binder tucked against his chest. “Meeting?”

“I have to find Harry,” he blurts out, “Do you know where he is?”

Zayn stops, looking slowly down at Louis’ tights, then back up to his face. He purses his lips. “Are you okay?”

It is in this moment he feels as though he might experience a nervous breakdown. “No!” he yells, flailing about powerlessly, “Harry’s been cross with me all day and then I got a run in my green tights so now I have to wear Perrie’s and they’re covered with fucking glitter, plus she made Lou give me this god-awful face paint and when I was looking for her in the first place I found Eleanor and Nick making out in our secret costume closet.”

“So that’s where he was.” Zayn lets out a low whistle.

“Now is not the time!” Louis practically shrieks. Zayn pulls his binder closer against him, sending Louis a strained look of concern.

“Are you going to be able to give your speech like this?”

“My…” Louis mouth falls open for the second time that day. “Oh my god. Senior Speeches. I forgot.”

By seniority rules, Louis and Zayn should be giving the opening night pep-talk-slash-motivational-speaker speeches tonight, a sign of prestige and importance and something that Louis has been looking forward to for his entire theatrical career. Somehow, all this worry has caused him to completely forget.

The look of panic on his face must truly concern Zayn, because he puts a hand on Louis’ shoulder and says, “Look, I’ll stall for a bit, okay? If you’re not in there in five you can take closing and we’ll figure it out.”

Louis breathes in deeply. “Okay. Yes. That.”

Zayn is gone before he can really process what’s happening, and only then does he remember exactly what events have transpired in the last forty minutes, and he feels as though he needs to sit down.

Slumping against the wall, Louis lowers himself to the floor and leans his head back against the cool cement. He pulls his knees up to his chest, but all he feels is the scratch of glitter and he realizes vaguely that he might be flashing those who walk by, since these aren’t exactly discreet tights. God damn it all.

“Lou?”

Because of course, of-fucking-course Harry Styles would walk by at this exact moment and get himself an eyeful of sparkle junk, why not, Louis’ day isn’t entirely horrific enough without that cherry on top. He lets his legs splay out in front of him and looks up at Harry with the most pitiful face he can muster. “Please, pretend I’m not here right now. For the both of us.”

“What?” Harry looks confused. “Why?”

Louis sighs. “Because I look like a proper idiot and I’m supposed to be in the black box right now giving my Senior Speech, but instead I’m having a breakdown in the hallway where no one can see except apparently you, because you’re maybe mad at me so it’s fitting that you would have to see my downfall through in such a way.”

Harry blinks.

“I’m not mad at you.”

Louis sits up straighter. “You’re not?”

“No, of course not, and if it makes you feel any better, the only reason I’m outside in this hallway is because I’m too much of a proper idiot to know where the black box is, so,” He fidgets nervously, toying with his thumbs, “You’re not alone.”

“You should have asked someone!”

“Well, I’m asking you.”

Louis pushes himself up off the wall and back into a standing position, somewhat eye-to-mouth with Harry now, and extends his right arm to point down the hallway. “It’s there.”

Harry doesn’t look in the direction of his arm at all. “Why did you think I was mad at you?”

“Oh, god, I don’t know,” Louis rolls his eyes, crossing his arms across his Peter Pan chest, “Maybe because you were moody and avoided me all day and then came up to tell me we had to talk all seriously right in front of Lou?”

At the mention of their forecasted conversation, Harry’s face falls. He seems to do this a lot: experience an emotion in deep, unfiltered ways. “I’m sorry about that, I just didn’t know when was going to be a good time and… it’s been bothering me all day, I had to say something.”

“What?” Louis throws up his hands in exasperation. “What has been bothering you all day?”

Harry bites into his lip, curling it in so that his mouth becomes one thin line. “I don’t…” he begins, hesitant. Louis doesn’t have time for hesitant. “It’s about… Eleanor, she—“

Louis’ eyes grow wide. “Oh my god, Harry. Wait, I’ve got to get this out there before you say another word. I caught her snogging Nick Grimshaw in the costume closet like, ten minutes ago. No lie. There were wandering hands and everything, it was disgusting.”

And dear lord, you’d think he’d have told Harry about a murder from the way he reacts, big eyes all widened in bewilderment, shoulders slumping. He looks so sad that Louis almost regrets telling him (almost). He never thought she was that big of a crush to him, but. You never know, apparently.

Surprisingly, the first words out of Harry’s mouth are, “Louis, are you okay?”

Louis tilts his head, shooting him a quizzical raise of the eyebrow. “Yeah? I mean, Eleanor can do what she wants. She doesn’t have to ask my permission or anything.”

Now Harry looks like he really might be having a problem. “What?” he squeaks out, looking truly horrified. Louis can’t handle this right now. He’s got a show to perform, he’s got a speech to make, and—shit, he’s got a speech to make right now.

He grabs Harry by the shoulders and pivots him in the direction of the black box. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to continue this later, it’s five minutes to curtain and Zayn will slaughter me.”

“Lou, I really think—” Harry says weakly, but his words fade back into the hallway as Louis takes off towards his cast, determined to get at least one thing right today. He bursts in while Zayn is in the middle of some droning explanation of “ensemble” or whatever teamwork shit he likes to talk about, and when their eyes meet he wraps up so quickly that everyone else turns to follow his gaze.

Belatedly, Louis remembers that he is wearing a mediocre Peter Pan costume, a girl’s glitter tights, moccasins, and a bunch of shiny facepaint.

“Alright,” he announces, feeling his cheeks burn underneath layers of foundation even as he strides to the center of the circle the cast has created. “Robin Goodfellow has arrived, so buckle the fuck up.”

Harry slips in quietly somewhere between his heartfelt declaration of love for Zayn and his snide remark about costuming, standing in the back of the circle, nearly pressed against the wall. He looks more like a startled deer than Louis has ever seen him look, and he falters a bit on a good joke about stagehands when their eyes meet, but catches himself just in time to follow through. Everyone laughs, but Harry watches him without pause.

He finishes up with a minute to go, and then they’re all crowding in the center and chanting something explicit (a theatrical tradition) before everyone is jumping and shouting in jubilation as they pull apart to run off to their assigned places for curtain. Zayn’s already got his headset back on and the PA backstage has been turned down, though the crew looks as serious as ever in their all-black outfits. Showtime.

Louis takes a deep breath, trying to center himself before he steps through into the wings. He isn’t on first thing, but he’s on soon enough, and this is the pinnacle of his acting career thus far. He can hear the chatter of the anxious crowd through the heavy drapes as Zayn’s voice echoes through the auditorium reminding patrons to silence their cell phones.

He feels a gentle tap against his shoulder, and when he turns, Eleanor is standing there.

“Listen,” she says softly, “About the closet.”

“No.” Louis shakes his head sharply. “No, we are not going to discuss that five seconds before the show starts. Hell fucking no.”

She looks down at her feet, then back up at him pleadingly. He will not back down. He glares at her even as the lights fade out and the sound of the curtain opening pulls him back into the present situation.

“Fine,” Eleanor says, stalking past him. She’s only gone about six steps before she turns back, searching for his face, and whispers, “Technically he’s a bisexual though.”

“Oh my god.” Louis covers his face with his hands.

The lights go up, and the play begins.

---

Louis is electric. He is more than in his element; his element is surging through his veins and lighting him up like New York City. Just standing backstage, listening to the back and forth of Eleanor and Harry and their tragic plans to elope, running over his lines in his head as they pull through the first act and into the second, he can barely contain himself. It’s no wonder he comes alight the moment he walks onstage to a wave of applause.

No one even seems to mind the tights. They laugh with his jokes, which is the best feeling in the world, and as he mocks the fairies he can pick out Niall amongst the crowd, the loudest of them all.

He can barely hold in his smile long enough to stay in character.

In between his scenes he’s in the wings, being tended to by some recruits in Zayn’s army while he chats to the General himself. Or, as much chatting as it’s possible for them to do with Zayn fully in charge of every minute detail of the show. At least the creases in his face have softened throughout the run, due to the setbacks being few and minor. It’s an opening night straight out of a dream. A Midsummer Night’s Dream, that is.

And if maybe Louis hesitates just a bit in his lines as he sweeps the love potion across Harry’s face in Act Two, then it’s really just a matter of circumstance and no one seems to notice.

Intermission hits in the middle of Act Three. Titania delivers her final line and the curtain falls, the lights going up as soon as it hits the stage. Zayn has the PA back on almost instantaneously and is wasting no time calling out orders to the crew as they work on changing the set to the fairy realm.

Louis has exactly fifteen minutes to get himself in order. His legs feel all itchy, and he’s quietly engaged himself in some complicated jig-type dance in an attempt to relieve the discomfort when Eleanor approaches him from behind, scaring and embarrassing him into a muted yelp.

“Louis,” she says brashly, sparing no time for his mortification, “Did you talk to Harry?”

“What?” Louis tries to recall what had transpired in the hours before he’d first pranced on stage. Everything is a bit blurry with adrenaline, but, yes. Harry. There had been a strange conversation with Harry.

“Yeah, actually,” he tells her, reaching down to scratch at his knee. “He’s been acting bizarre and I thought you might know why?”

She stares at him. “Why in god’s name would I know why?”

Louis thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “It seemed logical at the time.”

“Whatever.” Eleanor shakes her head, hand on her hip. “Look, Lou, what did you say to him? Because when we were walking offstage, he whispered in my ear—and I quote—‘I just want you to know that I’m not going to judge you for the swinger thing, it’s totally cool.’”

Now it’s Louis’ turn to stare.

Eleanor narrows her eyes at him. “I mean, I know you really like the guy, but you wouldn’t tell him I was a swinger, would you? You’re like, not that shit of a friend, I think.”

“I did not tell Harry Styles you were a swinger,” Louis says.

“Then what the hell did you tell him?” Eleanor demands, “Because let’s be real, I can barely even get one guy at this lousy high school, let alone enough to be a swinger. Which I’m not.”

“Who’s a swinger?” They both turn, and Nick is standing there, looking a bit smug and a bit curious, his hair coiffed in an exact copy of Zayn’s signature look. What a douchebag. Louis glowers at him before remembering that he’s currently speaking with Eleanor, who had previously thought it a good idea to make out with this guy. Ew.

He pulls back from her, winding around so he can pass by Nick and clap him hard on the back as he says, “I actually don’t want to see your face right now, so I’m just going to excuse myself.”

“Lou!” Eleanor calls after him, but he is already making a swift getaway, ducking behind some crew members carrying a fake tree and slipping out a door into the hallway. Not during intermission, he will not overload himself during intermission.

So, naturally, he runs straight into Harry.

There’s sweat beaded at the top of his hairline, and his eyes are all bright and vivid and striking, and when he catches Louis’ gaze he stops, frozen. Louis never knew he had that effect, but as their pre-show conversation comes flooding back to him, he figures it’s not a good thing. He was the boy that broke the news that broke Harry’s heart, wasn’t he? A bitter thought to have, since Harry wasn’t the only one in that situation.

“Harry,” he groans, falling to the side against the wall. “We have to talk, don’t we?”

Harry looks out at him with such a genuinely lost expression that it hurts. “I guess we do.”

“Did I tell you Eleanor was a swinger?” Louis asks. First things first, gotta get that one out of the way. “I didn’t think so, but now she’s telling me that I did, so.”

“I mean,” Harry starts to shove his hands in his pockets before he realizes he has no pockets, causing his cheeks to tint underneath his makeup. He crosses his arms instead. “You sure didn’t have a problem with her lack of fidelity, so I assumed.”

“Lack of fidelity?” Louis shakes his head, trying to understand. “To who? Is this about Grimshaw? I don’t really hate him as much as I say I do, to be honest.”

Harry slumps, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Lou, normally when someone catches his girlfriend making out with another guy, it’s something he has a problem with?”

Louis stops.

“Girlfriend?” he repeats, slowly.

“Yeah,” Harry rolls his shoulders back, looking as uncomfortable with their conversation as Louis feels. “Your girlfriend. Eleanor. Did you forget?”

“Eleanor.” Louis is having a hard time finding words. “My girlfriend. You think Eleanor is my girlfriend.”

“Isn’t she?” Harry’s cool demeanor has fallen, replaced with a nice shade of startled deer. Louis wants to die.

“Harry,” he chokes out, “I’m gay.”

Harry looks as though his entire life has just flashed before his eyes and declared itself a lie.

“Oh,” he whispers.

“So, like,” Louis tries gesturing, hoping it will help him say something, anything, to this mess of a boy standing in front of him. His words are coming out like chalk. “You’ve spent more than five minutes with me and still thought I could possibly be dating a girl?”

Harry is shaking his head, reaching his hands up and cupping them over his cheeks. “I didn’t want to stereotype you?”

“Oh my god,” Louis sinks against the wall even more, breathing in deeply. “I don’t know what to do right now.”

“Five minutes to curtain,” Zayn shouts through the PA, enunciating each word with the kind of power only a stage manager can, “Five minutes and I better see everyone in their places.”

“But, like,” Harry is floundering. “You said you hadn’t dated anyone before her? And she was your first kiss?”

“Yeah,” Louis waves a hand dismissively, “When we went out for like, two months four years ago until I realized I was gay.”

“Does this mean,” Harry asks, rocking back on his heels and looking everywhere but at Louis, “Like… when you came to my house? Was that, like, a thing?”

“What?” Oh my god, is this real life? Had Harry really been under the impression that he was dating Eleanor for the duration of their entire friendship? God damn. Louis wants to slap his past self for failing to bring up more gay topics of conversation. “Your house?”

“When, um,” Harry’s blushing now, trying to put his hands in his non-existent pockets again, “You know. When you tried to kiss me, basically?”

Oh. “Oh.” Louis lets out a long breath. “Yeah, sorry, I wouldn’t have done that if I’d known how gone you were for Eleanor, but honestly that in itself should have been a clear indication of my gayness.”

“Some people are bisexual,” Harry points out, before stopping suddenly and furrowing his eyebrows. “Wait, ‘gone for Eleanor?’ Since when have I ever been gone for Eleanor?”

God. Damn. It.

“You asked about her a lot?” Louis answers tentatively, “Always wanted to invite her along on things?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, “Because I thought she was your girlfriend.”

Louis closes his eyes. “Oh my god,” he says weakly, “You’ve not had a crush on Eleanor at all, have you?”

“No,” Harry says, sounding utterly bewildered. “Lou, I’m confused, I thought it was obvious I—“

“Evidently nothing between us has been remotely obvious up until this moment,” Louis clarifies, opening his eyes so as to punctuate his point with a critical raise of the eyebrow, “So let’s just start over and say to each other exactly what needs to be said at this moment, alright?”

Harry nods, and Louis says, “Okay then,” before stating firmly, “I am a homosexual,” at the exact same time Harry blurts out, “I really really like you.”

Louis blinks at him from behind startled eyes, stammering, “W-wait, um—“ but Harry is already barreling forward, speaking more words at once than Louis has ever heard out of him: “I like you a lot, and I thought it was just really pointless and I didn’t want to tell anyone because Eleanor was in the picture and I’m not that kind of guy and I would never, never ask you to be that guy either, but then like it just kept… I mean, it just sorta happened, yeah? And I couldn’t stop tearing myself up about it and I was going to tell you today, you know, we gotta tell Eleanor about all this but then you come along and drop that costume closet bomb and…“ He takes a deep breath, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and looking so vulnerable and precious that Louis literally wants to cling to him like a koala.

“Um, I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he continues, shuffling his feet uncomfortably, “I think you’re fantastic, and I would be your Blane McDonough, if you wanted.”

Louis gazes up at Harry in wonder. “You actually remembered that night I rambled at you? About Pretty In Pink?”

“’Course,” Harry shrugs, “I remember everything you say.”

And this, Louis realizes now, this is the moment.

He has just enough self-control left in his body to say, “Look, I don’t need you to be Blane or Lysander or anyone else just as long as you’re Harry fucking Styles,” before he’s reaching out and pulling Harry into him, pushing up on the toes of his moccasins so he can finally have his crescendo climactic romcom kiss.

Harry is warm and solid and every bit as perfect as the movies had promised. Louis can feel the heat of his skin through his distressingly thin shirt, and he wants to run his fingers through those curls but his mind can barely even focus on his lips through the haze of dreamy jubilation that’s folding over him. Everything feels happy. Everything feels like the good kind of shivers down your spine, like the first kiss of sunlight after long London winters.

“Dear god,” an upsettingly familiar voice scoffs, “This is the second time I have seen Harry Styles kiss an ass.”

In response, Louis ever so delicately extracts his hand from around Harry’s shoulder and gives that voice the finger. Because he could let Nick Grimshaw ruin his perfect moment, or he could make it just that more perfect.

Harry laughs against his mouth, pulling Louis closer until their bodies are flush together. Louis can feel his ears burning, in that way they always do when he is equal parts nervous and ecstatic, and there’s just something about the way Harry pauses to breathe, eyelashes brushing against Louis’ cheekbones, that makes everything feel like slow motion.

Harry pulls back, pressing against Louis’ forehead so his eyes are the only thing Louis can see, the only thing worth seeing. “Lou.”

“I can’t believe you kissed me in my sparkle tights,” Louis whispers, awash with wonder.

The edges of Harry’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “I don’t mind. I would kiss you in anything. Besides, I kind of like your costume.”

Louis takes a step back, hands still clasped around Harry’s shoulders, but face skeptical. “Harry.”

“Well, I do. I think you look adorable. I think it’s the best thing in the world.”

Louis makes a face. “I’m torn between being flattered and embarrassed for you right now.”

The PA comes on again, loud as ever, and Zayn’s voice is clearer and angrier than usual as he announces, “It’s twenty seconds to curtain and Louis Tomlinson if you are wasting time I will personally mount your testicles on the wall like a singing fish.”

Harry grimaces, and Louis lets out a short sigh. “Well, that certainly killed the mood.”

“You’ve gotta get on stage,” Harry urges, leaning forward to kiss him on the nose, “You start the scene. Can’t have a show without the star.”

“I’m afraid you are terribly right,” Louis replies, grinning as Harry presses one more insistent kiss against his cheek before shoving him in the direction of the stage door. Louis glances back at him before he opens it, eyes sparkling, and Harry mouths we’ll talk later, which is a promise he can’t wait to follow through on.

When Louis finally makes it to his mark backstage, Zayn is waiting, eyes wild and appearance disheveled in a sexy teacher sort of way, which is the only disheveled Zayn has ever allowed himself to be.

“Louis—“ he whispers harshly, before pausing suddenly, stepping back and eyeing him closely. “Oh my god. Lou, you’ve got lipstick all over your face.”

“Guess what?” Louis can’t stop smiling. “I just totally kissed Harry Styles.”

Zayn blinks. “What?”

Louis wipes off his mouth with his arm, smiling even wider. “He likes me. Harry Styles thinks I’m adorable.”

“Gross,” Zayn rolls his eyes, though Louis can totally catch the twinkle underneath, “Get your ass on stage.”

And oh, does he ever.

---

The curtain call feels like Christmas. Louis can feel his heart pounding in his ears as the applause rings throughout the room, punctuated with whistles and short bursts of catcalls, all the sounds of an overjoyed crowd. Eleanor and Harry take their bows together, and the noise is so deafening when Harry steps forward that for a moment Louis can’t keep the grin off his face, he’s so proud. Harry looks like a real life prince, and he’s happy, and Louis thinks that if he isn’t meant to belong on a stage then there’s gotta be something wrong with the world.

Of course, the moment Eleanor falls back in line she pushes him forward, and when Louis steps up for his own moment and sees their standing ovation firsthand—well. He’s a long way from crying, but he feels choked up, especially with Niall and Liam leading the football team in a full on whoop and holler session. He sends a wink off in their direction, his steps lighter than air when he steps back into his place and leads the cast in their full show bow, a big elaborate ordeal that never ends up happening quite at the same pace. When Louis glances to his right, he can see Zayn standing in the wings, positively radiant. It might be the most emotion Zayn has ever really expressed. Louis feels a tug in his throat again, but his smile wins over.

The curtain falls on the praise and the stage lights go up, everyone swathed in blinding brightness as they hurry to make their way to the doors, heading out into the fray of the hallways. Louis is wrapped up in Eleanor before he has a chance to move, her fingers digging in against his sides and her face pressing into his shoulder, whispering, “Oh my god, we did it.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs back, “We fucking smashed it.”

She lets go, pulling back to grin up at him, and she’s beautiful and he wants to say something to her, so he does, grabbing her shoulders and asking her, “El, we’re like, best friends, right?”

She quirks an eyebrow, but she nods, still smiling, “’Course, Lou. You’re the best friend I’ve got.”

He doesn’t know what else to add, so he just pulls her in close again, only letting her go when he catches a flash of curly hair out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi,” Harry says, because he’s an idiot. Louis takes a step back from Eleanor and looks up at him, eyes bright.

“Hi,” he answers back, “You’re terribly cute.”

Harry grins and yanks him forward by the waist, twirling him into such a horribly sweet kiss that Louis actually lets his foot pop a little as his eyelashes flutter closed. He feels like Princess Mia.

Eleanor makes a squeaking sound next to them but Louis can’t be bothered to care at the moment, assuming she’ll draw her own conclusions from their present situation. He threads his left hand through Harry’s hair, twisting into the curls even through the can of hairspray Lou must’ve given him, and as Eleanor’s footsteps leave them alone with themselves, everything is right in the world.

“Hey,” Harry says, pulling back to look into his eyes, a bit breathless, “You’ve got to meet your adoring fans.”

Louis presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Oh yes. Them. Terrible bother, those fans.”

Harry laughs, throwing his head back, and reaches down to take Louis’ hand in his. “Come on,” he smiles, nodding towards the stage door, “They await.”

They emerge into the lobby hand-in-hand minutes later, Louis with a huge dopey grin on his face that, any other day, would make him cringe. Today, however, he couldn’t be happier to look like such an idiot. Today, it finally means something.

The lobby is teeming with friends, family members, and the like, all hugging and congratulating and exchanging compliments amongst each other. Louis feels bright, almost incandescent, as he scans the room for familiar faces and settles on a head of blond hair huddled up in a group that he knows all too well. He pulls Harry along with him as he heads over to them, and when Niall hears them approaching he turns and says, “Hey!” before glancing down at their hands with a low, “Heeeeeey.”

“Hi Niall!” Harry chirps, smiling and waving with his free hand. “I’m glad you could make it!”

Niall winks at them. “You know me, love romantic comedies.” He elbows Liam, who is deep in conversation with Zayn, and the two look up in a frightening tandem, Liam’s face perking up when he sees who it is.

“Harry! Louis!” He rummages around in his pocket, pulling out two slightly wrinkled envelopes. “I forgot that I made you guys good luck cards yesterday, I was going to give you them at lunch but I just blanked. So, if you want them now?”

“Thanks Liam,” Louis says, taking the card Liam hands him with only minimal confusion. “That’s very sweet of you?”

It’s at this moment that Zayn stops staring at Liam adoringly for just long enough to notice the way Harry is tucked in against Louis’ side. “Oh my god,” he says, eyes going wide, “You really did kiss Harry.”

“What?” Liam’s head snaps around to stare at the two of them, Louis feeling suddenly more self conscious of his increasingly sweaty hand clasped tightly in Harry’s. “But I thought that he—“

“Er, Liam,” Harry interrupts, looking sheepish, “If you could not, right now?” Louis jumps in to change the subject just as Liam’s face grows even more perplexed.

“Zayn,” he asks, pointing at the large bouquet in his arms, “Who brought you flowers? Your mum?”

“Oh,” Zayn glances down at his bunch of colored daisies, a blush spreading onto his cheeks, “No, they’re, ah… from Liam.”

He should’ve fucking known. There’s a little card perched near the top of the flowers that clearly reads “#1 stage manger.” God, who else.

Liam looks over at Zayn and smiles, and when Zayn smiles back as though Liam belongs in an art museum, Louis makes a disgusted face. “That’s gross,” he announces, “I literally can’t deal with that right now.” He tugs on the hem of Harry’s shirt to get his attention, then points a thumb over his shoulder, “I’m going to make the rounds, okay?” Harry nods, and Louis regards the others with his own nod. “Thanks for coming you lot, I’ll be back in a few.”

“The rounds” are Louis’ way of padding his ego (not that he needs it after Harry willingly engaging in public romantic acts with him, but still). It’s just brushing casually by the groups of people clustered amongst the lobby, hoping that someone will stop him to compliment his performance and therefore give him cause to feel properly important. He does it every show, and he’s just strolled off towards a particularly promising corner of grandmas when he’s stopped by a large, imposing figure wearing a football team sweatshirt.

“Louis Tomlinson?” The guy asks, towering over him at least a foot, “That’s you, right?”

“Um, yes?” Louis stares up at him. “That’s definitely me?”

“Cool,” The hulk of a footballer pulls a long stemmed rose out of his back pocket, extending his hand out towards Louis. “Then, uh, this is for you.”

Louis’ mouth falls open. “I’m sorry?”

The guy jerks his head toward the rose. “It’s for you. You were great, by the way.”

“Um?” Louis blinks, trying to regain focus, his mind terribly flustered, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I literally have no idea who you are? Like, until this exact moment, I actually had no idea you attended this school. Welcome, by the way.”

Again, the guy shoves the rose towards him. “Look,” he says, shrugging, “It’s for you.” Only then does Louis reach forward and pluck it from his grasp, barely able to get in a confused, “Thank you?” before he’s shuffled back into the crowd.

“That was fucking weird,” Louis murmurs, turning to relocate his gaggle of grandmas. Instead, he runs right into the center forward of the football team. This one he knows.

“Hi,” says Josh, who’s sort of a little shit from what Niall’s told him, “Louis? This is for you.” And, well, would you look at that—he’s got himself a rose too.

It follows suit like that, the entire team (and also the mascot, which—what) handing him roses, one after another like some assembly line of chiseled chivalry, and Louis standing there in shock as those around him look on in a similar confusion while the pile of flowers in his arms steadily grows.

He’s fully out of sarcastic reactions when they hit the last player; he’s taken to just bouncing on the balls of his feet with his ears burning red, biting his lip so as to contain some of his bewilderment. He half expects his bio teacher to walk out with a rose afterwards, so honestly it’s less of a shock when, after Aiden, Nick Grimshaw sidles up to him.

“Okay, look,” Nick huffs, giving him a sidelong glare, even as he fiddles with the rose in his hands, “Louis, you’re like—well… fuck, just take the damn thing.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, in a sort of daze. The rest of the crew comes next, wave after wave of girls and boys in their monochromatic glory, handing him roses and congratulating him in various forms of boldness, one girl even going so far as to say that he’s “really an inspiration, Louis,” even though he hesitates to think of anything remotely inspirational he has ever done in his regretful 18 years (other than perhaps consume an entire pizza in fourteen minutes once).

There’s a full on crowd watching it happen now, a small collection of people who are still flitting about in the lobby and have stopped to figure out what the hell is going on with this tiny fairy boy holding two armfuls of red roses and looking like he’s just been dipped in tomato juice.

After the crew there’s the cast, and Louis is really starting to wonder how they even managed to afford this many fucking roses, let alone hide them from him for this long, let alone plan an entire secret rose giving ceremony thing. He’s positively floored. Also, there is a large part of him that feels as though he is teetering on the precipice of bursting into tears.

After Peaceblossom hands him her rose, accompanied by a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, he finds Eleanor standing there, surrounded by their little lunch crew, each holding roses of their own. “Oh my god?” Louis says to her, blinking furiously so as to not cry in front of this many people.

“It was Eleanor’s idea,” Harry blurts out, grin stretched so wide that his dimples might etch permanently into his face, “She came up with the whole plan and Zayn helped and—“

“Harry, shut up,” Niall says, kicking him in the shin. Harry winces, but doesn’t stop smiling.

“It’s just,” Eleanor looks down at her hands, “I wanted you to have A Thing.”

He knows exactly what she means, so he cries.

It’s kind of sweet, if not totally embarrassing at first, because Louis is nothing if not steel nerves and focused ambition, and crying out his feelings with a shitload of roses in his hands is not a particularly ideal situation for anyone with those traits, but then, not everyone has the chance to hold a shitload of roses in such a manner, and Louis guesses that if they did they would probably cry too. Anyway, Eleanor seems to find it a suitable response, because she smiles like she also would like to cry, and the rest of his friends step forward to give him their roses alongside her.

Harry, god bless the boy, uses his precious few seconds with Louis to brush the tears off his cheeks with his thumb and kiss him within an inch of his life, until Eleanor is complaining, “It’s been a goddamn hour you two,” loudly in the background and they both break away smiling. It’s a good kind of smile. It’s a good kind of everything.

Eleanor leads him back to the double doors of the auditorium itself, and he notices then that most of the audience had filtered out of the lobby by now, probably bored of this strange crying glitter child, and he hugs his roses tighter to his chest when he follows her inside.

The cast and crew are lined up on stage for their post-show picture, a tradition after opening night, and when they see him walk in, trailing Eleanor, they all burst into a ridiculous amount of over-enthusiastic applause. Louis stops to bow, dropping a few roses in his wake, but Harry picks them up for him and trots after him as Louis all but prances down the center aisle to take his place for the photo. He doesn’t even really think about the fact that he’s wearing Perrie’s glitter tights; he just smiles.

Then comes the hard part.

Cleaning up after a show is always the worst, as everyone is high off adrenaline and fast food, and the general atmosphere is one of ambivalence when it comes to cleanliness. Zayn forces Liam and Niall to help carry props back to their original locations, while Louis and Eleanor help hang up costumes as Harry sorts out the makeup counter with Lou.

Eleanor pulls hanger after hanger down from the clothing racks, and as she does she catches Louis watching Harry out of the corner of his eye, another one of those ridiculous smiles accidentally creeping onto his face. “So,” she muses, “You and Harry.”

“Yes,” Louis lets the smile have its way. “Me and Harry.”

“I sort of knew before you even did anything,” she tells him, pulling out the sleeves of a dress, “When he walked onstage after intermission, he had glitter all over his face. Like, all over.”

“All the other fairies have glitter on their faces too,” Louis points out, “Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Lou,” Eleanor rolls her eyes, “Harry doesn’t want to make out with any of the other fairies.”

“No,” Louis brightens, “No, he doesn’t.”

She smiles, hanging up a tunic. “You can give me all the dirty details of the actual incident later, but for now, just know that I’m glad you’re happy, okay? I really am.”

“I know.” He hefts an armful of fairy veils into his arms, tossing them in the general direction of the bin they belong in. Good enough. “I could tell by the way you orchestrated that everyone in the entire school give me a red rose in front of the large majority of our audience. Which, you know, thank you. Thank you, really.”

She shrugs, but he knows that the gravity of the words is not lost. “No big deal. You’re worth it.”

They sort through clothes for a moment in comfortable silence, each content to linger in the other’s warmth without need for conversation. Eleanor hangs up another large dress; Louis kicks some shoes underneath a cupboard.

“So,” she says, finally, “you’ve got your big climactic moment, then. Does that make Harry your leading man?”

Louis laughs. “Are you kidding? He’s my leading lady.”

---

They go to McDonald’s afterwards, because it only costs like four dollars to feed a hundred people there and no one really has any money. Everyone piles into cars and leaves Archer to lock up the building, saying goodbye until tomorrow.

Harry walks Louis out to his car in that sappy romantic way that Louis has always secretly wanted, and he slips his hand into the back pocket of Louis’ jeans so as to pull him closer. It’s just short of wonderful, even when Niall and like half the football team drive by in a truck and honk at them for an entire minute. Harry even helps him load all his five billion roses into the back of his car, which is a feat in itself. They celebrate by opening Liam’s good luck cards, in which he has written (respectively), “break a leg as lice catcher” and drawn a pretty poor rendition of a hockey puck.

“He was never known for his intellectualism,” Harry sighs.

Even shitty McDonalds food tastes good on their adrenaline high, and Louis gets one of those massive vanilla ice cream cones with the perfect swirl. Eleanor has a salad and a bottle of water, but then, she’s Eleanor. Niall gets a fifty piece chicken nuggets and doesn’t even plan to share. Zayn orders French fries.

Everyone crams themselves into as many booths as they can fit, and some of the less aggressive cast members end up sitting on laps or tabletops, much to the chagrin of the McDonalds employees. Honestly, it’s a wonder they haven’t been kicked out of here before.

Harry saves a place for Louis between him and Liam, and Louis has to essentially manhandle the both of them to get into his seat, but it’s worth it. Harry looks all glowy, though Louis isn’t sure whether that’s the leftover stage makeup talking or what.

“Take a selfie with me,” he tells Harry, nudging him in the shoulder, “It’s not a theatre trip to McD’s without a proper selfie.”

“You’ve got flowers all over your face,” Harry points out, nudging him back. “Flowers and glitter.”

“So’ve you.” Louis sticks out his tongue. “And anyway, I’m mad cute.”

Harry smiles. “That you are.”

Louis leans back in his seat, throwing on his best pout. “You’re not supposed to agree with me when I say I’m cute, you’re supposed to counter me with better adjectives. Like that I’m manly and rugged.”

“Okay,” Harry just keeps smiling, and it’s the worst because he’s so genuine, and he means it. “That too. Manly and rugged and handsome, all that.”

“Gag me,” Niall says from across the way, pantomiming an incredible performance of being sick into his supersize coke, “I can’t make it through much more.”

“Beautiful Niall,” Louis offers him a sarcastic hand of applause, “Can’t believe you never took a drama class.”

“I prefer my life drama-free,” Niall replies, stretching his arms out behind his head and leaning back against them, “That’s why I remain a single man.”

“The only single man, apparently,” Eleanor says dryly, looking up from her salad. She’s right, too: Harry’s back to looking fondly at Louis, and Zayn is drawing a cartoon of Liam on a napkin while he watches, deep in focus. Even Louis is a bit disgusted with the scene, but not enough to stop letting Harry sneak bites of his ice cream as he presses in closer to Louis’ side.

He leans in too far one time, smearing soft serve all over his nose, and at Louis’ giggle of amusement, he begins to try and lick it off. Liam laughs, but Louis laughs harder, eyes lighting up as his stupid favorite boy attempts uselessly to reach up with his tongue.

“Oh my god,” Louis darts forward with a napkin, attempting to aid Harry in his endeavor, but Harry just holds up a hand and says, “I got it,” before going cross-eyed.

“Harry,” Louis says between breaths of laughter, “Harry, good god, I love you.”

Everyone at the table goes quiet, and Harry freezes with his tongue halfway up to his nose, his eyes focusing again straight on Louis’ face.

“Ah, wow,” Louis says, reaching up to scratch at his neck, “What an uncomfortable typically platonic phrase I chose to use right then.”

Niall snorts, and then the rest of them are back to their previous antics, Zayn scooting closer to Liam, and Eleanor dumping a third packet of Caesar dressing on her salad. All is well and good again, and Harry looks down at him, lopsided grin on full power.

“I liked it,” he says quietly, just for Louis to hear, “That phrase.”

In answer, Louis reaches under the table and folds their hands together, slipping his fingers in between Harry’s and squeezing.

They only stay for a few minutes longer, any more and the staff would have surely banned them from the premises. Zayn and Niall make a tower out of stacked drink cups that’s almost as tall as Eleanor when she stands, and Louis proudly carries it to the trash as they leave. He doubts there’s a single thing he couldn’t do proudly at this point. He’s got roses all over his backseat, a standing ovation ringing in his ears, and Harry’s arm around his shoulders. He couldn’t dream up a better life if he tried.

Niall seems to take at least half the cast in his truck, and Louis can’t help but smile as someone starts blasting The Lion King over his state-of-the-art sound system. Niall’s officially been inducted into the ranks of theatre kids now. Liam doesn’t look too bad off either, leading their most prolific set designer and stage manager off towards his car with a smile that could cure cancer. Zayn gives him a parting wave as they pass, and Louis can’t wait to interrogate him later. But, for now.

For now, there’s Harry.

They’ve parked directly next to each other, in that gross way that infatuated people often do, and Harry is leaning against his own car, arms crossed, waiting as Louis approaches.

“I don’t think Francine can take all these roses,” he calls out, gesturing to his dilapidated vehicle, “She hasn’t been adequately prepared for my surge of popularity.”

Harry grins and tilts his head. “What, no one thought to tell your car what a big deal you are?”

Louis waves a hand dismissively, finally reaching his destination and hopping up on the back of his car, “Clearly not, or she might have morphed herself into a Porsche by now.”

“I’d like to see that day,” Harry muses, straightening and sidling over to Louis, slipping in between his splayed out legs and tugging him closer by the hips.

Louis squeaks, “I’m gonna fall off my car!”

Harry just laughs, looking up at him with the reflection of the streetlamps in his eyes. “Pretty rotten thing for a car to do.”

“You’ll have to get me a new one,” Louis crosses his arms, “Rockstar Styles and his ragtag band of hipsters, buying the big deal boyfriend a really sweet ride.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Harry visibly brightens. “Is that what you are?” he asks, “The big deal boyfriend?”

Louis feels his face get hot. “Well, I’m sure as hell not in the ragtag band of hipsters.”

Harry presses up on his tiptoes to kiss him then, pulling Louis closer in a way that makes him fear for his life but also makes him deliciously, deliriously happy. Harry’s arms are tight around his waist, and he tastes like vanilla soft serve.

“I want you to be,” Harry says, leaning back to look into Louis’ eyes, all wide and bewildered again, “The boyfriend.”

“Okay,” Louis nods, “Okay.”

“Cool,” Harry smiles, and now Louis’ not so sure whether it’s the streetlamp that makes his face shine like that or whether it’s really just the way he is. “I’ll totally buy you a car, too.”

“I’m literally holding you to that,” Louis answers, pressing against Harry’s forehead, hands snaking into his hair. “A really hot one. A red one.”

“Sure,” Harry murmurs against his mouth, “Anything you want.”

“Fantastic,” Louis replies, tugging the curls closer so their noses are brushing. “You’ve fully charmed your way into my heart now.”

“What else have I charmed?” Harry whispers, and Louis laughs.

“Oh, Styles,” he leans even closer, “You wanna take me home?”

And Harry, “Don’t mind if I do.”

---

It takes a week or so for Louis to really get used to it: holding Harry’s hand in the hallways, goodbye kisses after late night adventures, whispered conversations full of words that make his spine tingle. He wakes up each day with the distinct feeling that every second he opens his eyes is another second closer to seeing Harry at his locker in the morning, fresh out of the shower and smelling like citrus with a few damp curls at the nape of his neck.

He wakes up feeling like springtime.

They’re basically the cutest couple ever; or, at least in Louis’ opinion. Sometimes he steals Harry’s sweaters from the back seat of his car and wears them to school the next day, cuffing the sleeves so they don’t dangle over his wrists. Eleanor rolls her eyes (everyone rolls their eyes, even Liam sometimes), but when Harry inevitably asks, halfway through lunch, “Is that my sweater?” it’s totally worth it for the way the edges of his mouth quirk up in that lopsided grin.

Harry invites him back over for dinner, real look-I’m-dating-your-son dinner with the fancy napkins and everything, and Gemma answers the door again and says, “So, whatever happened to your girlfriend then?”

Harry squeaks, “Gem!” and she rolls her eyes and ushers him in, saying, “Harry whined about her for like, weeks.”

Later, over salmon-stuffed ravioli (Harry’s idea, which—lord, Louis’ struck gold), Harry’s mum tells him some great zingers about Harry in his youth while Gemma chimes in the occasional story about his “overzealous Louis worship.” Not that he’s complaining. Harry puts his head down on the table and groans.

“Harry,” his mum says, “Manners.”

In return, Louis has him over for tea to meet his sisters (“Four!? I can barely manage the one.”), and re-meet his own mum, but the two of them end up on the couch gossiping all over again so it’s not much of a do-over at all. Still, his sisters are dutifully enchanted and when Louis takes the twins to bed, Daisy whispers in his ear, “He told me his favorite princess is Ariel.” So, like, Harry smashed that one pretty damn well out of the park.

They talk a walk together on a more brisk day, Louis with a scarf wrapped all the way up to his chin, Harry with his coat buttoned to the top button, swinging their hands together as they stroll. Somehow, even with all the blustery coupledom they have encountered, they are both far too lovedrunk on holding hands.

“D’you know,” Louis says, feet crunching through half-raked leaves, “Eleanor’s asked Grimshaw to go to Sadie Hawkins with her?”

Harry laughs, breath making clouds in the air, “Who will wear the pants?”

“How heteronormative of you, Harold,” Louis scoffs, “You would even question Eleanor wearing the pants?”

“She does seem partial to skirts.”

“Yes. That, and leggings.”

Harry giggles, “And glitter tights.”

“God damn it,” Louis sighs, raising his free hand to the sky in resignation, “They were Perrie’s tights.”

“Regardless.”

Louis kicks some leaves at him.

“Anyway,” he continues, “What if we were to go to Sadie Hawkins? Would you wear your red sequined shorts?”

Harry stops, tugging Louis backwards with him. His eyes look like sparklers. “Are you asking me to Sadie Hawkins?”

“Well.” Louis pauses. “I mean, had the conversation continued with an affirmation on the shorts, then yeah.”

Harry makes a sound halfway between a squeal and an exhale of a breath Louis never knew he was holding, and then he’s pulling Louis into a big, woolen hug, wrapping his arms so tight around his neck he might as well be wearing two scarves.

“I like you so much,” he whispers into Louis’ ear, “Of course I’ll go with you.”

“Am I the first person who’s ever asked you?” Louis manages to get out amongst the layers of fabric. Harry finally relinquishes his hold at that, blinking down at Louis fondly.

“You’re the first one who’s ever had the guts to do it, yeah,” he grins, “I can be a bit intimidating.”

Louis snorts. “As if. You practically just asked me to ask you.”

Harry clasps their hands together again. “Only because you’re literally the cutest person I’ve ever seen right now.”

“I thought I was manly and rugged?”

Harry tilts his head, still smiling, “You’re wearing mittens, Lou. You’re cute as a button.”

Louis gasps in mock horror, pulling away from Harry and covering his mouth. “You’ve done it now. You’ve literally used an expression straight out of the mouth of my grandmum. How can I ever kiss you again with a mouth like that?”

Harry kisses him anyway.

“Now that I’ve gone and taken your shitty school dance virginity,” Louis tells him, once Harry has finished kissing his cheeks pink as well, “Will you at least consider trying out for the spring musical?”

Harry kisses Louis’ nose. “Maybe. Are you going to try out?”

“Are you an idiot? The entire cast and crew of our last play gave me roses. I’m essentially their God.”

This time, Harry nuzzles in against his neck and kisses his temple. “Cute. You’re so cute.”

“Harry,” Louis whines, wriggling out of his grasp and putting his hands on his hips. “I’m so totally serious right now. Stop calling me cute.”

“Mittens,” Harry says weakly.

Louis tilts up his chin. “If you don’t try out for the musical, I will essentially be busy during eighty percent of our best hanging out time, and you will be fully deprived of my luminescent presence for a good two months, at the least.”

Harry’s face falls. “Eighty percent?”

“The twenty percent is lunchtime.”

“Ew, Lou, that’s like thirty minutes, if even.”

“My point exactly.”

Harry sighs, chewing on his lower lip. “Can I think about it?”

“Sure,” Louis shrugs, “If by think you mean ‘say yes’ because I want everyone to see how good you look when you sing.”

The corners of Harry’s mouth edge up in the makings of a smile. “So, this is backed by purely selfish motives.”

“Naturally.” Louis gives in and reaches back over to hold Harry’s hand in his again, mittens be damned. “No correlation whatsoever to the fact that I think you’re brilliant and deserve recognition as such.”

“Lou—“ Harry’s eyes soften, and Louis knows what he is about to say, but there is no chance in hell he’s going to let him get all mushy and sentimental here on a public sidewalk. No way. There are pedestrians here.

He holds up a hand. “Please, I’ve already gotten like a billion roses. I’m just peachy over here. You, on the other hand—you promised me a new car.”

Finally, Harry relinquishes a smile, dimples and all. “Okay. Okay, I’ll try out.”

Louis lets out a whoop and starts in on his celebratory dance, but Harry is quick to halt him with his free hand. “Just,” he says, slowly, “Which musical is it?”

Louis smiles wickedly. “Rent.”