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Chapter Text

“Thank you so much, Las Vegas! You’ve fuckin’ smashed it!” Louis screeches into his mic, leaping into the air, his feet colliding with the stage in time with the last note of the song. The screams in the amphitheatre echo out as he raises his fist, freeing his middle finger to the audience, their cheers ricocheting off of the shell roof above. “We’re Broken Beaks and we bloody love you!”

Zayn rushes forward, wrapping an arm around Louis’ shoulders, jumping giddily and kicking his feet out. Louis belts out a laugh, their actions earning raucous applause as they wave to the crowd one final time before slinking behind the black curtain backsplash on the stage and out through a white-painted concrete hallway. 

They’re quickly led through miscellaneous walkways until they’re grabbed and escorted to a private air-conditioned tent. They were the final main stage act tonight, and after a full day of greeting fans, taking group photos, signing cards, stock photos, and boobs in scorching, dead heat only to have to still perform a full set, Louis is fucking beat.

Whipped.

Exhausted.

He lets out a shrill holler, a small group off to the side of the tent jumping in alarm, but his entire crew around him not even flinching. 

“I’m fucking tired, mate, proper ready to pass the fuck out,” Louis grumbles, popping a can of beer open and taking a swig. He’s dehydrated, it’s hot as fuck. It’s been hot as fuck with all of their recent dates being in the desert—Albuquerque, Phoenix, and finally, Las Vegas—and now he’s going to be expected to hit the strip with Zayn, Niall, the rest of his band, and a couple of other groups he’s grown amicable with on this year’s Warped run.

And he’s fucking ecstatic.

The thing about Louis is that he just goes and goes and goes.

His mum had joked about how he’s going to age himself twenty years with all of their excessive partying, and Louis waved her off. But the massive gulp he’d let out the other day in the washroom when he’d parted his hair to pull it half-up and spotted greys had him swallowing cotton for at least three hours.

Niall had absolutely lost his shit when he’d seen it, bursting out into loud laughter and teasing him the entire night. He’d cracked remarks about how Louis should chop off all of his hair and start golfing as if Niall himself doesn’t still bleach his own full head with no-name hair product and golf himself.

“Louis? Hello?” Zayn’s voice interrupts him, staring at the grass beneath his feet with a smirk, the cold can of beer in his hand sweating in the heat and dripping down his wrist.

Louis blinks, having pulled out his pack of cigarettes (sorry, mum) and zoned out. “Shit, sorry, what?”

“Niall says that we have to meet him outside, there’s apparently someone here that wants to have a chat.”

“Fuck saaake,” Louis moans loudly, tapping his pack of cigarettes and beer can against his forehead, “I don’t really feel like dealing with some rich kid. I can only handle so many daddies buying their teenagers celebrity friends in one week.”

It’s happened at almost every single date so far in tour, sometimes multiple times a night. And the worst part is that the kids genuinely think they’re going to get to be friends with the band; They think that they’re going to get to hang out and party and take selfies with the band when in reality it’s literally just that they (mostly Louis, unfortunately) get dragged out of whatever it is that they’re doing to pose for a few photos and talk for ten minutes. Louis doesn’t even know who’s getting the money they’re paying because it’s certainly not him, not the band. He at least hopes it goes towards a new tour bus or something useful. He loves his fans, adores the opportunity to be able to get to know them and greet them all on such a personal level, but this type of tour exerts an extraordinary level of energy from a man. Normal tours are a lot of jetlag, partying after shows, and the occasional shag here and there, but a cross-country Warped Tour is nonstop shenanigans plus actually having to make an appearance all day in front of thousands of people.

Louis wouldn’t change it, obviously.

He fucking loves it, thrives on the chaos and the high of being appreciated.

He just really does not want to deal with this after boiling in the heat for nearly twelve hours straight. He just wants to get drunk, find a club with some air conditioning, ogle a fit bloke or two, and maybe embarrass his friends in public.

However, reality hits him like the van that should be carting him and his friends to the strip, and they step outside of the tent, the low lighting of the warm lamp and the buzzing of the bug catcher humming in the distance. Louis is already irritated when he sees a group of about ten people—all buff and muscled men—approaching from a roped-off section past the long-abandoned and closed down VIP meet and greet section.

So this kid is rich rich, Louis thinks as he bites back a cluck of the tongue in annoyance.

The men part in a wave, allowing someone to step forward, a bit rushed.

“Hi, Louis. Zayn.”

Louis recognises him immediately, shock colouring his features. “Harry Styles…?” He arches an eyebrow, drinking in his ridiculously tight babydoll tee with a bedazzled palm tree splayed across his pecs, shaggy curls held away from his face with a clip, metal-clad fingers, and trousers so loose it looks a bit more like a maxi skirt. “Didn’t picture you as the pop-punk listening type.”

Zayn snickers, elbowing Louis in the side and turning to whisper to Niall, who is stood beside them, and Louis rolls his shoulders in confidence.

Harry Styles frowns—more of a pout, really, very forced, like he’s trying to look cute or something—and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m disappointed. You shouldn’t be surprised. I’m quite the fan.”

Louis lolls his head over to Zayn, bored of this already. “The mainstream loverboy says he’s a fan.”

Zayn laughs, but it’s quiet and a bit trepid. Louis doesn’t miss the underlying tones there. Evidently, he’s intimidated by the pop-culture powerhouse.

What a wimp.

Once again, Harry Styles frowns, his lower lip jutting out. “I had a show the other night at the—”

“Nice. Anyways,” Louis interrupts him, and a tiny sound of surprise escapes Niall’s lips. “I was actually in the middle of something, so you can chat with Zayn if you want. Thanks for stopping by. I hadn’t had any idea that you were here.” Louis flattens his hand and tugs it away from his forehead in a salute.

“You’re just going? Like that?” Harry’s voice is curt and his mouth is agape. He looks mildly embarrassed, and, honestly, as if nobody ever speaks to him like that. And, well, they probably don’t.

Louis stops, eyes flickering from Zayn, to Niall, to one of the men behind Harry, and finally to Harry himself. He doesn’t look a damn thing like he does in all of the magazines. How he looks on Twitter, on the telly when he performs a show, all six-pack abs and assurance. Now, Harry Styles looks…well, frankly, shy. Like he’d maybe be going over to a mate’s house for a drink and some poutine rather than heading towards the nightlife and shagging every girl within a three kilometre radius. “Well, I don’t reckon we’ll have much in common, the lot of us, so, yes. Just like that.”

Harry Styles’ jaw hangs there for a beat before he snaps it shut. He shoots a glance at Zayn. "I was just going to tell you guys that you killed it, and then invite you out with me," He cocks his head to the side, glaring at Louis' retreating form. “I really didn’t mean any harm by it. I genuinely like your music, you know.”

Zayn scoffs, loudly digging his boot into the ground and assumedly pointing his thumb towards where Louis has gone. "He's just pissed because he has a date with his hand."

At that, Louis halts, the heels of his Vans practically skidding in the gravel. He turns and points an accusing finger towards his bandmates. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means, mate,” Niall wiggles his eyebrows.

Louis squints at them.

Traitors.

Harry Styles laughs loudly, a sharp cackle, reaching out his palm. Zayn takes it, giving it a firm shake. "Offer still stands for you. And," He gestures to Niall, "You're invited as well. As are the rest of your crew."

“Louis?” Zayn calls, shrugging at him. “Stop being petty for two seconds.”

Harry Styles tosses a glance his way, eyes wide like a fucking baby animal or something. Why the hell does he look like that? He narrows his eyes at him. Of course he’s going to go. He hasn’t really got a choice when everyone has gone and ganged up on him, has he?

“And then Liam said,” Harry Styles pauses, laughing so hard at his own godforsaken joke that he needs to catch a breath, “that I was a strawberry!”

Zayn and Niall both burst into laughter, and Louis even feels himself let a giggle out.

He doesn’t even know what’s funny.

He must have missed the punchline.

He’s drunk.

“You’re not funny, Harry Styles,” Louis says, waggling a finger in his direction.

“Stop calling me that. I’m just Harry.”

“Okay, Just Harry,” Louis grins, and Just Harry grabs his finger, bending it backwards. “Ouch!”

“Don’t be sassy,” He remarks, but he’s smiling back. “You think I’m funny.”

“I’m on my fourth drink, Just Harry. I think everything is funny,” He shoots back, and before Harry can say something else, Niall is standing up next to him.

“Want to dance?” He gestures towards the dance floor, and Louis rises to his feet to join him and let off some of the strange nervous energy he’s got welling inside of him.

Louis looks back at Harry, who slowly shakes his head after glancing around the room. “Can’t.”

“Suit yourself,” Louis shrugs, and he follows Niall out to the floor, drink in hand.

He starts to spill his vodka when people slide closer so he downs it all in one go, feeling it seeping into his veins and breaking down his final wall. Somehow he ends up with a bubble wand, dragging it through the air and filling the space with sparkles. Louis follows one of his creations, his eyes catching on Harry, sat back in the shadows of the room, watching it as well.

“Pop star lurks in the shadows while people he invited out have a blast. That’s what I’m writing. In my newspaper,” Louis slides up next to him, resting an arm on the back of the booth.

“Your newspaper,” Harry repeats, a tiny laugh breaking free.

“Yeah. About you. How you’re being all boring ‘n shit.”

“I would dance if I could,” His words are slurred just like Louis’.

With what coherent thoughts he has left, he definitely notes the way his limbs are starting to feel a little more wobbly than he’d prefer as he passes from silly and tipsy to heavy and drunk. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”

A slow smile spreads across Harry’s face. He doesn’t reply, just glances down to his feet. Louis doesn’t like being ignored.

“It’s ‘cause of those legs of yours, innit? Be dancing ‘round like a deer on ice or some shit.”

Barking out a laugh, Harry grins wide and reaches out to take the bubble wand from Louis. If he weren’t so inebriated, he would have gone to war for his bubble wand. He has no idea how he got it. But it’s his now.

“‘S why you get paid so much money to sing. A singer, not a dancer.”

Harry’s eyes flicker up to meet Louis’, and he whips the wand around, holding his stare as bubbles fly out into the air. “Could dance just for you.”

“And why would I wanna see your nonexistent moves, Harold?”

“Says the man who was just jumping ‘round throwing his arms up.”

Louis gasps, a hand over his chest. “Don’t you knock my signature move!”

Harry giggles, reaching a finger up to his mouth and dragging his lower lip down towards his chin. “Your signature move is shit.”

Shrieking, Louis throws his arm out and pops two bubbles aggressively, snatching the wand back and viciously waving it in Harry’s face, stealing sweet laughter from him. “You’ve just committed a crime by insulting me! No more bubble making for you!”

A tap on Louis' shoulder.

Niall and Zayn.

And shots.

“Yes, mate!” Louis exclaims, passing one over to Harry as they each grab a glass. They count it off, and the last thing Louis remembers is the burning of the liquor sliding down his throat.

Broken Beaks are on at quarter past five at Canterbury Park in Minnesota today. Louis glances around at the fans queued up to meet artists of varying levels of fame, taking photos, playing games, signing up for raffles. It’s something he always dreamed of. He'd been to a couple of UK Warped Tours but it's crazy to him to be in America, travelling across such a huge mass of land and playing songs he wrote to people from another country who sing them back.

He waves to a few fans as he strolls past, stopping to pop a photo with one and sign a CD for another as he approaches their tent. They have an earlier time slot today, which is nice because they can sit down after their performance and eat some greasy festival grounds food and Louis can drink a tea and then complain about how shit it is to everyone around him.

"Oh no," Louis grumbles at a crowd of people with their phones raised. In the front of the crowd is someone wearing a baseball hat and a zippered hoodie, just shy of being mobbed by curious onlookers and eager teenagers.

An elbow is thrown into Louis' side, a smirk on Zayn’s lips. Louis glares at Harry Styles as they start to set up their photo booth. A staff member stands behind a table where they're collecting donations for a children's hospital and research fund in exchange for photographs with the band. "Are you ready?" The man asks with a smile on his face, taking in the crowd of people already formed in a queue for Broken Beaks.

Hundreds of eager fans nod and another employee arrives to begin taking donations and information, and slowly, fans start approaching for their pictures. Louis smiles at each one of them, opening his arms and accepting hugs and words of praise. His gaze flickers up towards where Harry lingers off to the side, one hip cocked and oblivious to all of the people gawking at him. Luckily the main crowd has mostly dispersed, and he's left with a few gaping looks as people pass and realise who they've just seen, but overall his shoddy disguise is surprisingly doing its job.

Louis turns and greets a young girl, holding her close to his chest as she breaks into tears at the touch. "Hello, love. I'm so happy to meet you," He coos softly. He can feel Harry’s stare like needles pricking deep into his skin.

After fifteen minutes greeting and taking photos with fans, he notices the band’s uninvited guest has wormed his way into the queue. He looks a bit wonky, towering over the people he’s between by at least a head each. Their fanbase is made up of all types of people, all different heights and frames and personalities and identities and it’s one of the things that is so gratifying for Louis as a musician. He loves to know that his music is truly for everyone.

So when Harry Styles (who isn’t as tall as they make him out to be in the media anyways) is stood between two pre-teens, it’s a bit comical.

If Louis gets distracted by it, who could blame him?

He watches Harry as he approaches the donation booth, leaning in and whispering to the staff member, who immediately pales and glances toward the band before scribbling a number with a lot of zeros on the slip of paper. Rolling his eyes, Louis turns to Niall and mumbles to him. “He’s lucky he’s using his rich prowess on a fucking children’s charity or I’d kick his arse.”

Now that Harry is facing the crowd from the table, a lot of people have started to take notice of him from the queue, eyes widening, pulling out their phones, pointing, and giggling to one another. He swings a leg around dramatically as he turns to face the band, holding out his hands like this is all some grand surprise and they hadn’t seen him towering over thirteen year old girls from a mile away.

“Hello, my favourite punks!” He exclaims, some of the people behind him gasping.

Louis swallows down his irritation and forces an irked grin. “What brings you here?”

“To see you, of course,” Harry makes a face, as if his pop-star presence at Warped Tour is the most feasible thing in the world. “I love Broken Beaks. Number one fan, and all that.”

Louis glances at the next person in line, whose jaw is dropped and quickly diverting her attention between Harry and the band as if she isn’t quite sure whether or not she wants to scream. His head lolls to the side, tossing a glare at Zayn and Niall. “Wow, listen to that,” Redirecting his stare back to Harry, he deadpans, “Would you like me to sign your tits?”

Niall bursts out into laughter and Zayn coughs into his shoulder in a lame attempt to disguise his own. Harry smirks slowly. “That sounds perfect, actually.”

Louis blinks. He’s well aware of the performance they’re putting on right now in front of a massive queue of people whose turn usually takes thirty seconds. It’s giving him a bit of the ick to allow Harry more time than anyone else, but he files that worry away for later when Harry steps forward, tugging his already half-unbuttoned shirt open even further.

“Right here,” He says teasingly, tapping a pink-painted fingernail beneath a bird tattoo.

In all honesty, Louis wasn’t exactly expecting him to be serious. Niall is laughing again, and when Louis whips his head around to ice him out, he’s dabbing at the corner of his eye with his tee shirt. Turning back around, Louis bites his lip and schools his expression into something serious. He can’t will himself to look at the fans, both in mild embarrassment and the sheer fact that his rage is boiling up close to overflow in the form of Harry fucking Styles fluttering his eyelashes at him.

“C’mere, then,” Louis curls his index finger towards him, taking a Sharpie from the side table and uncapping it with his teeth. “You gonna get this tattooed on, then?” He jokes, brushing the silk fabric of Harry’s strawberry-printed shirt away with just a ghost of a touch, his fingertips featherlight across his chest.

“Might do,” Harry replies, and he’s still fucking staring at Louis, his eyes—green, apparently—boring holes into Louis’ brain and digging into it with a farming tool. 

Awkwardly, Louis looks over his shoulder for support from his bandmates, neither of whom have stepped up or gotten their own markers. They’re both watching him though, carefully, seriously. It’s as if the air surrounding them has dissolved from the atmosphere, and all sound has depleted. Even the crowd around them is silent.

Under the judgmental gaze of hundreds of people with cellphones raised in the air, Louis swallows, suddenly hot under the collar. Why is everyone looking at him like that? Like he’s doing something wrong?

Is he doing something wrong?

Straightening his shoulders, he hesitantly reaches forward to make his mark on Harry, but before he can, a hand is covering his and placing it against his chest. Harry gently guides it a bit lower. His skin touching Harry’s is static electricity, all of the attention like a live wire. “Here.”

Louis chances eye contact, furrowing his brows. Harry is still staring at him, eyes wide, a bit less green and a little more pupil than they were before, and Louis quickly manoeuvres the Sharpie in his hand before he can over analyse and read into that any further. He signs his name, just a simple Louis with a little smiley face next to it and rapidly takes a step back in fear of the moment lingering for too long. It already felt like those fifteen seconds took up fifteen years, and when Louis wakes up from his little trance, the sound is back, Harry is gone, and there’s a shocked little girl and boy on their way up for a photo.

“Wow. It just keeps going up,” Niall pops a Skittle into his mouth. Zayn nods beside him, an amused expression on his face. Their phones have been blowing up for the past two hours. “This is crazy. A month ago we barely had twenty thousand followers.”

Louis stares at the screen bug-eyed. “I mean of course Warped in general helped, it always does...but shit. Look, there’s even people tagging the band on Harry’s chest from his show.”

“I can’t believe he left it there. What a weirdo,” Zayn snickers. “You fuck ‘im, yet?”

Louis glares at him. “No, Z, Jesus.”

“The tension yesterday was so thick you probably could have cut it like a fucking cake. Don’t play fool, Louis. You’re into this attention. His attention,” Niall pokes him aggressively in the shoulder and Louis groans, smacking his arm away. “He’s fit, and you know it.”

“If he’s so fit, why don’t you fuck him, Niall?”

“Are we in year five? Nice comeback,” Zayn grumbles.

“Why are you always acting like I’m fucking every man we meet?” Louis glances up from where he’d been watching the screen again, sending a scalding look at his skulking bandmates. 

“Because you’re always whining about how much harder it is for you to pull when we’re on tour and I’m sure that pay-per-view bill isn’t a bunch of wrestling matches,” Niall crunches down on a handful of sweets. “Actually, it might be some type of wrestl—”

“He’s straight, and honestly, Harry even talking to us is probably some promo method from his posh management team,” Louis retorts, rolling his eyes and peering away from the phone they’d been watching their following count rise on. “And we don’t need Harry Styles to hang around us to get followers. We’re a great fucking band.”

“No one said that we aren’t. Louis, this is a good thing,” Zayn says slowly, as if to drill it into Louis’ thick skull.

Which, of course, he doesn’t need to do, because Louis gets it. Any promo is good promo, and having Harry Styles mention them, get seen at their signings, performing an entire concert with Louis’ signature on his open and sweaty chest is definitely good promo.

“I just don’t want to feel like we’re being like—” He rolls his wrist, trying to find what he wants to say. “Like we’re getting handouts. We busted our arses off to get to where we’re at now, and I don’t want to feel like all of a sudden everyone likes us because fucking Harry Styles does.”

Niall and Zayn exchange a look. “But why? Harry Styles admitting to being our fan is literally one of the best things that could possibly happen. Have you seen how fucking enthusiastic his fans are? They’re eating us up. Did you know there’s an entire side of the internet that thinks he’s in the closet? There’s loads of people who think he’s hot for you,” Niall says, expression exasperated. “I don’t know about you lads, but the venues we’re going to be able to fill up for a winter tour full of new fans is really comforting to my wallet and bank account.”

“It should be organic!” Louis fires back, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve gotten more comments on my photos the past couple of weeks since he first showed up just calling me hot than I think I’ve gotten in my entire life. I want it to be about the music.”

Zayn kicks his shin before he stands up and then follows it with a swat to the back of Louis’ head. “You are honestly the only person on the planet who would be upset about a massive celebrity endorsing us.”

Louis sighs. They’re right and he knows it. He knows it. “I know,” Fuck, he’s admitted defeat. “I know, alright? I just...I feel weird about it. It doesn’t feel authentic. I don't want fans who only like us surface level." 

“Well get over it, we have an early time slot in Milwaukee tomorrow and it’s the final day of Warped. So, Tommo, get over it,” Niall fixes him with a stern look to cement his point. He shoots a finger gun at him and Zayn both after a beat, rising and taking his leave, heading into the hallway.

Zayn levels a stare his way. Louis is sick of getting disappointed expressions tossed his direction. "I’m gonna hit the loo quick, but seriously, Louis. Don’t ruin this for us. It’s an amazing thing. This has been our first summer out of the UK and we’re already doing so much better than everyone at home thought we would,” He clamps a hand down on Louis’ shoulder, shaking him minutely, “We’re so close, Louis. So close. This is what we bloody dreamt of as kids.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “A bit offended you think that I'd ruin this for us, actually.”

“You know what I meant,” Zayn winks at him. “See you in the van. Twenty minutes?”

Nodding slowly, Louis pulls out his phone and stares at the photo posted from Harry’s official Instagram account, his own name spread across Harry's chest in an arena full of twenty thousand fucking people.

Louis stumbles into the tent, laughing loudly. "Niall! Look, I stole—" He pauses when he sees who is standing on the opposite side of Niall. "Really? You have nothing better to do? Aren’t you on your own fucking tour or something?"

Harry and Niall look at each other, and Niall grins, taking the shoes from Louis' grasp. "I'm gonna go return these to John."

"Niall, you—"

"Wanna go for a walk with me?"

Louis sighs, turning around to face Harry, who appears a bit caught. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his baggy trousers. "Not particularly, no."

It's Harry’s turn to be disappointed. "Did I do something to offend you? I thought we had fun at that pub together in Vegas."

"We don't want anything to do with you."

Harry’s mouth opens, but he doesn't say anything. "Who's 'we'? Because Zayn and Niall have been super fucking nice to me."

A tinge of regret flows through Louis' heart. Harry appears genuinely offended, like Louis' words actually hurt him.

"Look, I don't know what I did for you to act like—Hey!"

Louis tugs Harry outside of the tent. Harry twists in his grip, and their fingers slide together. The cool metal of his rings is alarming, and Louis jumps back, dropping their hands. "You wanted to go for a walk. We're walking."

"You dragged me out here. Hardly consider that a walk."

Louis can't help it. The corners of his lips twitch. "Yeah, well I'm a punk, right? Isn't that what you said? We do everything a bit angry, don't we?"

Harry stares at him for a beat before he bursts into giggles. It's contagious, and his dimpled cheeks and bright laughter have Louis even huffing out a snort.

"Stop laughing, I'm supposed to be a punk. Grr."

Harry presses against Louis' shoulder in a weak shove. "C'mon. Since you can't, I'll lead," He says, voice still laced with airiness. He takes Louis' hand and immediately intertwines their fingers. It’s a bit odd for a stranger to hold someone's hand so closely, and Harry must sense the tension in Louis' grip, because his expression hardens ever so slightly and he breaks the contact to grab his wrist instead.

They walk over to where the tour buses are organised underneath a massive, brightly painted bridge that towers over the festival grounds. Louis flashes his all-access pass and Harry follows him, right on his heels like a lost puppy.

"I want Broken Beaks to open up for my U.S. tour next year," Harry blurts. 

Louis stops walking so abruptly that Harry rams into his back, nearly causing Louis to fall forward. "You what?"

Harry takes a clumsy step backwards as Louis turns around, steadying himself using Louis' biceps. Louis looks down at his hands and then back up, and Harry awkwardly shrivels away. "Um. I said, uh, that I want your band to open my tour next year."

Louis takes a breath before he chortles like a hyena, loud and as mockingly as possible. "You're taking the piss."

"No, I—"

"That would be like having Blink-182 opening up for Fleetwood Mac. You realise that right? Think about that up in that pretty little head of yours?" He pokes Harry gently in the forehead and green eyes follow the motion, his lashes curling up against his eyebrows.

"You think my head is pretty?" Harry smirks, and Louis rolls his eyes.

"I can't fucking stand you."

"Wait, Louis—" Harry chases him after Louis brushes past, grabbing his hand and locking their fingers yet again.

"Will you— Why do you keep touching me like that, Harry?"

"I— Sorry, um. I just—"

"Don't be sorry, it's just a bit…odd," Louis frowns, something catching in his throat. It’s not a big deal, but he doesn’t really want people to see it and have them think that they’re allowed to interpret it. "I don't really…hold hands."

He hasn't let go, though, despite the strange concept of needing to intertwine your fingers with a stranger as they're leaving lingers in the air.

"Sorry, I'm just…tactile."

Louis glances down at their hands. "You wanna just hold hands as we talk? Should I give you a kiss too?"

Harry’s cheeks flame, and he drops Louis' hand instantaneously, straightening his posture and clearing his throat.

Of course he does.

Maybe he won't want their band anymore now that Louis has reminded Harry that he's gay. It's public knowledge, but he might not want someone who’s out as his opener, especially given what Niall told him about Harry’s fans.

Suddenly all business, Harry starts right back into it, and Louis is sort of impressed at the quick turnaround. "I quite like your band, and I think my fans also like it. I really do like Niall and Zayn and…you, I suppose."

"Hey."

"And I think—" Harry's speech is interrupted by his cheek denting in, laughter bubbling up from him at Louis’ affronted face, "I think you three are great. And my manager is going to kill me for coming to another Warped show, but I just really wanted to see you again."

Arching a brow, Louis smirks at him. He doesn't think before he reaches out and traces a finger over Harry’s pec, pressing firmly where his signature was, the traces likely still left. A short gasp leaves Harry’s lips, and Louis studies him in his silly disguise.

"I think that it’s a terrible idea," He keeps a lighthearted expression on as he says it, hoping to keep the sad look from spreading across Harry’s features. He doesn't say anything further that's rushing through his brain, like the Did you mean you wanted to see only me or the whole band and you look kind of nice and I like teasing you and I'm gay and you’re not and this isn't good for me.

"Why?"

Ignoring him, Louis places a hand on the small of Harry’s back and spins him around, guiding him back towards the park. "You want to spend time with the punks? Let's go, love."

Harry follows Louis as he leads them through the festival grounds, pointing out different bands at different tents and telling stories about the summer. Louis recalls all sorts of pranks he played on different people, the members of bands he likes and the ones he doesn't really care much for.

They get iced coffees from a vendor with a pile of beautiful braids on top of his head that Harry can't stop complimenting and giant pretzels from a guy with thick black eyeliner and a bridge piercing, and Louis threatens that if Harry doesn't stop stealing pieces of his flavoured pretzel, he's going to make him get his own piercing at the tent across the way.

Somehow, they haven't been stopped once and Louis hasn't even noticed many people staring at them. It's about forty-five minutes before Broken Beaks' set that he realises that maybe people have been staring, but he simply hasn't been aware of it. Because he's been having fun.  

He feels oddly normal, like he's just a fan attending the tour instead of an artist on the schedule with one of the world's most famous musicians on his arm. He chances a glance at Harry as they walk, licking snow cones in the warm afternoon. Some blue raspberry drips down Harry's chin and he frantically tries to clean it up but fails miserably, nearly dropping his cone to the dirt in the process and laughing hard at himself.

"Can't take you anywhere," Louis groans with faux ire, handing him a napkin.

"Can't believe you didn't just wipe my face for me. Isn't that what they do in all of the rom-coms?" Harry giggles, crumpling up his stained-blue napkin and binning it.

"I wasn't aware we were on a date."

"I suppose roaming around Warped Tour isn't necessarily date material."

Louis pretends to be shocked, clutching at his tank top. "Evidently you don't know how punks date," He jokes. "And besides, if this were a rom-com, my teeth would turn purple. And I quite like the red. Makes me look vicious."

Harry stares at him with a blank expression for a beat until Louis grins, showing off his red-stained mouth from the cherry snow cone. He bursts into laughter. "Where do you get purple from?"

Louis makes a face. Surely he can't be that daft. He gestures towards Harry’s melty cone, then his own. He can see the moment it clicks in his brain, the poor lad, as his entire face flushes a bright pink.

"Hey. You should be the one making me nervous, not the other way around,” Louis hums as Harry bumbles to pretend to be unaffected.

"You don't— It's—"

"I'm sorry, yeah? It wasn't funny and it was uncalled for. I know you're not— Yeah. Sorry."

There's a deep-set frown in between Harry’s eyebrows. Wheels are visibly turning behind his eyes before he sighs out. Louis checks his watch when the air turns sour.

"I should get to the stage. We go on soon."

There's a look of defeat that flashes in Harry's face. "Will you be around afterwards?"

"We're going out tonight,” Louis quickly adds, and, really, he is a bit stunned. He had fun with his day today. He had a good time hanging out with Harry, sure. But he isn't really sure what Harry is getting out of all of this besides the hope that Broken Beaks will agree to open up for them, and Louis isn’t a fan of disingenuousness, especially when his band is concerned.

"Oh, okay. Where?"

"I don't know," Louis raises a brow. "But it's— We’re all going. Like, as in everyone who was involved with the tour. Like…just us. It's not really— It's for us."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay. You should— I hope you have fun. I should go," Harry says, glancing down to his feet. His snow cone is fully melted now, just blue raspberry liquid in a paper cone. He turns it upside down and empties it into the grass. "When will I see you again?"

Louis can't help but scoff. He shakes his head slightly, unable to prevent his face from twisting in confusion. "Um, I reckon you won't?"

Harry doesn't reply, and Louis is starting to get an uneasy feeling in his gut.

"We're not friends, Harry. There's really no reason for us to see one another," He supplies. And suddenly, he wants to be anywhere but there. He’s not in the mood to be bribed to work with Harry’s team. This is supposed to be the show. The best day of Louis’ fucking life. "I've gotta…" Louis gestures with his thumb towards where the stages are set up, and starts slowly backing away, leaving Harry Styles by himself in the shadow of the giant bridge.

“I want to feel your fucking energy, Warped Tour!” Louis screams into the microphone, dashing around from side to side on the stage. “We’ve got about ninety seconds left, so give me everything you’ve fucking got!”

Right before he sings the final chorus, Louis backs up towards the drums, nodding and glancing out over Broken Beaks’ admiring audience. There’s people in a circle pit pretty far back, people hollering and dancing and throwing their arms up. He’s exactly where he wants to be, and his dreams are right at his fingertips. With a small smile creeping onto his lips, he takes a breath, and sprints.

Louis leaps the gap in between the stage and the barrier, the audience going wild and catching him without a single beat missed. He’s tossed around in the pit, singing as much as he can in between bouts of laughter, the crowd’s hands passing him above their bodies. It’s surreal, and for a moment, the world goes silent, the feeling of support from hundreds of strangers overwhelming him as they sing songs that he wrote on a dark day, a wistful night, a moment where he was stuck. And finally, as the sound rushes back in, as his voice rings out in his ears, it feels like success, feels like peace, and Louis is completely weightless.

Louis could cry when he finally sets foot in Heathrow. They’ve been gone since June and it’s nearly September now. They’d been on a delayed flight out of Chicago O’Hare that had them laying on the floors of the airport and spending far too much money on food. He bids farewell to Zayn and Niall on the tube, one by one until he’s alone on the Piccadilly Line staring off into the distance, watching as he passes through station after station. Zayn is on his way to Bradford, and Niall is crashing at his girlfriend’s for the night, leaving Louis with his thoughts all to himself. It’s something they planned for the past month, figuring they’d need a break from one another, and Louis is glad for it.

“Excuse me,” a girl leans across the train towards him. It’s loud, and Louis isn’t quite sure what she’s saying. “...Harry Styles?”

"I'm sorry?"

"You're the one who wrote his name on Harry Styles?"

Louis blinks. "Um. Yeah. That's uh— that's me then."

The girl brightens up. "That was amazing. I couldn't believe it when I saw that online."

Louis just smiles at her and glances down to his feet. He doesn't fully hear her when she speaks again.

"...for Harry to do that. He probably felt so free," She crosses her legs and considers Louis for a moment before she jumps up and sits in the seat directly next to him. "Is it true?"

He leans the opposite way, cursing the London Underground for their formed seats making it difficult for him to slide away from her. He doesn’t exactly want to speak to any fans at the moment, and he certainly has no interest in talking about Harry. He just wants to get home.

"Are you two really together?"

Louis hears her loud and clear this time, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. "Excuse me?"

"Are you two like…" She purses her lips and crudely makes a circle with her index finger and thumb and sticks another through it.

Louis knows he’s gaping at her. He doesn’t even know how to properly comprehend that before he shakes his head and utters a quick response. "God. No."

She hums and pulls out her phone, and Louis stands up to get off at the next stop. He doesn't even know where he is, but he's leaving the train.

He can't be around it.

He needs to escape.

---

"Louis, you're being unreasonable."

Louis whips his head around and glares at Zayn and Niall. "Do you hear him? He thinks we—"

"We do want this. We want it. You are being unreasonable," Zayn mutters, folding his arms across his chest.

"We just got back at the end of last summer!"

"So what? That was months ago and this isn’t for another few months yet. That’s a lot of months."

Louis frowns. "He should have asked us to support him in Europe, then."

"Who cares? We're gonna have a good following in America after this. We've already got a lot of fans here. He's doing us a favour."

Niall throws his hands up. "You're the only one who has a fucking problem here. It's not our fault there's some sort of weird sexual tension between you two or something. Just fuck him, get it over with, and let us be a successful band. You're acting like a baby."

"Shut up!" Louis exclaims, throwing a sandal at him. "Why are you selling out? Do you really think Neck Deep are gonna go tour with Ed Sheeran? Real Friends opening up for the Jonas Brothers? Be fucking serious, Niall."

"Louis," Zayn calmly reaches out and grabs his arms, giving him a shake. "This is a fucking good opportunity."

Doc nods, and Louis is ready for the next sandal to go flying. "And Louis, did you tell them Harry already asked you about it last summer?"

Louis feels the moment the air turns cold. Zayn turns his attention from Doc back towards Louis, dropping his hands and taking a step back. "What?"

"You talked to him about this? Were you ever going to tell us that?" Niall asks, his normally joking tone laced with venom. "You what, just said 'no' and were going to leave it at that?"

Shooting their manager the sharpest daggers he can possibly muster with his eyes, Louis sighs. He’s been busted, and he’ll have to have words with Doc later about exposing him like this, but for now, he needs to mount a defence. “Look, it’s not exactly what it sounds like.”

“Then what is it fucking like, Louis?” Zayn’s eyes are wild, and Louis honestly doesn’t think he’s ever felt so guilty in his life.

“You want to pretend like it’s not you ruining this band and yet you’re keeping secrets from us—literally the most important secrets you could possibly have kept. Louis, this should have been our ‘we made it’ moment. And you kept that from us!”

“Hold on, I didn’t just say no, I simply pointed out that our genres don’t really—”

“Who fucking cares!?” Niall is yelling now. Louis shrinks in on himself, sucking in his cheeks in shame. Honestly, yeah, he’s starting to see it. He was a fucking fool. “You’re afraid because you’re fucking attracted to him and you don’t want to admit that maybe you thought he was a little cool too. He was great to hang around with. We all got on so well, Louis. You’re a fucking loser for pretending we didn’t.”

When Niall storms out, Louis turns to Zayn, but he’s just met with a quiet shaking of his head and his subsequent departure. Alone with Doc, Louis lets his face fall into his hands. “I fucked up, Doc.”

“You did, mate. But,” Doc slides in next to him, rubbing between his shoulder blades like the obviously overly-supportive manager he is. “Luckily for you, I happen to have Harry’s phone number!”

Louis peeks at him from between his fingers. “No you fucking don’t.”

“You’re right,” Doc sits up straight and tugs at his collar. “But I do actually have his tour coordinator’s number and a voicemail from his manager. So, all I have to do is get the word from Broken Beaks and I’ll accept the offer and I’ll book you boys onto a beautiful economy class ticket to the good ol’ U.S. of A for August.”

“Just for the record,” Louis sits up and slowly ties his hair half-back into a bun. “You’re not getting a raise because we don’t have any fucking money, and that’s the reason why I’m going to say yes.”

“Well, you will have money after this,” Doc winks at him.

Winks at him.

The audacity.

“And also,” Louis lolls his head around and points at him. “I don’t want to hear anything about this whole…thing.”

Doc clicks his tongue and grins, the gap between his two front teeth making Louis want to put his fist through it. “Hear about what? Your blatant stupidity and stubbornness?”

Scowling, Louis sighs in defeat. “Yeah, that. Exactly. You’re already crushing it.” He stands up and pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear, sticking it between his lips. “Just book us the fucking plane tickets, and I better not pass your arse in first class.”

Chapter Text

There’s a crying baby two rows ahead of them, Zayn stole the window seat, Louis is nauseous from the dry, plain egg sandwich given out for breakfast, and Niall is drooling on his shoulder. Just as he’s finally about to fall asleep (about six hours in), the plane hits a rough pocket of turbulence and Louis’ fizzy drink spills all over his lap and soaks his trousers. He’s about to scream louder than the fucking kid in row 24.

Worst.

Flight.

Ever.

After they land, they get stuck in a queue for two and a half hours, get grilled by American Customs officers, Louis gets double searched, his sweets are confiscated by border services, and finally, finally, they’re told that they’re being picked up by Harry’s team.

“Hi Louis,” Harry, who apparently needed to be in the SUV picking them up, calls out as the door opens. Louis ignores both him and the look Zayn and Niall give one another before clambering into the back row, spreading out so Louis has no choice but to pick the bucket seat next to their gracious host.

When they’re all seatbelted and the vehicle starts on its way, Louis slowly turns over to face Harry after feeling his eyes boring holes into the side of his head. “Can I help you?” He asks, a tinge of annoyance on his lips.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Harry says. He’s biting his lower lip, his dimples threatening to escape their confinement in his cheeks.

Louis glances back towards Niall and Zayn, who are snickering. He doesn’t know why he’s the only one being spoken to. “Yeah…you too I guess.”

“Your hair looks a bit longer,” Harry hums.

More muffled laughter from the back seat.

Knobs, his mates are.

“Um, I mean—” Louis looks over at him again, his eyebrows furrowed. Odd thing to say to a stranger. Does he keep track of all of the hairstyles of his supporting acts? “I suppose? Haven’t gotten it cut, really. My mum keeps telling me it’s getting ridiculous.”

“Your mum,” Niall sputters.

Harry’s eyes flick towards the tail of the vehicle, and that acknowledgement of other passengers inside with them makes his sole focus on Louis even more disturbing. “Oh. Well, it looks nice. Really long, actually. Goes all the way down here,” He leans over and traces a finger between Louis’ shoulderblades where the ends of his hair rest. It shoots a chill down Louis’ arms, and he fights the gooseflesh that rises on his arms at the contact. He blames the electricity on his lack of getting laid. Any touch is setting him on fire, or something like that.

Nobody replies to that, and the rest of the ride is spent mostly in silence. At least for Louis as Zayn and Niall finally make themselves useful and help distract Harry from talking to Louis, who is clearly uninterested. They arrive at an office building that houses Harry’s record label and commence on a long and boring meeting with his team of executives and whoever else Doc—who is, in fact, on their payroll—should be dealing with instead of them. Louis nearly falls asleep four separate times.

They spend the night in Los Angeles before they load up their tour buses and set off for Las Vegas for the first show of the tour. Louis feels a little bit ill being in Vegas again, reminiscent of the last time they were all here and went out clubbing after the Warped show. When they reach the hotel, Louis and Zayn wander around the casino that houses the venue. It’s their first ever arena show, and when they ask staff to let them have a look around, Louis’ jaw nearly hits the floor. It’s not a huge arena by any means, but it’s an arena, and they’re going to play it. Amphitheatres are one thing, and they’ve only played them during Warped Tour, so people would come and go as they saw fit and they were never really packed full.

“Z…are you like…”

“Nervous?” He glances over at Louis with a soft smile. “I’m fucking terrified, mate.”

“Good. Well, not good, but, like, I am too. You know what I mean,” Louis says, his trepid voice echoing out over the empty space. It’s equal parts surreal and intimidating. He can’t believe he tried to turn this opportunity down. Dealing with Harry and his mainstream bunch will be worth every second once he feels those lights hit his face. “I really hope that this is everything we ever wanted,” He shrugs his shoulders when Zayn smirks. “Like, we dreamt of this, y’know? We deserve it.”

Zayn, ever graceful, chooses to not hit Louis with the ‘I told you so’ quite yet.

Thankfully.

Which is definitely making him the bigger person.

Because Louis would be in his face taunting him immediately.

“You’re right,” is all he replies with, and that’s good enough for Louis.

“Okay, lads, we can’t fuck this up. This isn’t our typical crowd, yeah?” Louis rubs his hands together, staring blankly at the black curtain separating them from 17,000 people. 

“Spoken as if you're not the one that everyone hyper-fixates on,” Niall hums, and Louis glares at him. “So it’s more like you can’t fuck this up.”

“Are they going to be scandalised if I say the word ‘fuck’?” Louis raises a brow, glancing between everyone in his band.

“They aren’t babies, but maybe try not to overdo it,” John, their drummer, pipes in. He twirls a stick between his fingers, and the sight of it is really starting to amp Louis. He’s fucking thrilled. “There's definitely a younger side to Harry’s audience that we don’t get at our shows since most of them are standing with no under 14s.”

“Right, right,” Louis nods, psyching himself up. He can’t help it when his voice cracks in jittery anticipation. He’ll get bullied for it later. “Shall we go then, lads?”

“Whatever you wish,” Zayn puts on a stupid voice as Louis starts bouncing on his heels, whipping his arms around to get some of his pent-up energy under control.

“Alright, 17k. This is it. Let’s fucking go!” He screams, taking a solid breath and ripping the curtain back, leading the charge down the flashlight-guided walkway and onto the stage.

The moment the lights come up, Louis is floating. The glow is blinding from all directions, the sound of the audience screaming even penetrates through his in-ears, and the adrenaline is making him feel intoxicated. He doesn’t know how long he lingers in one spot, just looking around and spinning in a little circle, but he manages to snap himself out of his trance and school himself once he hears the first chord of their opening song.

“I gotta say, Vegas,” After three songs as their intro, Louis wanders to each corner of the stage, just taking everyone in. “This is a lot of fucking people.”

The audience chuckles and Louis glances down to the pit, allowing his eyes to drift from fan to fan. They’re dressed up, loads of them, in so much pink and feathers and cowboy hats that Louis doesn’t quite understand. He figured that he’d see that next week in Texas.

“I— No. We were never expecting this. We are just a couple of lads who met at Slam Dunk festival, all from small cities in England.” He points a finger at Niall, who guffaws. “Not this one, though, he’s from Ireland. Not sure what he was even doing there, if I’m honest.”

More laughter, and as Louis glances over at all of his friends, a feeling of belonging and affection floods his veins. He’s so grateful.

“We are so, so thankful for this opportunity, because shit, this is huge. We’ve never played an arena before. So yeah, thank you, Harry,” He pauses to allow the crowd to roar with the acknowledgement, “Thank you for dealing with us, and believing in us, and helping us live our dreams. We are Broken Beaks, and even though I’m not exactly sure the lot of you listen to music like this often, we fucking love you anyways. We have two more songs!”

He reaches for where his guitar is sitting on the opposite side of the stage and pulls it around his neck, taking a deep breath and counting off.

Louis doesn’t see Harry until he’s arriving at their table behind his manager, Liam, who comes bearing a cluster of rainbow shots on a tray. Louis eyes them apprehensively before he fixes a stare on Liam. He takes the red shot. He’d been expecting cherry, but the sensation of cinnamon floods his mouth and he almost chokes.

Off to a great start.

“Congratulations on your first show!” Liam is giddy. Must be the money lining his pocket. Taking a step back after depositing the shots on the table, he throws an arm around Harry, who appears freshly showered next to him. It makes Louis self-conscious. He gracelessly lifts his arm and sticks his nose into his armpit to make sure he doesn’t reek. None of them showered after the show, and Louis is one-hundred percent sure that his eyeliner is all smeared and he’s got sloppy, previously-sweat drenched pieces of hair falling out from his bun.

Harry slides into the booth next to Louis, their legs pressed firmly against one another as he scoots to allow enough space for Liam on his other side. Tonight, Liam is boisterous and talkative, and it makes Louis a bit relieved that Doc doesn’t love coming out with them. It gives them a break from his constant nagging.

“Hi, Louis,” Harry says, and Louis glances around the table to everyone else that he’s just ignored. He supposes that he is the only one that Harry is sitting next to—too close for comfort, by the way—and forces a smile while pretending he isn’t afraid he smells like he’d just ran a triathlon.

“Hi.”

“You guys performed so well. I loved your set and the songs you picked for it."

"First time hearing them?" Louis jokes, reaching across the table and stealing another shot right out from in front of Niall, who unsuccessfully attempts to slap his hand away. At least he’s gotten green apple this time and not something that will spice his nose hairs off.

Harry’s face falls. "What? No, I really like your music. I've told you this. That's why I wanted you on tour."

Louis disregards him and attempts to get involved in the conversation on the other side of the table, but he hears Harry’s timid voice once again.

"Did you like my show?"

Louis almost pities him. He turns to look at the other, a shy, almost yearning expression on his face. "Didn't watch it, if I'm honest. Not really big into pop music."

"Oh," Immediately looking down to his hands, Harry shrinks into himself, and a sting of guilt flows throughout Louis' body like devastating heartburn.

He’s a piece of shit. He pinches the bridge of his nose and winds up his brain to rapid-fire remind himself to be nice. Harry didn’t have to ask them to be his support. He did it because he wanted them to be, and Louis needs to remember that.

"Yeah, sorry, I know you don’t. I should have just—"

"Will you dance tonight?" Louis finds himself asking before he can even comprehend it. He knew he needed to stop Harry’s bungling over-explanation and self-deprecation, and it was the first thing into his circle of thoughts. "You didn't last time, so."

When Harry returns his gaze, his eyes are watery. Not enough like he’s actually about to cry, but his feelings were obviously hurt and the threat is there.

Louis is the absolute fucking worst. He keeps messing up. He keeps convincing himself that this boy is some rude, ignorant, and egotistical celebrity. But the truth is that he's been nothing but nice to Broken Beaks, and Louis can't stand how evil he's acting. 

"Shit, hey. Will you—" He leans around Harry to cast a pleading glance at Liam, who takes one look at Harry and immediately exits the booth to make space. "Will you come with me for a second?"

Harry is hesitant at first, but eventually he nods and allows Louis to guide him off of the seat. Liam pulls him aside briefly before he returns his attention to Louis, and Louis watches as Harry nods to his manager. He doesn’t really have time to ponder the interaction and gently presses against his lower back to get away from the table and Zayn and Niall’s prying eyes.

"Harry, I…really…feel bad about this. I didn't mean to make you upset.”

It’s as close to a direct apology as Louis is probably going to give. He’s not great at it, to be fair. Used to always being right and all that.

Harry swallows, his eyes locked on his toes, turned inwards and bashful. "'S alright."

“No, it’s really not. I just— There’s no reason for me to be so horrible to you.”

He refuses to look at Louis, and he’s not necessarily crying, no, but he’s definitely upset. “It’s not a big deal,” Harry brushes him off, clearing his throat and leaning back against the wall. He finally returns Louis’ incredulous stare. “I should know by now that you don’t like me. It was foolish for me to think maybe we’d become friends.”

And now he’s well and truly boring holes into Louis’ face. His eyes are intense and full of something Louis can’t quite place. His head tilts back against the brick wall, exposing his throat. Louis focuses on a tiny cut beneath his jaw where Harry nicked himself shaving. He can’t look at him properly.

“I’m not really sure why you want that so bad. I’m not what you think. Or what you want in a mate, mate.”

“And who are you to tell me what I want?” Harry’s tone is suddenly clipped, a villainous line of sight drilling into Louis’ chest.

He considers what Harry had said for a beat before a tiny smirk escapes him. “Dance with me, then.”

Following Harry’s shift in focus, he spots Liam from over by the table where he’s watching them like a hawk.

“Does he not allow you to dance?” Louis whips his head back over towards Harry, the few loose strands of his hair swinging out beneath his chin. “C’mon, babe. Loosen up a bit.”

“I can’t, Louis.”

“Sure you can. I’m going to. Here,” Louis holds out his hand to Harry, rolling his wrist a bit to emphasise it. “You liked holding my hand so much last summer. Do it again, except this time I’m taking you dancing whether you like it or not.”

If he didn’t know any better, he might think Harry flushes at that, pulling up his tee to dab at his eyes and letting out what sounds like it might want to be a laugh. “I dunno.”

Louis quickly averts his eyes from the scandalous sliver of Harry’s lower stomach that appears while he lifts his shirt and takes a step closer, letting his breath fan out over Harry’s ear as he whispers. “Fuck Liam, he’s a twat. Come on, then.”

Harry belts out a laugh at that, a full one. It’s a saccharine sound, much preferred to the sadness previously colouring his features, and Louis grins wide. He’s been awful towards Harry, and it was so, so stupid, because every time he laughs so sweetly, Louis thinks he might get a cavity.

They could be friends, he thinks.

“Okay, okay. But if I get in trouble, you’re going down with me.”

“The fuck would you get in trouble for?” Harry’s palm is warm in Louis’, and as he leads them out past the table, he throws up his middle finger toward Liam and everyone else at the table. He does notice that Harry doesn’t respond to the question and instead immediately smacks Louis’ arm when he flips the bird to his manager, but he’ll take that as response enough.

It takes some coaxing, but eventually, Harry’s body starts to move to the beat. He’s actually a lot more reserved than Louis expected him to be for someone who jumps around so confidently on stage. He didn’t watch Harry’s performance, that much is true, but he’s seen videos. Even though his moves aren’t a whole lot more than bouncing and stomping around not entirely unlike how clumsy children dance, he’d assumed that Harry would be nothing but ego and assurance personified. It’s endearing, though, to see someone so massively adored be so humble in real life.

Apparently, Louis does not need to be piss-drunk to have fun, because after forty-five minutes of laughter and horrific dance moves, Louis and Harry stumble off to the side of the floor, panting and bodies much too warm. Despite the heat, Louis tugs his hair out of his messy bun, shaking his head like a wet dog and running a hand through the damp locks.

“You made the right call keeping that tank top on. Though, I’m not exactly sure how you were able to dance in these,” Harry grins, reaching out and worming a finger into the front pocket of Louis’ skinny jeans.

And for that, Louis is not piss-drunk enough. Eyes bulging out of his head, Louis quickly snatches Harry’s wrist and pulls it away from his crotch, pushing it instead against the glittery tee-shirt print across his own chest. Oblivious, Harry smiles softly while Louis has a small internal crisis.

“You just get used to it,” He sputters, turning towards the bar and ordering them each a glass of water and a cherry bomb. “Here. I need this after your hand was so close to my dick, and I got one for you, as well. It’s on Liam’s tab, so drink up.”

Harry howls with laughter, his eyes sparkling even in the low light of the club. “Billing Liam because I almost touched your dick. Classy.”

It’s Louis’ turn to laugh, and he raises his shot glass to Harry’s. “Cheers to you not touching my dick.”

Harry throws his head back and cackles (a sound Louis has decided he quite likes), dramatically stepping closer and clinking their drinks together before simultaneously downing them. Louis uses his hand to wipe the back of his mouth and slams the glass down on the counter, letting out a loud screech and obnoxiously smacking his lips. He grins at Harry, but his expression dampens a little bit when he notices the severity of the expression on the other man’s face.

“What?” Louis asks, his heart dropping in sudden concern. “Is something wrong?”

Harry just watches him, one of his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. He slowly sinks his teeth into his lower lip, studying him for a moment. “I really like you, Louis.”

“Yeah?” Louis snorts. “We do get on sort of well, don’t we?”

Another beat passes before a slow smile creeps across Harry’s lips, his cheeks denting in. “Yeah, we do. But I—”

“Harry, it’s probably about time we head back to the hotel,” Liam appears out of thin air, or maybe he’d been approaching and Louis had been too invested in a finger against his thigh or something like that. Who knows. “It’s getting late, and there’s something we have to talk over before tomorrow.”

“We aren’t even leaving for Denver for two more days,” Louis interjects, leaning against the countertop behind him. “What do you mean it’s getting late?”

Liam fixes him with an icy glare that Louis doesn’t exactly appreciate, especially after he’d gone to the trouble of taking Harry under his wing and dancing with him. Having fun with him. “I don’t know about you or your band, but Harry has a strict schedule.”

“Gotta change his nappy and put him to bed with a nighttime story?” Louis fires back, an angry frown on his face.

Harry barks out another laugh, slapping his palm over his mouth. The corners of Louis’ lips twitch, and oh no, he won’t have that. He has to remain serious if he’s going to win the staring contest he’s having with Liam at the moment.

“Look, we’re not dick measuring right now. Harry is my client, and we are leaving. Have a good night Louis,” Liam rolls his eyes and gestures for Harry to follow him, and Louis scoffs as he turns around.

“Good for you, mate, because if we were measuring, I’d win by a longshot!”

As Harry starts to depart, he stops and casts a glance in Louis’ direction, giggling. He’s got that stupid bottom lip of his sucked in between his teeth again, and Louis really fucking needs another drink if he’s going to have to look at that every day for the next couple of months.

“I’d win,” To really sell it, Louis mouths silently to Harry, whose eyes flicker down towards Louis’ jeans and back up. Devil, that one. “Oi! Keep those to yourself, Harold!”

Harry snickers again, weakly waving back, his dimples out. “Bye, Louis.”

Louis nods, grabbing his glass of water. He waits until no one is watching him and chugs the entire thing to cool down whatever the fuck his racing heart is doing. If he spills any on himself, that’s his business.

As he makes his way back to the table, he runs his hands over his scalp, flattening the drying strands against his head and reaches for the hair tie he’s got wrapped around his wrist. He halts in his tracks when he looks up and sees Zayn, Niall, and John all watching him with arrogance plastered all over their faces.

“Oh, fuck off, the lot of you,” Louis groans as he trudges over to the group, tightening his bun while he walks. He grabs a cup and pours himself a beer from one of the pitchers they’d ordered. “Not a word. And now, I don’t know about you lot, but if we’re going to have to deal with that twat Liam tomorrow, I’m going to need to get right shitfaced.”

“You finally came to your senses, hmm?”

Louis jumps, clutching his shirt over his chest. “The fuck are you sneaking up on me like that for?”

Liam sits down next to him. He’s been hiding in a box suite, lights off, door locked. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘please come in’, Louis thinks. But, semantics, apparently. “He really does put on a great show.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly know that yet, would I?”

“He’ll be on soon,” Liam leans over and claps an unwelcome hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Harry is very talented.”

Disgruntled, Louis just stares at him. “Right.”

The thing is, he wants to like Liam. He does. But so far, he’s sort of been the bane of his existence on this tour. Everything in his chest is begging him to demand answers about how shady he’s acted around Harry so far, even going back to last summer and some of the comments Harry had made. He wants to question why he doesn’t even want Harry innocently dancing at a club with someone that the entire tour group has worked so hard to fasten a friendship between.

“You’d do well to be a little bit more thankful for the opportunity you’ve been granted. Zayn and Niall certainly are.”

“Excuse me?” Louis fully turns in his seat, hands on his knees. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that Harry really enjoys all of your company. You need to treat him with the same respect.”

And, well, Louis doesn’t really know how to reply to that. He quite literally abandoned his mates and took Harry dancing with him on the first night of tour. He isn’t sure how else he’s supposed to ‘respect’ him. Give him his entire bank account? Build a full bridge over every puddle so his shoes don’t get wet? “‘S that what you told him when you made him leave the other night? That we owe everything to him?” His voice is laced with venom. “Did you also tell him that he’s not allowed to have any fucking fun?”

Liam ignores that. “The show will be starting soon, I hope you enjoy it, Louis. Bit weird to be sitting in here alone, though. Maybe try turning the lights on,” He says cheerfully, flicking the lightswitch as he exits the room.

With a huff, Louis quickly follows and shuts it back off just as the stage illuminates and Harry appears in the centre. He studies Harry, watches as he glides across the platform. Such a huge presence, a grateful one, a vivid and happy one. He sings passionately, smiles sweetly, dances blissfully. Louis isn’t the biggest fan of the music, but he doesn’t hate it, and truthfully, he finds that he isn’t really paying attention to it, more engrossed in watching Harry as he gallivants around the stage and brightens everyone’s night.

It’s a curious show, and Louis raises an eyebrow when Harry snatches a rainbow flag mid-air, unfolding it and waving it out in front of his face, dancing around and clutching it like a lifeline whilst colourful lights explode around the arena. It seems a little odd, he thinks, but then again, his band is all about black and red and throwing each other around in the pit, so perhaps he isn’t the best judge. It warms his heart, though, seeing all of the support and pride in the room, and when the show is finally over, his chest is heavy and his mind is clouded with unorganised thoughts.

As he makes his way through the hallways backstage, he rounds a corner and nearly runs into Harry and two of his security members.

“Oh, hi, Louis! Did you watch the show?” Harry is sweaty, but it’s not an ugly sweaty. Louis always gets stringy hair and smeared makeup. There’s a hopefulness in his green eyes, and for once, Louis feels proud that he’s not going to hurt his feelings, and he can be honest.

“I did, actually, yeah,” He replies, and Harry’s expression lights up. It warms something in Louis’ chest. He feels good. “I quite liked it.”

“Thought you didn’t like pop music,” Harry tuts, waggling a finger at him. 

Louis' face doesn't change, remains neutral, but he does allow himself to have a proper look at Harry: a curl spiralling across his forehead, the way his front two teeth are longer than the rest, the beauty mark just off his chin, the tattoos across his collarbones and chest. He's pretty, Louis decides, even in all of his post-show glistening, and maybe, he thinks fleetingly, that he’s been too purposely ignorant to notice it right away.

“Didn’t really watch it to listen to the music. Was more distracted by watching you dance,” Louis blurts, and immediately he wants to slam his head into a wall. That is not what he wanted to say.

Harry furrows his brows, his cheeks turning pink.

“Have a good night, Harry,” Louis smiles softly, meanwhile his brain is pulling itself apart in sixteen different directions.

“Wait, Louis, what did you—”

As he speeds away, Louis digs his fingers into his eye sockets and muffles a scream.

What the fuck was that?

It’s the fourth show of tour and their second day in Texas. In all honesty, Louis doesn’t know what city they’re in. Houston? No. San Antonio? No, that was yesterday. Dallas, maybe. He has no idea. All he knows is that it’s fucking hot out, it’s dry, and he’s kicking Zayn’s arse in FIFA. The air conditioning in the bus is a blessing, and he’s put three nightcrawlers he bought at a fishing shop to save for a special day in Niall’s bunk while he’s out doing whatever it is that Niall does. The thing about this tour that’s crazy to Louis is that there’s so much time in between shows. It’s already a full week into the tour, but today is only just now the fourth show. Whenever they’ve done a tour (although their level of fame is quite different to Harry’s), they’re on the road immediately after the show, setting off for the next city. Every once in a while, they have a day or two off, but it’s always go, go go.

…And, well, it’s been two days since the last show, still in Texas. America is huge, Texas is huge, and it definitely took around four and a half hours or so to drive from the last city to here. But four and a half hours is still only a tiny percentage of two days, and Broken Beaks are bored (hence the worms in Niall’s bed, unlucky lad). Louis isn't much for being a tourist, more keen on lounging about at the pool or sitting on the bus playing video games. At night they'll maybe smoke a bowl and head to a pub, but even that gets old pretty fast when there's no pre-show adrenaline high. Louis just ends up drunk every night and causing mischief, and that is worrisome when he is supposed to be keeping that in check now that they’re on an ‘actual professional tour’ or whatever it is that Doc drilled into their heads.

So when Harry shows up to their bus, Louis is actually moderately thrilled, if for no reason other than the fact that he's sick of the same old shit.

"Yeah, no problem, just let yourself in," Louis grumbles as Harry clicks the door open and climbs up the stairs.

"Your fault for not locking it," Harry hums, a little smirk on his lips. Louis sort of wants to punch him.

They've done a great job of avoiding one another for the past few days, dancing around get-togethers with both of their bands and staff, Louis always blaming something else, coming up with another excuse, and Doc blames it on a non-existent drug habit that he questions Zayn and Niall about. It's annoying, but he's made his bed, he supposes. And maybe it's just to avoid that inevitable I told you so, but Louis would honestly rather Doc think he's using than admit that maybe he's not as against Harry and his entourage as he initially thought.

Well, that, and he sort of admitted he was kind of almost ogling Harry on stage. And that was mortifying.

" Louis, I need to borrow you for a sec,” Harry leans an elbow against the wall, his eyes scanning around their man-cave-esque bus before narrowing at where Louis’ feet are propped up on the table. He looks like he’s a disgusted housewife about to curse all men. “Shoes off the wood.”

Louis gapes at him. "Are you my fucking mum?"

Harry laughs unnecessarily loud, causing Zayn to flinch next to him. He then mumbles something unintelligible that neither Louis nor Zayn can make out.

Probably cursing all men.

Louis sighs.

“What is it? Can it wait?” He gestures to Zayn holding a controller in his hand. “We’re in the middle of some important shit.”

“No, it can’t. Just come here.”

“What could you possibly need with me right this exact moment? ”

Harry pouts, a deep-set line forming between his eyebrows. “Just get the fuck over here.”

Louis glances over to Zayn, who shrugs, but he knows that secretly, Zayn is thrilled that Louis isn't giving Harry the cold shoulder, and honestly, Louis isn’t fully sure he even could anymore if he even tried. Louis makes a clicking sound with his tongue, rising and pointing a finger at Harry. “You’re feisty today, Styles. Fine, I’ll play along.”

Harry’s expression immediately switches to something like glee and he extends his arm out for Louis to take.

Louis walks straight past him, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“No. No, no, absolutely fucking not.”

“Louis, just listen to me for a moment.”

“I am listening to you. I’m hearing you loud and clear as you tell me we have to go golfing.”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his other hand on his hip. “You’re being so unreasonable. Like a fucking child.”

“Do I look like I fucking golf, Harry?” Louis spreads his legs and holds out his arms. He gestures to his long hair and smudged eyeliner. He’s wearing a black and purple Sum 41 tank top, ripped black skinny jeans, and Vans. He knows he doesn’t look like he fucking golfs. And Harry is delusional.

“You don’t even have to golf. You just have to be there.”

“I would quite literally rather chew on glass shards,” Louis spits, pulling out a cigarette. “You’re mad if you think that I’m going to voluntarily play a sport that isn’t football.”

“Look, just make an appearance, okay?” Harry steps closer and folds his fingers together. “I’ll beg. These are label executives playing with Liam and Doc. I know you boys—”

“We don’t need your label.”

“I fucking know that. I’m not saying—”

Louis brushes him off before letting him finish. “I don’t want anything to do with your posh sporting events,” He presses the cigarette between his lips and ties his hair back to get it out of the wind, leaning forward and cupping his left hand as he lights it. “So fuck off and let me get back to—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because Harry is pulling his cigarette from his mouth and stomping it into the dirt. “It’s not an option, Louis,” He pokes a fingernail into the middle of the word ‘What’ inked on his chest. It’s painted pink with a red cherry on it, and Louis raises an eyebrow at the pressure.

“And what are you going to do if I say no? Kick us off the tour?” He purrs sarcastically, thoroughly enjoying the flames bursting from Harry’s ears. He truly looks like he wants to slap Louis across the face.

“Just fucking go golfing, Louis,” Harry stares at him furiously, eyes wild. He blinks twice and then turns on his heels, storming off toward the back entrance of the hotel, swiping his keycard and slamming the metal door behind him.

Louis frowns at his squashed cigarette on the ground before he reaches up to muffle a laugh.

“Are we going to get fired today?” John asks on their next day off as Louis grins maniacally, taking his rented shoes from the side-eyeing teenager at the front desk.

“Grab your clubs, boys,” Louis smirks, collecting a bag from the man waiting outside the main entrance that Liam had hired to distribute equipment to everyone.

Niall, Zayn, and John glance at one another before they start off in the direction that Louis had gestured towards. Niall is extra today, with his own clubs, polo, slacks, and shoes. Louis doesn’t even poke fun at him as they walk, just studies him. He almost feels guilty that he’s going to ruin everyone’s day with how cute Niall is dressed.

Harry immediately fits him with a suspicious glare as they approach, all standing in a circle and chatting. Louis almost laughs out loud at Harry, his hair pulled back into a clip atop his head, a little sprout of curls sticking up. He looks like a plant. Maybe a toddler. He sticks out like a sore thumb in his baby blue top and striped shorts next to some meathead record executives, all wearing uniform drab polo shirts and grey trousers.

Doc loads the label guys up on his and Liam’s carts and waves as they depart, going just a smidgen faster than everybody else on foot, rendering the vehicles useless. Harry keeps tossing him an uneasy glance every once in awhile, and Zayn glares first at Louis, then back at Harry.

“You made it. I'm surprised.” Harry finally says, voice curt.

“What does that mean?” John asks with innocence, and Louis scoffs.

“I reckon that Harold here thought that I wasn’t up for a bit of sport.”

Harry actually stops walking for a moment to ice Louis out with as much viciousness in his face as he possibly can, which, in reality, ends up looking a bit like a betrayed dog when you tempt it with a treat and then withdraw it.

John immediately makes a noise of acknowledgement, all too familiar with the way that Louis acts when he’s right, and they continue on the walk in silence.

Instead of playing, Louis just hangs back and watches everyone, finding himself lucky enough that everybody had a partner and the course recommends groups of four. It isn’t until the fifth hole that he decides to spice things up a bit. While nobody is looking, he pickpockets the golf cart keys from Doc’s bag and climbs into the driver’s seat. He floors the engine right as one of the label executives is mid-swing, his cursing rattling out over the green.

“Louis!” Doc exclaims, immediately breaking into a jog towards the cart. “Get off of there!”

But Louis is already ignoring him, zooming past at near full speed, driving directly over the manicured grass and ramping up over the rolling hills of the course. He loops around and laughs loudly as Liam stares in incredulity at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Doc chases him, launching a club at the cart and nearly getting himself run over in the process.

Louis just belts out cackle after cackle, nearly overturning the cart as he whips around in circles. He comes to an almost-stop a few times, psyching his manager into thinking he’s going to end his reign of terror, only to accelerate at the last second once again. Doc groans and grabs his hair at the root, shrugging and shaking his head as he rambles to himself and paces the course with the livid executives, Liam, Harry, and the rest of Louis’ dumbfounded band.

Suddenly, Harry lunges out in front of the cart, stepping out of its path only at the last second to grab onto one of the bars as Louis blows past, swinging himself up into the passenger’s seat.

“The fuck was that!?” Louis shrieks.

“You were going to just mow me down!?” Harry hollers almost simultaneously.

“Oi!” Louis points at him, shifting his attention rapidly between driving and scolding his hitchhiker, “I would have stopped. I wasn’t going to run you over.”

“This isn’t Grand Theft Auto, Louis, stop the fucking cart!”

“I didn’t ask you to come along.”

“You fucking ruined everything!” Harry cries out, and he throws his head back in a dramatic show of exhaustion. "This was supposed to be what seals the deal for my third album! You're fucking crazy!"

Louis ignores him, chortling and yanking the steering wheel, nearly causing the cart to tip again. 

"Louis—" Harry falls over, fumbling to keep himself upright but landing half in Louis' lap.

An extraordinarily tense beat passes. Louis isn’t sure if Harry is going to kill them both.

And then Harry laughs.

He laughs, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Louis feels his laughter vibrating against where he rests across the tops of his thighs, and Harry’s hands fly up to cover his face in a lame attempt to hide his laughter.

The entire situation becomes hilarious.

"You're having fun, admit it,” Louis teases, flicking his gaze back down to the boy in his lap.

Harry shakes his head and squirms, his legs sliding off the side of the leather seat and dangling in the open air. The clip in his hair is lopsided and some of his curls are free from its restraint, billowing in the breeze. “I’m going to murder you,” Harry whines, but Louis isn’t blind, he sees the dimples in Harry’s cheeks behind the cover of his hands.

“Couldn’t if you tried,” Louis chides, “I’m a black belt in karate.”

“Really?” Harry props himself up on an elbow and narrows his eyes at him.

“Absolutely not,” Louis squeaks, tapping his foot. “And you’re putting your weight on my balls, mate.”

Harry blushes, scrambling to sit up. “S-Sorry, I—”

“No, no worries. It’s fine, was just your elbow.”

Harry continues to stare at him for a moment until they hit a bump and their bodies leap a few centimetres into the air. Harry laughs again and rests his head back down across Louis’ lap. He raises his eyebrows, glancing down at him. He opens his mouth to make a sarcastic remark but stops himself, deciding to just leave it until a couple of minutes pass and Harry sits up straight. He corrals his long giraffe legs back into the golf cart just as Louis pulls off to the side of a hole, the tires of the cart no doubt roughing up the grass.

When Louis turns his attention to the passenger side, Harry leans forward and rests his cheek on his arm across the dash, something twinkling in his sun-lightened eyes. His hair is wind-blown and a bit crazy, but it’s almost charming, the way that his curls are fluffed out around his face. “You’re trouble,” He says, voice coy. 

Louis hums, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel, shifting his body more so he can face Harry. “Maybe.”

“Punk,” Harry smirks.

Louis laughs and Harry nudges him with his knee. “You like being a menace.”

“Maybe,” Harry rolls his bottom lip between his forefinger and his thumb. “Maybe I like the company.”

Louis considers him for a moment, nodding slowly. “Maybe I should get the princess back to her admiring citizens and hope I don’t get publicly executed.”

“A princess?” Harry instantly straightens his body out, a giddy smile on his face. “Me?”

He knows he’s going to get in loads of trouble, and he prays that he hasn’t fully ruined whatever plans Liam had for Harry. But he hopes it won’t be too terrible if Harry is at least able to make a joke.

“Yeah, pop princess. Hostage of the unhinged punk rocker.”

Harry pushes against Louis’ shoulder, nearly sending him toppling out of the cart.

They don’t speak the entire ride back to his inevitable beheading, and if Louis swerves the cart on purpose to jostle Harry some more to get a giggle out of him, that’s between them.

Chapter Text

Louis is on bus-arrest for the next week.

He doesn’t get the PlayStation taken away, which is great, but he still throws a fit when everybody else returns after a night of partying with a bag of McDonald’s and they don’t even get him any.

“What the fuck is this?” Louis frowns, turning the bag upside down after Niall passes out everybody’s burgers.

“An empty bag?” Zayn takes a massive bite of his food, speaking to Louis in a tone one might use on a petulant child.

“I get the same shit every time, and you lot didn’t think to bring me something back?” Pouting, Louis bends down and takes a swig of Niall’s soda. Niall makes a strange meowing noise, and Louis plants his palm directly over his face.

“You’re grounded,” Zayn reminds him, as if he doesn’t know that.

He’s been going between shows and this stupid fucking bus for what feels like eons. He snuck out to grab a beer in the hotel pub once and Doc was up his arse the entire time, nagging about his actions having consequences as if he’s just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

“Yeah, well, grounded for no good reason.”

“You nearly ruined Harry’s chance to put out a third album with his label, Louis,” Niall points at him with a flimsy chip, his voice reprimanding. “And then you kidnapped him and brainwashed him into thinking you’re funny and it was all a misunderstanding.”

Louis gasps, affronted. “I did no such thing!”

“Right.”

“He actually thinks I’m funny, for your information, and that’s because he’s got taste.”

“You know what’s got taste? My burger. So good,” Zayn moans dramatically and Louis throws a pillow at him, knocking the food out of his hands. “Oh, you fucking wanker! It’s landed right on the floor!”

It looks like gibberish spilling from Harry’s mouth.

He leans over, placing his hands over his own ears to mimic Louis’ headphones.

“ —istening to?”

Louis blinks, sliding the headphones down around his neck. “What’s it matter to you? Now you’re the world’s biggest Green Day fan?”

“Haven’t we discussed your shitty opinion of me?” Harry slides directly next to where he’s sitting on the dock.

Louis is picking at his guitar, listening to music and trying to hit the notes by ear. Despite having loads of time in between shows, there hasn’t been a lot of opportunity for him to work on new material while on tour whether it be because they’re just plain exhausted, too bored or unfocused, or the band are off doing entirely different things. After being stuck on the bus every moment except for show times and soundcheck for an entire week, Louis chose to hang back and play his guitar and get some practise in rather than head out on the boat with everyone else.

Well, almost everyone.

Running a hand down his face, Louis grunts out a low sound. “What do you want, Harry?”

Harry shrugs, a cheesy grin on his face. The sunshine is lighting up his features like a work of art on display, and he swings his legs off the edge of the dock. Louis watches as his toes skim the surface of the water and his own don’t quite reach. He frowns. At least his toenails aren’t bright yellow.

“Is it against the law to want to say hello?” He shrugs one shoulder, bringing it up to his cheek and giggling merrily.

Louis isn’t entirely sure he’s up for whatever bizarre enthusiasm is making Harry high right now. “Yes. My law. In my kingdom. Now go away.”

“Will you play me a song?” Playfully, he flicks one of the strings on Louis’ guitar and he rips it away on instinct, nearly dropping it into the water in the process.

“Fuck off,” Louis barks, but Harry doesn’t stop smiling at him. He’s almost entirely into his space, now, his big hand splayed out on the wooden planks, close enough that he’s touching the hem of Louis’ jeans.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I interrupting you trying to be in a bad mood?”

“Not a bad mood, just trying to practise. Not that you know what that’s like.”

“Heeeeey,” Harry pouts, his lower lip a loaded weapon, and he certainly knows how to use it. “I play the guitar.”

Groaning, Louis sets the instrument down halfway up the dock and turns to face him. He pulls that stupid fucking face and people fall at his feet. Louis included, apparently. It’s embarrassing. “You must be bored.”

Harry shrugs again, biting his lip between his teeth now, and Louis really wishes he were on that boat with the rest of the band. All he wanted was some alone time somewhere that isn’t his fucking bus, and now this little tease is on the dock with him, distracting him from his efforts. “‘Dunno.”

As Louis starts to stand, he’s slapped in the face with something extremely cold and slimy. He blubbers, fingers racing to rip it away from his skin. “The fuck was that?” He gapes at it: a disgusting piece of seaweed or some other strange thing that belongs at the bottom of the fucking lake and nowhere near Louis’ face. Then he whips his head around towards Harry, who is doubled over laughing.

“You fucking twat!” Louis shrieks, peeling pieces of the plant off of his cheek. Harry stands up, holding his hands out in front of himself in a defensive motion as he buckles in a fit of giggles, but Louis is already barrelling into him, knocking the both of them off of the edge of the dock and into the lake.

Harry swats at him under the water before wrapping his arms and legs around his body like a koala. Louis surfaces with Harry in tow, slowly trudging towards the shore. Harry is cackling, loud and bright, his arms wrapped tightly around Louis’ ribs and his face nestling near his collarbone.

“You, Harry Styles, are evil.”

“You’re the one who threw us in the water!” Harry giggles.

Louis makes his best effort to shoot him a menacing glare, especially when he feels Harry’s ankles shifting against his thighs. “Get off of me. You’re not a sloth, and I’m not a tree.”

“I can’t. You’ve made the mistake of putting a kitten in the water, and now you must live with the consequences.”

Louis rolls his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek in a piss-poor attempt at hiding his smile. He grabs ahold of Harry’s legs around his waist and hoists him up towards the dock. “Get out. Probably can’t carry you out of the water, and I’m pretty sure I just accidentally touched your bum.”

Harry pokes his tongue out at him, but he doesn’t resist, planting his palms on the dock and pulling himself up. Louis was right, actually, he did touch his bum, considering the tiny shorts Harry is wearing are exposing far too much of it. Louis’ throat is a desert wasteland as more and more of his long legs emerge out from the surface of the lake.

“You should have paid attention to me,” Harry teases, shaking the water from his curls as Louis makes his way to the edge of the water, body weighed down by too many forms of clothing that should never get wet and the shame of feeling his dick harden at the sight of someone’s legs.

“I was paying attention to you plenty,” He grumbles, ringing out his hair over the side of the dock, “You hogged all of my attention, actually. Against my wishes, as well.”

“Aw, Louis, do you talk to all the girls like this?” He cocks a hip, and Louis has to physically turn himself away from him to take a deep breath. His tee shirt is almost entirely transparent and his shorts are far too short for Louis to even keep a lick of sanity. There’s too much to unpack with the way that his lower half is reacting, so he does what he always does: ignores it.

“If they’re annoying enough, sure," Louis retorts, and without Harry able to see his face, he lets himself grin unabashedly. He’d never let on to the fact that he’s almost enjoying their banter, though, so he grabs a towel from the shed just off to the side of the dock and wraps it around his shoulders, schooling his expression to something serious to stare down his companion with.

Harry just hums though, either oblivious or all-knowing. He strolls past to grab his own towel, his cheeks dimpled in and his hips swaying as he walks.

Not that Louis is looking.

“Hey, Louis?” Harry asks meekly as he wraps his towel around his hair. He looks like a mum.

“What?” Louis sighs, probably a bit too harshly, and before Harry has a chance to reply, the pontoon that the bands had rented out returns to the pier. In the midst of the crowd, Doc shakes his head with a disappointed look on his face and Liam appears defeated.

“And what is this?” Dismayed, Liam whines, looking at them incredulously from the front of the boat.

Louis and Harry, soaked and dripping onto the wood beneath them, share a quick and sheepish glance, simultaneously pointing a guilty finger at one another.

Louis is hanging upside-down off of his bunk when Harry lets himself in. "Who invited this frog into my castle?" He questions in as deep of a voice as he can muster, and Harry makes a face that does not disprove that he is a frog whatsoever. “You sure have a nasty habit of interrupting my precious free time.”

"If this is your castle, does that make you the princess?" Harry asks, ignoring the jab about being an inconvenience. Louis rolls over, squinting at him maliciously. Harry is wearing a skintight green polka-dotted tee shirt and baggy blue jeans in some sort of 1990s wet dream fashion that would look hideous on literally anybody else on the planet. If there’s one thing about Harry, it’s that he’s going to make whatever he’s wearing look good, and Louis hates him for it.

"I am no princess. That's you. We have established this."

"Then you're the frog."

"I— Hmm. Or you're both. I'm like a cool wolf or something."

Harry slinks toward Louis. He looks a bit like a scorned deer with his big eyes and lanky inward-turned legs. He looks as if he’s about to get in trouble for something, so when he speaks, Louis is prepared for the worst. 

"Liam needs to see us."

Instantly, everything that Louis has done that could even remotely be considered wrong or against any sort of rules flashes through his mind. He just got off of his punishment. He has plenty more mischief to cause before he can be imprisoned-via-bus again. "What? Why?"

"Dunno. He just told me to come and collect you."

"If that’s the case, wanna run away with me?"

It was a superficial jest, but something acute lingers in Harry’s eyes. "You're insufferable."

“How about this instead?” Louis jumps off the bunk, bumping Harry back against the wall with his shoulder in the narrow walkway. "Tell Liam to suck my massive dick."

"Louis. Be serious for a moment."

"What for?” Louis drags his fingers on the panelling of the bunks as he passes, indifference flowing through the tips. “You aren’t pissed at me for the golf thing, right? If I'm going to get scolded for something else, I want Doc to do it. Liam acts like I'm the scourge of the planet when he yells at me. Don't like it."

Harry follows him towards the door of the bus where Louis grabs a beer from the minifridge and cracks it open. "Just make this as painless as possible. We have a show tonight. Let’s get it over with so that we can not dwell on it, yeah?"

When Louis glances over to argue, Harry’s biting the side of his index finger from the knuckle up to his nail. "Are you really that nervous?" Harry shrugs, finger still partially in his mouth, and Louis sighs. He’s becoming lame. "Fine. Whatever. Lead the way."

Louis trails Harry inside of the hotel, where he uses a keycard to allow them access to the top floor of the building. Louis knows they offered for Broken Beaks to stay in the hotels with them, but Louis knew from the get-go when they booked this gig that it’d be too expensive to do so, and after seeing the kind of places they’re staying, it’s confirmed. 

“He wants to meet us in his suite?”

“I guess so. There’s a conference room on the first floor but apparently it’s been booked out, and honestly, Liam is pretty laid-back for a manager.”

Louis huffs out a breath. He knows that’s a lie, because Doc is the definition of laid-back, and if micromanaging your client to the point where you don’t allow him to dance at a fucking club is laid-back, then Harry is seriously misguided. “That’s cool,” Louis feigns ignorance, remembering the oddly veiled threat Liam hit him with at the venue, basically saying ‘enjoy Harry’s show or die’. “I figured he would be uptight, considering.”

Harry pauses mid-step in the hall. Louis runs into him, startled by the abrupt halt. Venomously, he whips his head around to glare at Louis. “Considering what, exactly?”

“Jesus,” Louis mumbles, taking a massive step back. “It was just a joke. Loosen up, Styles.”

“What, you think I’m uptight?”

“Just meant that you’re so heavily in the spotlight, is all,” Louis folds his arms across his chest, shrugging one shoulder. And, well, that’s not really what he meant. He did mean it as a dig towards Harry. But a playful one at that, he supposes. “Don’t act like you’re so offended all of a sudden.”

“I’m not fucking uptight.”

“Okay, okay. You’re really awesome. So devious, so cunning. Absolute prankster. Hilarious lad, that Harry Styles is.”

Harry clearly doesn’t believe Louis, his narrowed green eyes flicking down to his Vans and back up. It’s a judgemental glare, definitely, and Louis sort of relishes in ruffling Harry’s feathers. He can’t help it because he looks kind of cute when he's all pouty and flustered, though he wouldn’t admit that even with a gun to his head.

He turns away from Louis and takes out a different keycard, opening the door and allowing Louis entry to the room first, mumbling a petty comment beneath his breath that Louis chooses to ignore for the sake of not arguing. There's a strange part of him that feels like he's about to get jumped or mugged, but he squashes that fear when he remembers that he is far poorer than Harry. Something is off, though, and it’s got him on edge.

“Liam?” Harry calls, closing the door behind him with a gentle click.

Louis wanders around, taking in the tidy suitcase on its stand, some rogue toiletries out on the dresser, and a briefcase on the floor. But no Liam.

“Anyone in here?” Harry opens the door to the washroom, and then the closet. Louis eyes him suspiciously.

“You seriously thought he’d be hiding in there?”

Harry turns around, fixing Louis with a stare. There’s something a bit unreadable in it. His cheeks tint slightly pink before he clears his throat. “Of course not. I just wanted to fully make sure no one was in here.”

Louis freezes. “What?”

Harry strolls past him, sliding the chain into the lock on the door and flicking the deadbolt. “We’re alone.”

And, well, maybe Louis is about to get robbed.

Or murdered.

Or murdered and robbed.

“What the fuck is this? What are you doing?” Wide-eyed, just stands anchored in place, feet away from the door and observing cautiously Harry as he kicks his shoes off and meanders towards the fully dressed bed. Louis’ throat constricts as the sound of a zipper echoes through the room, bouncing off of the walls. Before he can react, Harry is shimmying out of his baggy jeans and sliding them away with his foot after they fall to the floor. He spins on his heels to look at Louis, expression fully neutral as he stands there.

Trouserless.

“What?” He asks, as if there’s absolutely nothing odd about the situation.

Not a single strange thing about it.

Louis, however, gawks at him, shaking his head in utter disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing? Is this a prank?”

Harry makes a face at the accusation, eyeing him as if he’s a right idiot. “Um, no? I want you to fuck me, obviously.”

A pit opens up inside of Louis’ stomach. The Earth is melting. Sinkhole appearing beneath his feet. Slipping on ice. Asteroid slamming into the planet and breaking it into ten-thousand tiny pieces.

Harry appears unbothered, turning back around. He rids himself of his shirt, sliding that off as well before he starts nonchalantly peeling down his underwear—fucking pink and blue cheekies, by the way—and crawling up the edge of the bed like some sort of clumsy, long-legged, baby deer-esque seductress.

“I’m sorry?” Louis’ voice cracks. Surely his eyes are bulging out of his head at this point, all of the air leaving his lungs at the sight of Harry fucking Styles spread out across crisp white linens. “I thought you were straight. I-I didn’t know you—”

“Come on, Louis,” Harry groans, impatiently toying with a ring on his finger. “You have to have known I’ve been into you for quite some time. I’ve been flirting with you.”

And, well, Louis will admit to himself that he did question some of the things Harry had done or said.

But this? It feels pretty fucking zero to one-hundred.

“And I’m pretty sure you have been flirting back. You really thought that I just wanted to hold your hand for fun?” Harry laughs in a brash, almost insulting manner. “The ignorance of some men, I fucking swear.”

“Shut up,” Louis turns away from him, banging his forehead against the wall. He peeks over his shoulder to find Harry still real, still laying there expectantly. “Fuck. Put your stupid fucking legs away. I can’t think with them out like that.”

“Just my legs?”

Louis thumps his head against the drywall again.

“Why can’t you think, Louis?” He can hear the teasing grin in Harry’s voice. Smug twat. He wishes an actual real life meteor would strike the hotel. Though, he supposes, his body is nearly burning up in flames in the current situation regardless. A meteor would just put him out of his misery quicker, is all.

“You fucking know why.”

Harry hums, and the only warning of his approach are nearly too-soft footfalls on the carpet before he is placing his hands on Louis’ shoulders and turning him around to face him. Louis attempts to look anywhere but at Harry, not needing to be distracted by his dumb plump, pink lips or his soft brunette curls or the beautiful grin plastered across his mouth.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, a featherlight finger dragging along Louis’ jaw. He can feel the heat from Harry’s body on the exposed skin of his arms, and it’s turning him feral. His mouth might actually be watering. Foaming, maybe.

“Why— God. Why did you— Couldn’t you just have asked?” Louis wails, finally caving in and meeting Harry’s gaze.

“I thought I was pretty straightforward.”

“Emphasis on the straight.”

Harry takes half a step backward, a pout on his face. “That’s your fault. It’s your problem you assumed I was straight. It was very obvious.”

Louis’ mind flashes back to watching Harry wave his pride flag in the air surrounded by rainbow lights at his show.

Nobody ever said he was super smart.

He didn’t go to uni.

“You never once said ‘Hey, Louis. I think you’re fit. Do you want to go fuck backstage?’”

“I shouldn’t have had to say that!” Harry exclaims, throwing his arms into the air.

He’s terribly distracting, standing there, dick bobbing between his legs as he glares at Louis like he’s nothing but an ignoramus. And, well, he might be right, but that’s not the point. Louis throws his head back and screeches into his hands. Of course he’s being punked right now. Someone is going to barge in and catch him standing here and tell him he’s being filmed for television. This has to be a joke.

“Well maybe I’m just fucking stupid, okay?” Louis frowns, and Harry laughs again, but it’s a lot softer and a bit more forgiving this time. He turns around and walks back to the bed, sitting down, scooting up towards where the pillows are, and folds his knees to his chest. It’s definitely sinful, the way Louis can see his crack and balls. Truthfully, he’s only a few moments short of barking at Harry like a wild dog.

“I told you I liked you, Louis,” Harry’s voice is strained as he rests his cheek on his knee. He looks so gentle, so angelic, so sexy, and everything in Louis’ brain is screaming ‘wreck him’. “I fucking told you.”

Louis just blinks at him. That seems a bit deeper than the rampaging thoughts of sex sex sex that are racing through his mind at breakneck speeds right now, so he buries that right next to the already overflowing trunk of other incorrigible thoughts he’d sunk to the bottom of the sea when his manager had threatened him into being a good, nice lad who doesn’t steal golf carts.

Instead, like the knob he is, he simply says, “I had no fucking idea that you weren’t straight. Fucking hell.”

Harry’s eyes fall closed in overt (and valid) exasperation.

“Okay, well, come put your cock inside of me and find out how un-straight I am, then,” Harry rolls his eyes, looking like too much of an alluring little minx for Louis’ rationality. “If you really don’t want to fuck, that’s alright. I’m not gonna like, force you or anything. But I’m horny as hell, and I think you kinda want to.”

“Shut uuuup,” Louis repeats, dragging his fingers from his eye sockets down to his jaw. He knows himself. He’s been fighting an attraction to Harry since the moment he showed up at that first Warped show.

It was inevitable, apparently.

They are.

Inevitable, that is.

Toeing off his trainers, Louis slowly approaches the bed where Harry is sat like an innocent little cherub as if he didn’t trap him like a siren in rogue waters and expose all of their shared desire. His heart is hammering in his chest with a vengeance, and he’s sure he’ll regret this later when he’s thinking clearly, but Harry’s right, and Harry’s certainly got far more to lose than Louis does, so there’s no way this will fully come back to haunt him.

…Right?

Harry’s lips tilt up in a victorious smirk as Louis begins to strip down. “You’re even sexier when you’re not mad at me.”

Pausing with his shirt half-off, Louis glowers at him. “I am mad at you, actually. Quite a lot, if I’m honest.”

“Well then come over here and have angry hate-sex with me.”

Louis sighs as he pulls his boxers down, attempting to ignore the way Harry’s eyes are blown wide as he watches. He won’t admit it, but it’s sort of giving him a complex. 

Actually, no, he’ll definitely admit it.

“Where is your stuff?”

Harry shrugs sheepishly. “Okay, look, I know what you’re going to say—”

“No fucking way are you about to tell me that you don’t have anything.”

 Harry raises his palms up in defence. “No, that’s not what I was going to say. I was just going to say that I already fingered myself.”

“Confident,” Louis arches a brow. It’s kind of hot, but he’s not going to let Harry know that. “And where is the lube?”

“It’s— Um. It’s in Liam’s bag.”

“Jesus, Harry, I— No way am I touching Liam’s lube. What does Liam even have lube for?” Louis lets his face fall into his hands as he grumbles, suppressing a shiver. “Actually, please don’t answer that.”

“It’s for an emergency, okay?”

“Emergency lube,” Louis repeats, his hands falling to his hips.

“Look, either take it, or leave it. I put it in Liam’s bag so he’d get flagged by the airport security and have to explain it.”

Louis’ jaw drops. “Harry Styles…did you… prank your manager?”

Bashful for the first time the entire past hour, Harry grins. “Maybe I did.”

Louis just smiles at him in approval for a beat before he realises what he’s doing and remembers he’s on a mission, albeit a very foolish one. He rummages through the side pockets of Liam’s bag until he finds a non-carry on sized bottle of lube and a couple foils of condoms. Louis purses his lips as he stares at the items in his hand. He’s never been so fucking stupid in his life. When his focus wanders, Harry is staring back at him with ample green eyes and a hyper-intent gaze. His lower lip is bitten red beneath his two front teeth, and he looks so pretty and so pliant. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.

Louis might be fucking crazy.

“Can’t fucking believe this,” Louis mutters, rubbing his thumb over his knuckle and shaking his head as he stalks across the room, kicking his and Harry’s trousers out of the way in the process. “In your fucking prick of a manager’s bed, at that.”

Harry huffs out a breath in relief as Louis approaches and climbs up onto the edge of the bed. He yelps when Louis grabs ahold of his ankles and draws his legs out, dragging his lithe body across the duvet and towards him.

“Oh my God,” Harry’s eyelids flutter closed and his chest blooms with a red blush.

“You like being manhandled, or what?” Louis fixes him with a curious look as he rolls on the condom and slicks himself up, watching intently as Harry eagerly opens his legs. “Mmm…I think— Turn over for me.”

Harry nods and crawls onto his hands and knees, glancing over his shoulder just in time for two of Louis’ fingers to pop inside of his rim to check to make sure he’s properly stretched. A rumble escapes from Harry’s lips, and Louis has to take a moment to control his breathing before he extracts his fingers and wipes them on Liam’s sheets like a fucking neanderthal.

Fuck Liam.

“You’re sure about this?” Louis asks.

“It was quite literally entirely my idea,” Harry whips his head around, blindly fumbling for Louis’ dick. When he doesn’t find it, he spreads his cheeks apart and wiggles his bum. “C’mon. Hurry.”

“You’re a brat. You know that, love?” Louis snorts as he starts feeding his cock inside of his hole.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes out, his body hungrily accepting more and more of Louis. “Don’t wait, you can move. Not much time.”

Louis nods, though he knows Harry doesn’t see it. He starts to pick up a decent pace relatively quickly, his thumbs coming to rest where his groin comes into contact with Harry’s bum. He doesn’t really consider himself over-the-top in the size department, but seeing the way that his girth occupies a solid percentage of Harry’s narrow waist has him famished in a way he’s never felt before. Judging by the moans and grunts Harry is letting out, he feels it too.

It only takes a couple of minutes before Louis becomes fully obsessed with the boy splayed out in front of him. He’s floaty as if he’s having an out-of-body experience. There’s something intoxicating about Harry, and Louis is unsure if it’s just simply the fact that he’s so bloody attractive or if it’s the weight behind having sex with Harry Styles, global superstar.

His hands roam around from where he is fucking into Harry. They start by squeezing the perfect globes of his arse before sliding up to the tops of his thighs and holding on tightly there for a few moments. Harry mewls beneath him, falling to his elbows when he experimentally skims his fingers across his hip bones. Harry is so slim, and judging by the size comparison of his body to Louis’ cock, he’s mildly convinced that Harry’s belly might be bulging with him dicking around inside.

He files that away under his God Complex™.

Harry lets out a particularly guttural moan as Louis’ palm continues its wandering journey, ghosting up between his strong shoulder blades until it finds curls resting at the base of his neck, fingers tangling in at the nape and tugging.

“Do that—ah! Do that again. Fuck.”

Louis obliges, sharply pulling his hair. With it, Harry whines, his body following the yank and fucking himself deeper on Louis’ cock. He wails out a sexy little yes! for a few thrusts before he’s collapsing back down to his elbows, his face smashing into the bedding. Louis goes along with him, the quick pistoning of his hips shaking the bed frame until he’s practically resting on top of Harry, the latter supporting both of their weight.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry splutters, his cheek shoved against the plush duvet. “You’re so fucking good. Fuck, knew you’d— God. From the second I heard your voice for the first time. Wanted you. So bad, soooo bad.”

Louis doesn’t reply because his brain is currently on another planet, just continues to ram inside of the other man. When he fists a hand into Harry’s hair to bend his neck back and lick a stripe in the space beneath his ear, Harry tightens around him, his arms flattening. Pressed almost completely against the mattress now, he’s moaning, crying out in ecstasy, and desperately trying to arch his back into Louis.

Lifting himself back up, Louis strengthens his grip and pulls a weakening Harry closer towards him. He’s practically seated in his lap at this point, supported by Louis’ thighs and the hard line of his cock inside of him with every thrust. Each punch of Louis’ hips shoves Harry’s bum higher up in the air, his hair turning into a mussed bird’s nest with every hitch of his body forward and back against the comforter, mumbling another string of yes yes yes and fuck fuck fuck like they’re the only two words in his entire vocabulary.

Louis’ hands stroke against where the laurel leaves are inked into Harry’s skin, his fingers skimming and digging into the sensitive crease between his legs and cock to help keep his tired body suspended.

“Louis, fuck, I’m—” With a deep scoop of his hips, he feels Harry clench around him, spasming as he comes. His position of half-resting against Louis’ thighs while he gets fucked has his release dripping down his legs, some of the liquid spilling onto Louis, but most of it simply destroying Liam’s duvet. As Louis makes to pull out, Harry’s arm shoots out and waves around frantically. Louis can barely understand him when he gasps out. “No, no, keep going. Use me. Fuck me until you come. Go, go. Fuck. Fuck.”

Louis raises his eyebrows at him, a full, ravaged mess beneath him, his come all over Liam’s bed, his thighs, Louis’ thighs. Louis even thinks he might be drooling. But he continues on nevertheless, and Harry—possessed by a demon or some shit—fucking giggles beneath Louis as he lightly pushes him down against the mattress. His hole is turning red from continuous abuse, and Harry shouts out words of praise as Louis continues his drilling for a few more minutes.

“Louis,” Harry coos, rising up further before his body falls limp back against him. Louis scoffs, desperately searching for his release, uninterested in any more banter.

Something clicks in his brain and he slides his palm around to Harry’s stomach, earning him a hiss from the other man when he brushes against his spent cock. His fingers tap on his lower abdomen, where he can feel Harry’s muscles clench with every thrust up inside of him, deflating and ever so slightly re-ballooning every time he pulls out and fills him back up. And fuck. That might be the hottest thing Louis has ever felt in his life. Harry’s head lolls to the side, the damp hair at his temple brushing against Louis’ cheek, and Louis’ eyes pinch shut as he comes, pressing his forearm around Harry’s waist to hold him up while he pumps the condom full.

 Louis rests half on top of Harry, his arms slowly beginning to give out as they both fall forward onto Liam’s bed. They idle together for a few beats, both out of breath and chests heaving. Harry turns his face over his shoulder, eyelashes flickering gently when Louis’ nose bumps into his cheek. Despite having just had insane, mind-blowing sex, that contact is what freaks Louis out. He quickly swallows and untangles his arms and legs from the other man as he pulls out.

The sight in front of him is debauched to say the absolute least. Harry’s hair is insane, his cheeks are flushed the colour of tomatoes, his lips are bitten pink and raw. His body is boneless as he lays flat on the mattress with his head turned, grinning dopily and starfishing across the whole fluffy white blanket. “That was…”

Louis nearly chokes on the lava rock wedged inside of his throat. He doesn’t want to talk about it, for fuck’s sake.

He backs away, frightfully searching for his boxers. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He scrambles into his black skinny jeans, mumbling expletives beneath his breath while doing so. He catches Harry’s eye unintentionally, and the undying look of euphoria on his face is ego-inflating, however, Louis needs to get out of there immediately or else he might start thinking.

"Are you going already? Have a few minutes yet before Liam should get back.”

"Mhm," Louis isn't exactly sure what he'd been expecting to feel like afterwards. They're not friends. Of course they aren’t. They don't even actually like each other, despite what Harry had said. How could they? They have nothing in common. Harry likes Louis' music, he thinks he's fit, that's great, but it doesn't make them friends. And they’d just desecrated Harry’s manager’s bed. It would actually be quite funny if he weren’t having a proper crisis at the moment.

Maybe there’ll be time to have a laugh about it later. But, as of right now: crisis.

Louis just fucked Harry Styles.

Fuck.

Louis' fingers tremble as he desperately attempts to lace up his Vans. Fuck sake, he forgot how to tie his shoes. What the fuck is his problem?

"See you after the show tonight," Harry calls dreamily as Louis is darting towards the door, voice airy. He's leaning back on his elbows on the bed now, finger tracing around his stomach, a lazy smile on his face, cheeks dimpled.

Louis doesn’t even care.

It’s not an issue.

Not at all.

Obviously.

(Fuck.)

Louis absolutely does not want to see Harry after the show.

His performance out on stage is mediocre at best, stumbling over his words during his speaking bits and letting Zayn and Niall’s backing vocals lead a pinch too often. He's sure tomorrow he'll read headlines that he was coked out or something, and he earnestly avoids his band as they try to grab him after the concert. There’s concern in Zayn’s eyes, and, well, Louis knows he cares, but he isn’t exactly sure that he has the willpower to speak to a single soul before he gets at least ten hours of sleep in his system.

Just when he thinks he’s escaped, Doc grabs Louis’ arm and whips him around. “Aren’t you going to watch Harry’s set?”

Louis’ eyes are wild, anxiety riddling through his system. “No, wasn’t planning on it, why?”

“Don’t you usually?”

“No, actually.”

Doc narrows his eyes at him. “Even when you and the boys get the VIP box?”

Louis fidgets under his manager’s stare. He’s not lying, at least. There was only one time that Louis actually watched Harry perform, and that was enough. What do Doc and Liam expect? That they’re going to sit and take notes every night with a fucking pen and paper? “Correct. We just sit there on our phones or cracking jokes or watching telly.”

“Well, we have something to discuss after the show, so up to the boxes you go,” Doc guides Louis back around toward the lifts, much to his dismay. “Hey, Louis. Wait.”

He sighs, pausing his advance. “What?”

“Shape up, mate. You look a little fidgety. Tired.”

“I’m just getting a little sick of being told to worship the ground that Harry walks on, to be fair,” Louis leans up against the wall. It’s entirely possible he’s a little more on edge due to his recent activities, sure, but he’s speaking the truth. Ever since they started the tour, he’s been expected to treat Harry like he’s God or something, whether it be Liam shoving that process down his throat or Doc making snide remarks or Niall wiggling his eyebrows at him.

“Well, why shouldn’t you? He’s the reason you’re here,” Doc chides, and that’s that.

Fuck it.

“Oh, come off it, man,” Louis throws a hand out his way, anger bubbling up in his chest. “I’m so fucking fed up with this shit. Harry this, Harry that. Everybody around here acts like he’s the inventor of music or something when in reality, the kind of rubbish he makes isn’t even music. It’s overproduced garbage that is created entirely to milk as much bloody money out of desperate teenage girls as possible.”

Doc scratches at his hairline, clearly irritated. Louis wants to fucking fight, and he’s keeping far too calm. He wants to have a full-on row, fight someone, burn some pent-up energy. He’s fucking boiling, and it’s his own fucking fault because he did something fucking idiotic, but Doc isn’t even yelling at him and just for once, he needs it.

“Are you quite finished? Look. Just because you don’t like his music, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be grateful for what he’s done for you.”

“Grateful? For some fucking basic unsightly rich industry plant?” Louis shakes his head in disbelief. “We were doing fucking fine on our own. I don’t even know how people like him or the shit he puts out. So, no, I don’t really need to be grateful. How about you,” He pokes a finger into Doc’s shoulder. He looks extraordinarily unamused. “Be grateful that we sign your fucking paychecks, mate.”

Louis storms away from Doc and enters the lift, quickly smashing the button to close the doors before his disapproving manager can make his way into the car with him and lecture him like he’s a teenager caught after curfew. He screams internally all the way up to the club level, allowing himself to be escorted through a curtained-off section into the box seats where Zayn, John, and Niall are already waiting for him. They’re paying no attention to the arena and have got some sort of drama on the TV. Louis knows they won’t get scolded, though. The hypocrisy is astounding.

Nevertheless, a wave of relief washes over him to know that he isn’t the only one that’s been summoned, so at least he isn’t going to be busted for shagging the main act, though he isn’t positive he won’t receive a reprimanding for the shit he’s just blown at Doc on the way up here. Harry doesn’t go on for another ten minutes, but he’s glad they seem to be just as uninterested as he is.

“You alright, then?” Zayn asks, indifferent, eyes still glued to the screen. Louis knows he's talking about his garbage performance, but he chooses to feign ignorance anyhow.

“Huh?”

“You seemed a bit like you were having a rough time on stage tonight, and now you were trying to get back to the bus, right? Something is the matter, eh.”

Louis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just— I got yelled at by Liam earlier. Said some shit to me that had me a bit upset. Doesn’t like how I dress and act and shit. Really been throwing off my groove.”

It’s a lie, of course, but it’s probably what would have happened if Harry hadn’t lied about Liam needing to see them and Louis hadn’t fucked every drop of come out of Harry all over his mattress instead.

It might still happen, who knows.

He already dug his grave by having sex with Harry in the first place, so he might as well just keep making it worse.

“What?” Zayn, affronted, turns in his seat. “He can’t just say that, can he?”

“I mean, who’s to say he can’t? He’s kind of like the boss,” Niall shrugs, popping a Cheeto into his mouth. “Doc can do that shit just as well as Liam. And, well, it is Harry’s tour we’re on, not the other way ‘round.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Zayn quietly whispers. “He really said that to you? I’m sorry, mate. That’s truly shit."

Maybe Louis will feel bad later for throwing Liam under the bus, but after the icy attitude he had given him about watching Harry’s performance a couple of weeks ago, he’s going to bed he won’t be feeling any guilt in the near future. "It is what it is."

"I don't think Harry would be happy about that. Was he there?" John leans forward, chewing on a handful of crisps.

"Um. No, he wasn't."

His floundering is saved by Harry’s intro music starting, echoing in the box via a small speaker in the ceiling. Louis' throat tightens as he rises from the centre of the stage, the crowd going wild. He’s sporting a sequined jumpsuit, highlighting his slim figure. Louis' mind rushes a mile a minute, flashing back to signing his name across Harry's chest a year ago, to his hands tracing the curves of his arse and hips while he moaned Louis' name just a few hours ago. 

Louis doesn't pay much attention to Harry's set, but he does glance over every once in a while. He's no expert on his live show, having only seen it once, but even a fool could see that he's sore. Louis imagines his thighs are burning and his bum is a wreck. A satisfied smirk finds its way to his lips when Harry stumbles over his feet and catches his balance. He looks like a lovely little disaster, and he distantly wonders if his fans are picking up on it as well. It must be freeing to be able to dance around—albeit a bit less than usual today—as a closeted man, waving rainbow flags and knowing he'd just taken it up the arse a wink before showtime.

Shortly after eleven, Harry arrives into the box that they’d all been held against their will in for the past two hours with a towel wrapped around his neck, casually flanked by Liam and their security detail. He smiles at Louis—a shy, private thing—and Louis quickly panics and glances at Niall and Zayn to check if they'd noticed.

They hadn’t. 

They’ve all been getting on alright, sure, but Louis feels like he’s been on the receiving end of too much special attention as of late and he can’t be arsed to deal with Zayn’s knowing and leery gaze and Niall’s snickers, especially after he fucked up so bad by thinking with his dick.

"Evening, lads. We've called you here to let you know that we've added five more shows, and we're giving Broken Beaks the opportunity to back out due to the shows not being in the original contract," Liam passes out folders with details about the cities, venues, and travel. Louis feels a bit like he’s back in school, and can’t help but laugh because Doc is so disorganised and Broken Beaks are so chaotic in comparison to the reeled-in and professional group surrounding them.

Opening the folder, Louis squints. “The first show you’ve added is in a little over a week. Can you even do that?” He thumbs through the papers with an apprehensive look.

“Well, the first two of the newly added stops are Nashville and Uncasville, and those are just second nights in already sold-out cities, so we aren’t really concerned about the last minute addition,” Liam explains, a hand on his hip. Louis doesn’t really like his attitude. “And they will sell out, too, so, it’s really just a matter of whether or not they have the same support act.”

Flabbergasted by the cockiness, Louis gapes first at Liam, then Niall, John, and Zayn, and finally Harry. “Well, that’s something.”

“What do you mean by that?” Liam makes a face. “The entire rest of the tour is sold out, and the demand for Harry is astronomical. They will sell out, and I reckon they’ll sell out the same day they go on sale.”

Louis turns his attention to Harry, who blushes and looks down to his hands. He doesn’t say anything, which Louis files away for later.

“The drive between Ohio and Connecticut has to be disgusting,” Louis mutters, pointing at the dates. “And going from New York City to Milwaukee? I don’t even really know where that is but I know it’s near Chicago and that’s far as hell away from New York.”

“Little over nine hours from Cleveland to Uncasville, and…” Zayn pipes in, fingers tapping rapidly on his phone. Louis whips his head around, grateful for the assist. “Nearly fucking fourteen from NYC to Milwaukee.”

“Fuck sake, America is massive,” Louis grumbles, glancing in between his band and Doc, who has been suspiciously silent for the entire conversation. He knows they’re going to be coerced into working the shows, which is fine with him, of course. They’re already on the tour, but Louis knows that the long distance to cover is not a problem for Harry because he and his immediate entourage will fly, whereas the crew and Louis' band always drive. It’s obviously doable, but also very fucking annoying.

"That's a lot of bus time for the band," Harry states, Captain Obvious that he is.

Louis bites his tongue, resisting from making a sarcastic remark.

And it is difficult.

Harry shuffles his body to face Louis, Zayn, John, and Niall. "Are you alright with that? Otherwise, I could arrange for you to fly."

Scoffing, Louis waves him away. "The crew still have to get there, so we might as well not waste four plane tickets since they're taking the bus regardless. Not all of us are made of millions," he retorts flatly. 

A flash of surprise rings through Harry’s features before he schools himself and hums, switching his attention back to Liam in a rather dismissive manner. 

"So are you interested in being the opening act for five more shows?" Liam grins, desperately attempting to curb the awkward tension permeating in the air. "We would love to have you. You lot being the support act has really brought a mass of new fans to Harry, and we've never seen so many long queues."

He's lying, the fool, because Broken Beaks are not super famous, and he knows for a fact that most of their American fans are likely used to paying around thirty dollars for a ticket to less-than five thousand capacity venues for other pop-punk shows. And Louis knows damn well that most of those fans have not purchased tickets to Harry's shows. He knows there's a tiny bit of a crossover there, some of their fans loving both Harry and Broken Beaks, though it’s not overly common.

Louis doesn’t reply, baffled by the audacity of the rich and staring blankly in the distance as Niall grabs his shoulder to pull him into a huddle with John, Zayn, and Doc. 

“It’s only five shows, and you’ve seen how much your following has increased due to this tour,” Doc immediately fires, knowing that someone in the band would protest.

“Yeah, but for the wrong reasons,” Zayn mumbles, and Louis grins widely.

“Yes, lad!” He cheers, digging a knuckle into Zayn’s shoulder. Finally, someone other than him is acknowledging it.

Zayn pinches him.

“Who cares if they only follow us because they think we’re hot? If they’re buying tickets, we’re getting paid,” Niall counters.

Louis groans. “Yeah, but I don’t really want the people who think they can get closer to Harry and want to shag us to eat up all of the fucking tickets for real fans when we do our own tour.”

“Do you really think that’s going to happen? Worst comes to worst, Louis, we book bigger venues. And when I say worst, I mean the best,” Niall grabs Louis’ wrist, blue eyes big and pleading. “This is our shot. We thought it was cool playing Warped last year, but this? This is huge. We’re so lucky we even got to do this at all, given the fact that our music has nothing in common with Harry’s.”

Louis sighs, and he immediately sees the give in Zayn’s expression and the satisfaction in Doc’s, likely because he didn’t have to do any of the convincing this time. Louis knew that he’d fold the second that it was proposed anyhow, but, part of his job of being a menace is to make Liam sweat a little, he’s decided. He chances a glance across the room to where Harry and Liam stand, arms folded in and studying their group.

There’s something new on Harry’s face. He’s guarded, his expression tense and his body stiff. He doesn’t smile at Louis this time, and he breaks their eye contact to walk away. Louis watches as he exits the room, waving off whatever Liam had inaudibly called after him. The conversation between Doc and Louis’ bandmates dies out, and his eyes linger on the doorway even after Harry is long gone. “Whatever. But I’m gonna be really fucking high-strung on that fourteen hour drive, so nobody touch me or my PlayStation.”

Chapter Text

Three days and one show pass by, and Harry hasn't even looked at Louis once. To be fair, Louis hasn't either, though his aforementioned God Complex is flushing down the toilet every time Harry walks past, bringing in Niall for a hug and completely bypassing Louis in the process.

It's fine.

Louis doesn't even care.

Louis doesn't need a man to fall at his feet to know he's great.

Louis didn't care, at least not until Niall brings it up to him on the bus before he’s able to check into his hotel (which they had also argued over, and settled on John and Louis sleeping on the bus and Niall and Zayn splitting a room to save on money) while he is mindlessly scrolling through Instagram and Niall is playing a video game.

"Harry is really pissed off at you, mate."

Louis nearly drops his phone with the speed of how quickly he snaps to attention. "Yeah?"

It’s not like he didn’t know that, but knowing they talk about him is giving Louis the shivers. What the fuck else do they say?

"Yeah."

A beat of silence passes between them, the only other sounds in the room the humming of the PlayStation fan and the crinkling of the bag of crisps Niall has been munching on while playing. Louis can see the white-knightism in Niall’s expression before he even speaks, and Louis braces for the impact.

"I mean, I kinda get it because you were all over each other and then—"

"We were not all over each other."

"—all of a sudden you're basically saying 'fuck you, I hate rich people and that's you so I hate you as well’. It makes sense. Like, I'd be pissed too."

Louis scowls at him, throwing his arms up. "I did not say that."

"You said, and I quote, 'Not all of us are made of millions' after being a total arsehole throughout the entire discussion."

"So what? Rich people fucking suck."

"Yeah, they do, but does Harry suck?"

Louis' brain short-circuits for a second. "W-What? How would I know?"

Niall groans. "God, man, get your head out of the gutter. I didn't mean…" He gestures crudely by sticking his tongue into his cheek and holding up a fist to his mouth.

 "Don't ever do that again," Louis whines, tugging his hair at the root. He feels like a teenager with the way his entire face is flaming. He prays Niall doesn’t see it.

Satisfied like the little shit he is, Niall smirks, crunching down on a crisp and refocusing his attention on his game. “I don’t understand, though. I really thought maybe we’d all start to get along. It feels weird hanging out with him without you there, mate.”

Louis doesn’t respond. It’s not just that they fucked. There’s still something nagging at the back of his mind that reminds him that they aren’t the same. Broken Beaks and Harry Styles are not the same calibre. They’re beneath him, beneath his team, beneath his fans, and it’s difficult for Louis to pretend that isn’t the case. He doesn’t get how Zayn, Niall, and John can brush it off over a few drinks.

"You should apologise to him."

Niall’s voice cracks through Louis’ bleak daydream and he inhales sharply. "Oh no. No, no, no. Not you too."

"Oh, so other people have also suggested that you're a dick?" He hums, cleanly taking out an enemy with a headshot, and Louis can’t help but feel like it’s symbolic somehow. Like, as in the way that Niall just sniped him with that comment.

"Just because Harry got offended by a joke doesn't mean that I owe him an apology." 

Niall stares at him, his game character just idling on the screen, bullets flying around him. He doesn’t even break the daggers he’s firing in Louis’ direction when he gets struck and loses half of his health bar.

Louis blinks, his resolve crumbling under the trenchant blue-eyed scrutiny. He looks away from his friend, grabs a pillow from the sofa, shoves his face into it until he feels like his nose might cave into his skull, and screams into it at full volume. After, he simply clears his throat and nonchalantly folds his hands into his lap. "Do you know which room is his?"

Louis feels like a total loser as he makes his way into the hotel. At first, the staff try to turn him away because he doesn't understand how to get up to the suite levels, but luckily someone from Harry’s team that isn't Liam is in the lobby as he's getting judged by the posh concierge and swipes him into the executive lift. His wallet feels extremely full and content knowing that he will be sleeping on the bus instead.

He lingers outside of the door to Harry’s room for about ten minutes before he heaves a sigh and shoves his back against the panelled wall, sliding down to the floor. He's planning out his approach, reasoning that they should probably talk or something disgusting like that. He doesn't want to, but maybe he was a dick for making that snide comment to Harry and of course the elephant in the room would obviously be the fact that they had sex and haven't had a conversation since and—

There's a loud crash from inside the suite and Louis is on his feet instantly. He knocks on the door, probably a bit too eagerly, and listens to Harry curse from the other side of the wood as he fumbles with the locks.

It swings open to reveal the subject of his recent grief, a towel tied around his hair, a green substance smeared all over his face, and weird gel-filled patches underneath his eyes. He gapes at Louis, jaw slack.

"Um, hi," Louis rubs a hand against the back of his neck. He forces an unpleasant smile before Harry’s nose is twisting up and he is slamming the door directly in Louis’ face. "Hey!" He exclaims, pounding this time.

"Go away! I look hideous!"

Harry's voice is directly on the other side of the door. He hasn't walked away. Poor lad, his anxiety is radiating through the barrier at the surprise attack that Louis’ presence has wrought.

"You— Hey. Harry, please open the door. You could never look hideous to me."

There’s a brief respite before Harry cracks the door open, one eye poking through the gap. “Do you mean that?” His voice is small when he asks, and Louis nearly gags on the realisation that he said that out loud. And, well, he can’t take it back now.

Also, he sort of doesn’t want to, but that’s definitely something to unpack later.

“Of course. Please?” He opens his arms and shrugs slowly, showing all of his teeth in an overexaggerated grin. His hair undoubtedly looks like shit, snarly and unbrushed after washing it this afternoon, and he’s got on a baggy black hoodie and joggers, hardly charming or really presentable whatsoever. He gets why the staff didn’t want him in their hotel, actually.

Harry considers him for a while before he opens the door and gestures for Louis to enter. “What do you want, Louis?” He asks, disappointment shrouding the question.

Louis crouches down to take off his trainers and seizes the opportunity to glance around the room. They’re in Chicago for the next five nights, and they only have shows on two of those nights. Harry has clearly made himself at home in the space, luggage and clothes and fruit and bottles of Fiji water strewn everywhere. There’s also a makeup bag on the desk off to the side, and Louis stares at it. He’s definitely an eyeliner and all black shadow kind of guy, but he’s not a complete dumbfuck and he clearly recognises loads of different glitters and mascaras and lipsticks. 

Harry follows his gaze, and when he locks onto what he is looking at, he not-so-casually steps in front of Louis, effectively blocking his view. “So…I’ll ask again…why are you here?”

Louis rises back to his feet, shifting his weight. It’s no secret he’s nervous, and his body language is definitely broadcasting it. He reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair, clicking his tongue a bit. “I want to—uh. I want to apologise.”

Harry arches a brow. It’s quite comical with that goop on his face. “You really had to choke that out, huh?” He does smile when he says it, but it stings nevertheless. Perhaps it’s rather shameful that Louis’ stubbornness precedes him.

“Shut up,” Louis huffs out an uneasy laugh, dragging his socked foot along the carpet. “I just…yeah. It’s been awkward and I don’t like it.”

“Well, yeah, you’re a twat, so…”

Okay, well. That was deserved. Louis essentially smashed and dashed. “Ouch,” He makes a face, but Harry’s smile remains, so at least he must be doing something right. “I’m sorry for cornering you.”

“I think maybe I should be the one to say that,” Harry sucks in his cheeks. Louis knows that it’s an act of worrying, but the way his dimples remain even when he hollows his cheeks is…putting ideas that shouldn’t be in Louis' head directly into Louis’ head. He’s torn out of his perverted reverie by Harry looking down to his feet. “I acted really fucking inappropriately.”

If only he knew the thoughts running around in Louis’ brain.

“Hey,” Louis steps closer and leans forward to draw Harry’s attention from the floor. “Can I be blunt for a second?”

Harry actually lets out a giggle at that, a genuine grin tilting the corners of his mouth. “You would even if I said no, let’s be honest.”

“You’re right, babe,” Louis’ chest tightens in fondness. He puts a hand on his hip. “Look, I’m just gonna say it. We fucked. Hard, actually.”

“God, Louis,” Harry groans, throwing his head back dramatically and almost losing the towel covering his hair in the process.

“What!? We did. And that’s a thing we can’t change, but honestly, it’s— Look. Hey,” Louis snaps his fingers and Harry returns his gaze. He sputters out a laugh, and Louis struggles to not do the same. “It’s okay, yeah? We’re okay.”

“We are?” Harry’s face morphs into something sheepish again, and Louis nods in reassurance.

“I mean, it was a little weird to just…do what you did, but I’m not like, upset over it.”

Harry pouts, making a whimpering sound. “I know. I’m so sorry. Like, I truly cannot apologise enough. I should never have done that.”

“Your methods were a bit unconventional,” Louis teases, and Harry shrinks in on himself. “But seriously, no need to apologise, yeah? I’m the one who came here to apologise and you’ve managed to twist it into something being your fault.” He squirms, biting down on one of his fingernails. The colour painted on it is chipping, and Louis has to redirect his attention from Harry’s mouth to continue his train of thought. “Now, please take that shit off your face because I feel like I’m about to get eaten by a monster.”

“Heeeey! You’re being mean!” Harry exclaims, gasping. “You’re lucky it’s actually just about finished working its magic on my beautiful flawless face.”

Louis snorts and reaches out to poke a finger into his side. Harry shrieks and barks out a laugh, grabbing his wrist before wiggling away and prancing into the washroom. He doesn’t fully close the door, leaving it open just enough for Louis to hear the water running as he wanders around the room. He tries to not snoop, but he lets his eyes wander over the things that are out in the open: eyelash curlers, tall socks, hair clips, rose-gold Airpods, and something lacy that has Louis’ eyes bulging out of their sockets. He scurries away as fast as possible back to where he’d started waiting just as Harry exits the room with his skin looking fresh and soft and his curls bouncy and damp.

“I’m sorry I interrupted girls’ night,” Louis gestures to Harry’s appearance. His dressing gown is cute, pale pink and adorned with sewn roses all over it. “Matches your cheeks.”

Green eyes widen. His blush deepens and he ties the sash tighter, folding his arms across his chest. “Um, thanks…”

“I didn’t get a chance to apologise before for making that rude comment about you. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t mean harm. I just get a bit protective over the hard work that the lads and I have put towards our careers and I guess I got a bit…defensive. Overly defensive, that is.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. He doesn’t look upset despite having blatantly ignored Louis for days. He actually looks quite relieved, and Louis takes that as a good sign. “I get it. I just…it bothered me so much because I feel like we really get on well, y’know?”

“We literally had sex.”

“Louis, shut up! I’m being serious!” He reaches out and shoves Louis’ shoulder, but he’s laughing. “I feel like a real person when I’m with you. Remember? When I’m with you, I’m just Harry.”

And, well, that’s a bit unexpected and rather profound. Louis scans him, his entire being coated in sincerity. “You really feel that way around me? Even after I’ve repeatedly been an arse?”

Harry shrugs again, crossing his ankles as he stands, swaying slightly in place. “I mean, yeah. You laugh with me and tease me and treat me like we would have been best mates in school or something.”

“Nah, I wasn’t into preppy girls.”

“I should beat you up,” Harry laughs, pointing a finger at him. “You are a dick!”

Louis reacts instantly, crowding into his space and tickling him again. He squawks and swats at Louis, giggling and attempting to dodge. They nearly fall over but Harry ends up tangled with Louis gripping his forearms in the struggle, both of them panting and grinning. They stare at each other, and Harry’s eyes bounce all over Louis’ face. It’s a bit too much like a film, Louis thinks fleetingly, panicking and taking a massive step back as Harry’s eyes fall closed and he leans in.

“Hey, uh— What’s all this?” He shimmies out of Harry’s bubble, avoiding the gutted expression he’s wearing and nodding toward his makeup bag.

“Oh, um. I— Maybe— I don’t— That’s nothing.”

“Looks like it’s not nothing,” Louis makes a hopeful face, a genuine smile creeping in. Harry doesn’t appear amused, though, in fact, he almost looks like he wants to burst into tears. “Hey.”

“I think you should go,” Harry whispers, curling in on himself. “And please don’t tell anyone that you saw all of that.”

The abrupt switch from happy-go-lucky, confident Harry to contrite and repentant Harry is jarring. Louis’ veins coil up in every extremity of his body. “What? I mean, I’ll leave if you want me to. But I was kind of hoping you would show me what kind of makeup you have.”

Harry stops in his tracks as he reaches for the door to encourage Louis to leave and his head snaps over to shoot Louis a dirty look. “Don’t you fucking making fun of me, or I swear—”

“Whoa, no,” Louis holds up his hands, frantically waving them around. “No, no. I actually want to see it. In case you hadn’t noticed, love, but I regularly wear black around my eyes. Kind of part of my punk image, remember?”

Harry squints at him as maliciously as he can muster, probably, but Louis sees the twitch at the corners of his lips.

“Do you want me to go?” Louis sighs, pointing to the door.

“...No.”

Louis can’t help but grin as Harry reaches out and tugs on Louis’ hoodie sleeve, pulling him towards the bed. He sits on the edge, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles as he watches Harry dig around in two large bags, the clattering of what he assumes to be different makeup and skincare products filling the room. A wave of pride fills him with the knowledge that Harry trusts him to share this side of himself with him even after worrying at first. He momentarily wonders if he’s been burned by that quick faith in the past.

“I um…sometimes I like to…put this on?” He turns around slowly, clutching a tube of lipstick, mascara, and a container of rouge in his hands so tightly that his skin is turning white with the force.

It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Harry is extremely uncomfortable, afraid, even. But he’s allowing Louis to see his things, to let him hear this confession. Louis’ stomach ties into knots when he recalls Harry telling him he’s not allowed to dance, that he would get in trouble for doing so and that he did for even going to the Warped shows. Everything is a bit more in perspective now that he’s positive that Harry is not straight, and his throat constricts knowing that he still has to hide so much of himself. He wonders how much his team really knows.

“Will you put it on for me?” The words are out before Louis even has time to consider them.

Genuine shock explodes into Harry’s features, and he fishmouths, clearly searching for a response to a question he’d likely thought he would never hear. “Um…I don’t—”

“You don’t have to. Or, like, I could put it on for you,” Louis shrugs, and Harry’s eyes dart over to meet his, hand still grasping the makeup tightly, like it might just bite him if he lets it go.

“I’m— It’s late. I was…getting ready for bed. Just washed my face.”

Louis waves him off, nodding and smiling delicately. “You don’t have to do it, love, don’t worry, yeah? Maybe some other time.”

Harry reaches up and tugs on his lower lip as Louis starts to head for the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow sometime before the show, right?” He calls over his shoulder, bending down to pull on his Vans.

When Harry speaks, he’s suddenly no longer across the room but instead right beside Louis. “Stay.”

Louis glances up at him, then at the shoelaces in his hands, and then back. “Huh?”

“Don’t go. I can…put on a film? We could order food. Stay here. With me.”

And that’s definitely not what Louis expected to hear. Maybe they were inching towards friends, and that’s a pretty big maybe, since they’d quite literally fucked it up. They didn’t really talk at all, just sort of joked around and then brushed it all off like they always do. Wordlessly, Louis pushes his shoes back into the corner and slowly rises to his feet. “It’s late,” He repeats Harry’s words back to him, tipping his chin down as he speaks as if it’s going to reiterate what he’s doing.

“I mean…it’s not really, though, is it?” Harry shrugs sheepishly, even though that was his previous excuse to get Louis to leave when he’d thought that he was going to poke fun at him. “It’s not like friends don’t hang out late.”

“Yeah,” is all Louis manages, slowly nodding. He has a billion things rampaging through his brain.

“And it’s not like you wouldn’t just be doing the same on the bus with the rest of your band, right?”

Louis almost laughs to himself at Harry’s incessant justifications. I haven’t fucked the rest of the band, he thinks, preposterously. “Yeah,” He says again, wandering further into the suite and taking a cautious seat at the edge of the bed once more.

A slow smile spreads across Harry’s face and he practically skips over towards Louis with the room service menu. They order two different pasta dishes that they agree to split in half as well as tiramisu and a share-size chocolate chip cookie for dessert. Harry clicks on the telly, grinning as he finds some Supernatural reruns playing. Louis figures it’ll just be background noise, though, because there’s no chance in hell that his mind is going to let him focus on anything except for Harry and how he looks so fresh and so clean in that dressing gown.

Harry sets his bag next to where Louis is sat, sliding on the duvet across from him. He pulls out a tube of lipstick and slowly extends it out to Louis. His hand is shaking, and blue eyes flicker up to meet green before Louis gently takes it, fingertips brushing tenderly over the sensitive skin on the palm of Harry’s hand. He uncaps it, a pretty, deep, crimson colour, inspecting it before he glances up to Harry for confirmation.

"Do you want me to…"

Harry puffs out his lips slightly, looking a bit abashedly at their legs on the bed before he scoots closer until their shins brush up against one another, the other leg not touching dangling off the side of the mattress. Harry plants his hand on the white duvet next to Louis' knee, leaning forward like he's making to kiss him.

The shape of Harry’s lips is divine. They're plump, and already quite pink even without lipstick. His cupid's bow is perfect: arched and defined and his lower lip is full and honestly, maybe Louis wants to kiss him.

He swallows that thought, hoping it dissolves into his stomach acid. He allows his eyes to skim across all of his features, down to the baby hairs between his brows where he'd plucked them out and they've just started to regrow. The feeling of his breath against Louis' face is calming, really, and when he leans closer again, he builds up courage and lightly dabs the lipstick against Harry’s lower lip.

He gasps quietly, but Louis notices nonetheless, his eyes blinking open like he hadn't been expecting the feeling even though it's quite literally what they're there for. The colour slides onto the soft skin of Harry’s lips beautifully, like a brushstroke of sweet acrylics on an already gorgeous canvas. He giggles as Louis tries impatiently to get into the corners and he accidentally bumps Harry’s teeth and makes a mark across his canine.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this."

"'S okay," Harry smiles, and the red pales his complexion a bit, but the contrast complements the tones well, and Louis feels good. He finds that he loves to see Harry become so bashful, pushing against Louis' leg just a tiny bit more as he comes slightly closer. "Does it look alright?"

"More than, I'd say."

Harry's cheeks pinken and Louis swoons. The sensation of making Harry blush is a high; the colour flooding into his face and down his neck like pouring a crisp glass of water. Louis taps his thumb against his tongue to wet it, reaching up and sliding it underneath the lines of artful lips to erase any smears. He presses a bit harder in the corners, wiping where he’d messed up a little.

The tension in the room could be sliced like a double-decker cake, the air heavy and loaded with unspoken questions. Harry wraps his long fingers around Louis’ wrist as he cleans up the lipstick, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Louis’ lips and his eyes. There’s a knock on the door just as it looks like Harry was going to take his thumb into his mouth, and when Harry jolts, already at the door and leaving a cloud of dust in his wake, Louis finally exhales the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

He’s definitely awake, if the obvious bulge in his joggers has anything to say about it. Harry thanks the employee who delivered their food and spins on his heels, squeaking in excitement as he sets it all down on the bed, moving his makeup bag to make way for it. Dean Winchester rattles on about his Impala in the background and Harry hums as he folds his long, long legs up and uses the paper bowls he’d requested to divvy up the pasta. Louis studies him in all of his eagerness, looking quite adorable in his little rose gown and stunning red lips.

“Do you think that the delivery person liked your lipstick?”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Fuck.”

Louis can see the obvious panic in his eyes. He reaches out and taps twice on Harry’s exposed knee before he lets his whole hand rest there in a display of comfort, rubbing just a smidgen higher up on his thigh. “You look lovely.”

Harry visibly deflates, then, in a good way, like a balloon that was too full and on the verge of explosion. He flushes again and places his warm palm over top of Louis’ on his leg, smiling shyly. He opens his mouth to reply, but evidently thinks a bit too hard before he pulls Louis in by the tied hoodie strings, planting a lipstick-lined kiss against his cheek. “You’re very sweet,” He says, giggling. “And now you look lovely, too.”

Louis can’t help the corners of his lips twitching up. He presses his lips together in a tight vee and watches as Harry, all pretty in pink and riveting in red, dishes out their food and cuts into the cookie to eat his dessert first. He lets out a criminally scandalising moan at the first bite, and Louis just stares at him. He huffs out a laugh as Harry sticks out his tongue first before every bite, makes silly commentary during the show, and fondly bumps their legs together every time something even remotely interesting happens in their show.

He ghosts his fingertips across his cheek, sneaking a glance in the mirror at himself and the dried lipstick impression that lies there. Butterflies explode from within his insides, like every organ is freeing thousands of them. He watches himself next to Harry, how close they're sitting on the California king, oblivious to all of the open space, and how domestic they look with their arms and legs pressed tight. There's something bubbling beneath the surface of Louis' skin that he's sort of afraid to address, because he's here in Harry Styles' hotel suite next to an almost naked man, a man who he has already had sex with before, someone who he has extraordinary chemistry with, someone who he's sure he could easily fuck again if he'd only ask, and yet…

Yet, he finds that he is entirely content to just sit.

To just sit here, to rest, to spend time with Harry in a completely platonic manner.

It's nice.

Louis yawns for the first time around half one. His back is starting to ache something severe from sitting up straight on a bed for a few hours, and when Harry heads to the washroom, he wonders when he should leave. Harry returns in patterned pyjama bottoms and an oversized tee with a Disney princess on it. Louis can’t fight back his smile.

“Are you sleepy?” Harry asks, his head slightly tilted to the side, reminiscent of a puppy.

“Getting there, yeah.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just snatches the remote from the foot of the bed and peels back the covers, slipping beneath them. Louis watches him, his throat tight. Harry still doesn’t speak, but he stares back at Louis with heavy eyes as he pulls down the covers on the other side of the bed.

“Turn the lights out, no matter what you decide,” He says, and it’s a loaded statement. It’s a choice, there’s always been a choice, and for Louis, it’s a no-brainer.

Harry snuggles up while Louis pulls off his hoodie, tossing it on to the chair adjacent to the bed. He doesn’t speak when he slides into the bed next to Harry, on the furthest possible edge. He can’t fight a grin when he sees one form on Harry’s lips just as he turns out the light, and wordlessly, he scoots back just as Louis moves forward. They both laugh as they find one another in the dark, legs entwining together as Harry's back presses against Louis' chest.

"You like being the little spoon?" Louis whispers, like it's their secret and the world is judging them even in the silence of the hotel. 

"I am the little spoon," Harry replies, some of his curls poking Louis in the eye and getting in his mouth. He doesn't comment on it.

"Good.”

He also doesn't comment on how well that works. How well they fit. How every time they seem to be exact opposites, they come together like pieces of a puzzle. How their humour lines up and how everything they fucking do together just makes sense.

No, he certainly doesn't comment on that at all, and neither does Harry.

Louis blinks his eyes open to a sliver of sunlight pouring into the room. He spots Harry by the window, his eyes glued to a book and his brows creased in concentration as he reads. Golden shadows cast across his face, painting his profile in an ethereal glow. He’s fucking beautiful, Louis thinks. He can't help how the corners of his lips tick upwards when Harry’s gaze flickers up to meet his.

Louis is really in trouble.

"Oh, good morning," He says calmly, syrupy sweet, a dimple popping into his cheek. He's fully clothed, Louis is fully clothed, nothing even feels awkward. It just feels like they're teenagers who've had a slumber party, close friends who ate dinner and one just didn't want to drive home. It feels normal.

Louis swallows the 'You look so gorgeous' that's on the tip of his tongue and throws the covers off of his body a little too aggressively. "Hi," He stretches his shoulders back, watching Harry’s stare as it finds the piece of skin he's nearly certain is on display between his joggers and tee. “Show today.”

Harry nods, smiling at him. “I quite like cooking. I wish I could make breakfast or something, but all I can offer is room service again.”

Louis shrugs.

“Maybe someday I’ll be able to cook for you in the morning,” Harry rises to his feet, setting the book down on the side table and heading for the phone as if he didn’t just imply that he wanted to wake up together again. This is all doing his fucking head in. He’s feeling too much, feeling too fast, feeling, feeling.

Even though they get on just fine, and Louis actually really had fun watching the telly with Harry last night, enjoyed seeing Harry with lipstick on, loved just spending time together, he knows that that’s probably not where they’re headed. He has no idea how they’re supposed to be friends when Louis is petrified, terrified of what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking. He’s never looked at someone and wanted to shower them in affection and compliments before. He’s not one single time wanted to make somebody happy so intently before, he’s never felt flustered like this before. He’s scared, because every option in this situation is going to hurt Louis in some manner.

How can his brain and heart betray him this way?

To shove him headfirst into this strange longing for companionship with someone who is so different in every way?

“Hey, can we talk?” Louis helps Harry collect their breakfast when it’s delivered, serving some rather thick American-style pancakes onto the plates that came with the room service. Harry nods, taking a bite of the fluffy cake with some blueberries spilling off of his fork. “I’m going to be honest with you. I really like hanging out with you.”

Harry breaks into a massive grin, and before he takes another bite, he verbally agrees with Louis and licks his thumb, reaching out and pressing it against his cheek. “You still have some lipstick on you.”

Louis’ throat works, and suddenly the ‘but I don’t think being just friends is going to work for me’ he was about to mutter is lodged in his windpipe, rendering him speechless. They’ve dipped their toes into the friendship pool, sure, but it can’t happen. It was foolish for Louis to come here, and it was even more foolish for him to not leave when Harry had invited him to stay. He shakes himself from the quicksand pit that forms in his brain and forces up a wall of sarcasm and wit, just like he does with every other issue in his life. “Should have left it there like how I signed your chest and you performed that fucking gig.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Oh my God, yeah, I did that,” His face falls slightly, and Louis quickly interjects before he can spiral.

“I like it when you do things to fight against the people who limit you.”

“I know, and I try to do that at least sometimes,” Harry smiles, but it’s forced. He pops a blueberry into his mouth. “Besides, I kinda like the idea of being marked.”

Louis chokes on his tea, sputtering into the takeaway cup. Harry chews his fruit very intently, staring at Louis with an arched brow. He opens his mouth to reply but is instead harassed by an alarm from his phone that he'd forgotten that he'd set.

"Have you got to leave?” Harry is casual when he asks it, like he hadn’t just flipped Louis’ existence upside-down.

“Um, yeah. I have to go meet up with Doc and the boys.”

Harry hums, disappointment clouding his otherwise neutral features. “I really like spending time with you, too,” He grins softly.

Mirroring the smile, Louis stands up and collects his rubbish. “I hope I got across that I truly am sorry for hurting you and that I do want to be friends. And I think that we could be good. Um, friends.”

The small smile between Harry’s cheeks blooms into something larger than life, and he nods, practically tripping over his deerlike legs as he follows Louis to the door. “I’d like that,” He beams, face a bit dopey and overeager. Louis huffs out a low laugh, just watching him for a second before he turns the handle on the door.

“Oh, uh,” Louis pauses, turning back to face him once again. “Just for the record, I think maybe we should…not tell anyone we hung out like this?”

Harry’s eyes narrow at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, it would look like we fucked. If people knew I…slept…in your hotel room. With you.”

Louis can see the moment that the lightbulb goes off in Harry’s head. “Yeah…” He reaches around and ruffles the back of his hair, curls flying all over the place and a flush colouring his face. “You’re right.”

Louis purses his lips and Harry nods, and then he spins on the heels of his Vans and leaves, somehow feeling like he’s both walking on a cloud and his neck is being slowly constricted by a giant snake.

Chapter Text

"See you later, boys," Doc waves to them, but as Louis turns to take his leave, he feels a weight on his shoulder. "Louis, a moment?"

Louis runs a hand down his face. "Sure…" He sighs, walking back into the conference room Doc had rented out from the hotel for their meeting.

"Sit down," His voice is rather rigid, and Louis tenses immediately. He doesn't think he's ever heard such a harsh tone come from his manager before, and he's done a lot of really stupid shit in his lifetime.

Louis obeys, quickly pulling a chair and fixing Doc with a worried stare. His fear is instantly corroborated when Doc sits down, rubs his temples, and slams his palm down so hard on the table that it shakes. Louis flinches, his eyes widening. "What the fuck, man?"

"What the fuck? Yes, what the fuck, Louis?" Doc seethes, his nostrils flaring when he speaks. Louis has fucked up plenty while he's known Doc, but he didn't even get this rattled when he accidentally made a joke about smashing the record label chief executive's son to the record label chief executive. "Do you ever think? Do you have a single fucking thought up in here?" He taps himself square in the forehead three times.

Louis doesn't respond. He will probably be embarrassed about how his posture is curled in on himself later, but he's so jarred by the other man's behaviour that he can't even pretend to be confident at this point.

"Imagine how I felt when I listened to Liam Payne telling me that someone had broken into his hotel room and desecrated it," Doc laughs, a bitter, infuriated thing, and Louis' blood runs cold. "He wanted to file charges because he assumed it was a stranger, and then he asked what you all were doing during that time frame. I knew straight away that it was you, Louis."

Louis swallows. He stares Doc directly in the eyes. His breath is caught in his throat, and if he weren’t so nervous, he might worry that he might perish from lack of oxygen soon.

"I quickly defended you, and he agreed to let it slide provided we pay the damages. However, what I was not expecting was what I would see when I received the camera footage from the hotel."

His body is frozen in place as Doc speaks.

"...Harry Styles, Louis, really?"

"Doc—"

"I'm not here as just your manager, I'm speaking also as a friend. What you did was a really fucking bad idea."

"I don't—"

"Did you fuck Harry Styles, Louis?"

Louis' mouth hangs open, and he idles for a moment.

Doc slams both of his fists this time, the table rattling once again. "Answer me!"

"Um, yeah, shit. Y-Yeah, I did, I'm sorr—"

Doc scoots his chair back, pinching the bridge of his nose as he starts pacing the room. "Do you have any idea how easily this could ruin whatever career you've built for yourself?"

"I don't— I mean—"

"He has lawyers, Louis. They take this shit extremely seriously."

"I don't even think Liam knows he's…" He rolls his wrist, unsure of what he’s supposed to say here. He doesn’t want to directly expose anything else about Harry without his permission, though Doc isn’t an idiot.

"I don't fucking care. This is a huge deal. Imagine the scandal!"

"Okay?" Louis quirks an eyebrow. "Don't really think it's anyone's business who I have sex with."

"Harry is not out, Louis, in case you hadn’t fucking remembered that. If he gets outed because of this, we are fucked."

"Jesus. I'm not going to out him, are you taking the piss?"

"It's not always intentional. And you fucking know that."

Louis looks away. He clucks his tongue. 

A clock ticks on the far wall. Doc cracks his knuckles, clenching his eyes closed in exasperation. "You're playing a dangerous fucking game, mate. These are powerful people, and you need to be careful."

"Why are you acting like I've just been marked by an organised crime ring?"

"Can you please take something seriously for once in your fucking life, Louis?" The silence in the room is deafening, the severity of his manager’s words ringing in his ears before he speaks.

"Doc, for fuck’s sake. Harry and I are cool. We played a prank on Liam. It's all good."

"By trashing his hotel room?"

Louis raises his eyebrows. "Look. Not to be too TMI here, but Harry and I did fuck that day, yeah, but I swear, that was all. I literally left right after, if you catch my drift."

As if piecing it all together, Doc nods slowly. "I saw you on the footage. You looked like shit. And then you came in guns blazing and argued with me."

Louis huffs out a humourless laugh. "Yep…that was…a day. That's for sure."

“What took you so long then? You were in there for ages, and I know that whatever Liam said was all over the bed—God help me—did not take the entire time.”

“Um. We argued. For quite a while before.”

“Argued about what?”

“God, I feel like I’m being accused of murder or something,” Louis mumbles. Heat rises to his face. “He…surprised me. By wanting to fuck, okay? Wasn’t expecting it. He led me in, we fought a bit, we had sex, I left. That’s it, Doc, I fucking swear.”

“You could have said no and left.”

“Didn’t want to do that, though, did I?” A sly smirk finds its way onto Louis’ lips as he leans back in his chair, propping one of his trainers on the edge of the table.

Doc sighs, folding his fingers together and closing his eyes as he shakes his head. Louis can tell that he knows he’s losing control of the room. "Listen to me for a second, okay?"

Louis rolls his eyes, but he nods.

"As your manager, I'm advising you to be more careful. You have to tread lightly because these big stars, Louis…their image is carefully curated to the public. You fuck with that, and we will have some serious issues that aren't just me nagging you."

"Yeah, I get it, alright? It was a mistake." He chooses to not mention again how it was entirely Harry’s idea in the first place. He wonders what else exactly Harry did to the room after he'd left. He makes a mental note to inquire about it later.

"And as your friend, I'm telling you that you need to watch your own back. This could easily get messy, so maybe you should put some distance between yourself and Styles."

"Weren't you the one who bullied me into being all buddy-buddy with him?"

"I didn't mean for you to take my advice that well, you fucking knob," Doc exclaims, pointing a finger in Louis' direction, earning him a laugh. "Look. Despite what you might think of me, Louis, I really do care about you."

"I'm your boss."

"You pay me to be your boss," Doc smirks, and he takes a deep breath, body visibly relaxing a bit with the banter. The room still hasn't fully cooled off, but it is a bit less suffocating. "I really want what's best for you. Best for you, for Broken Beaks, for our bank accounts. And not having to hire an expensive lawyer to tackle huge defamation suits is in our mental, physical, and financial best interests. Alright?"

Scoffing, Louis waves him off. “You really think Harry would do that shit to us?”

Doc fixes him with a sympathetic stare, and yeah, maybe the ‘to me?’ that lingered in the air was too obvious. “Not Harry, no, but his management team, yes.”

Louis stares blankly at the wall, his head slowly bobbing as he registers everything. He gets it, he does.

Sue him.

Well, no, apparently not, because that would be too expensive.

He knows that he hasn’t had to deal with anything even remotely similar, but Harry has always been portrayed as a ladies’ man in the media. A bachelor, a womaniser, a lothario. Hell, Louis had assumed so until he’d met him. He’d thought Harry would be some sort of slick, condescending twat but in turn realised he’s a sweet and shy cherub who wears slipper socks and face masks. Surely people of the mainstream media aren’t going to be digging that deep if they’re already ignoring him skipping around in a sea of rainbows, right?

“You look a bit more upset by this than I expected,” Doc lingers in front of the closed door, something ominous scrawled across his features. “I hadn’t realised this was that serious for you.”

“Yeah, well you’re the one who just said it was really fucking serious, aren’t you?”

“I meant whatever is between you and Harry.”

Silence.

Furrowing his brow, Louis glares at him. “What are you implying, there?”

Doc purses his lips. The way he’s looking at Louis makes him feel like he’s exposed. Like Doc was with him in Harry’s hotel room, a little worm inside of his brain listening to all of his inner turmoil over the situation. “Exactly what I said.”

“We’re friends, now, you know. Which is what you and Harry’s team both suggested.”

“Well, I’m revoking that suggestion,” Doc points a steely finger at Louis, leaving no room for interpretation. It’s a warning. “And that’s your fault.”

Something bubbles up in Louis’ chest, tightening and clawing at his sternum from the inside. He knows his resolve has chipped. “But I just found him.”

Doc swallows visibly. For a brief moment, something akin to pity washes over his features, like he’s just watched somebody step on a puppy’s little foot. Like he’s just seen a child accidentally let go of their balloon. Like he’s going to break the heart of somebody he cares about. His usually steadfast voice wavers as he speaks. “I strongly advise you to ‘find’ someone else.”

Louis stares at himself in the mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, holding it back away from his face and exposing his forehead. He just stares at himself, the rings of blue around his pupils, the grey hairs expanding from his temples, the curve of his eyebrows, his scruffy unshaven jaw, the bright lights in the dressing room reflecting the austerity in his eyes. He lets his hands fall, a sudden rage pooling within his stomach. He makes to kick something  but stops himself with a crystal-clear image of Harry fixing him with a disapproving stare, and the thought alone and whatever the fuck it means nearly has him losing his mind. Instead, he snatches a beer can from the vanity and sinks his teeth into the side, canines piercing through the metal and gulping the alcohol down aggressively until it’s empty before crushing it in his fist and tossing it to the side with a sharp clattering sound. He shouts out nothing in particular, simply just to vocalise some of his frustration before meandering over to the sofa for a seat where he’ll probably just doom scroll on his phone until closer to show time when Zayn and Niall stumble in from their adventuring. 

The door clicks and Louis groans. It’s undoubtedly someone who will encourage him to go out and explore, or grab some lunch, or do literally anything that’s not sulking and drinking alone in the United Center dressing room.

Expecting to immediately put up a fight, Louis instead schools his expression into something neutral and coughs into his elbow when he sees a curly head poke inside.

“Hiiii,” Harry says quietly, “May I come in?”

Louis doesn’t look at him when he speaks. Hopefully he can't hear his heart thumping in his throat. “No.”

Harry lets himself in regardless, and Louis tries to hold back the twitch at the corners of his lips. He's a brat, this one.

“You don’t really understand the word ‘no’, do you?”

Harry grins then, a dimple popping in both cheeks. He's wearing an oversized hoodie and joggers with a clip in his hair, holding curls away from his face. It's reminiscent of his disguise from their Warped Tour adventure, and Louis isn't entirely positive that he'd recognise him on the street at first glance. "Maybe I don’t," Harry says, and a slight giggle follows as he leans around him in the mirror and begins staring at Louis through the glass.

Louis turns and finally looks back. He knows he should be asking Harry to leave, he knows that what Doc said is true, that this is a dangerous game. He knows, he knows, he knows. But he can’t help but relish in the tingling that envelopes his body as Harry’s green eyes dart everywhere they can possibly see on Louis’ face. It’s a hunger, his gaze desperate as if he’s been famished for weeks. If his life were a film, he thinks distantly, maybe he’d kiss Harry.

Maybe he’d want to kiss Harry.

And maybe he does want to kiss Harry.

He’s not sure what’s going through his mind.

He needs to get it together.

Louis looks away.

“I hope you have a good show, Harry,” His voice betrays him, the tremble obvious. Though he isn’t facing Harry directly anymore, he can see him nod in his peripheral.

As he makes his way to the door, he hesitates for what feels like a millennium. “Hey.”

Louis half-turns, his eyeline focused on a crack in the brick wall rather than the boy to his right for whom his heart is hammering so hard. He doesn’t verbally acknowledge him. He can't. 

“Do you want to…mm. Do you maybe want to go out and get drinks after the show?" When Louis doesn’t immediately respond, he quickly adds, “Not alone. Not like…um. Not a date— Like, my band will be there. And Broken Beaks too. I just— I wanted to ask you personally, I suppose. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to see you, because when you left, you said—”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts his rambling. He fights the urge to sigh out loud. The last thing he wants to do is spend time with Liam and the rest of Harry’s dry, boring group that he ‘parties’ with. And quite frankly, he’s getting tired of Zayn, Niall, and John too, in a good way. Like a brother who needs time apart. He doesn’t exactly know how to pass without sounding rude, but he doesn’t want to agree and be miserable the entire time. He can only take so many lame jokes, and Liam has loads. 

…He’s lying to himself. 

And he knows it.

“I gotta be honest, mate, I’m pretty tired. I think I might just collapse after the show.”

Harry purses his lips, tapping his thumbs together where his hands are interlocked. “You don’t have energy after you perform?” He’s calling Louis out on his bullshit, and it’s entirely deserved.

“I mean, sure I do, but I also am off the stage like two hours before you are. It’s all gone by then.”

Also a lie.

This tour has turned him into nothing but a liar.

“I see,” Harry replies coldly, knowing he’s been shot down. He shifts his glance to his feet. Again. Louis wishes he’d stop doing it. It makes him look defeated, and that in turn makes Louis want to give him a cuddle, and that scares the absolute living shit out of him. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, Lou.”

Nodding, Louis regards him as he leaves, humming to himself, distantly wondering when Harry decided they are close enough to use nicknames on one another. Maybe it was after Louis said they’d make good friends. Maybe it was after they’d shared orgasms and slept in the same bed all tangled up in a pile.

Louis nearly sprints to the toilet to empty his anxious, fearful stomach after he’s alone.

Turns out, Louis has a problem.

The problem is that he actually wants to go out. He wants to get piss drunk, and he wants to laugh and bully his friends and maybe have a look at a cute boy or two even though he can't really touch without any scrutiny.

There's a huge group full of the tour crew out at a club just outside of the city centre, and Louis finally caves when he catches John headed out towards an uber. Apparently Harry’s band along with Niall and Zayn are already there, and it's been delegated that John is picking up food.

And, well, now he’s picking up Louis, who had been lazing about on the bus, ready to spend his night lost in his thoughts and whatever game he decided to play. He chugs a beer and a couple swigs out of a new bottle of vodka to get himself in good spirits. John stares at him with a cocked eyebrow as he does so, the judgmental look on his face sending loads of unasked questions into the airspace.

Louis isn't lame, is the thing. He's usually the first one drunk, the first one ordering shots. He's the first one to lay out a joke or a jab at someone else's expense for the greater good of the group and the first one to spread laughter like wildfire. He is fucking funny and the life of the party and he can't believe that he'd even been considering withering away on the bus instead of going out.

He just can't shake the idea of Harry and his people out of his head. Of Liam, of Doc, of the things they'd said.

But Harry is…

Harry is an alien, Louis thinks. Something from out of this world. Something that has wormed its way into Louis' head, his chest, into his lungs like the smoke from the cigarette he inhales in the alleyway, stoically standing outside the building before going inside.

As they enter the club, Harry the alien follows Liam’s gaze as he spots the three of them walking over. Harry the alien, whose eyes widen and cheeks dent in at the sight of Louis. Harry, who sucks his lower lip between his teeth to bite back a smile, who looks so, so pretty in a sparkly lavender blouse. Harry, whose attention makes Louis' heart thud in his chest for whatever fucking reason.

Harry is a problem.

"Louis," Harry mouths, and Louis swears he can hear his deep voice despite the music of the club overpowering the rest of the universe.

He doesn't realise it at first, but Louis walks straight past where Zayn is holding out his fist for a bump and approaches Harry instead. "Hi," He says, and Harry blinks up at him with his bright eyes for a second before he scoots over in his chair. The chair is very clearly made for one person, but Harry’s a goofball and is apparently convinced they'll both fit. 

Louis has had enough to drink to humour him, so he slides in and laughs as Harry scrambles to wrap his arms around Louis' shoulders. He clings to him like a koala while he struggles to stay on the seat. Louis' hands reach out and grip his waist, pulling him closer, helping him adjust and letting him climb into his lap.

"You came," Harry is directly in his face now, his arms still draped over his shoulders and his alcohol-laden breath wafting in the air. Louis notices Doc (sending him a death glare) on one side of the room and Liam across the table (a confused expression on his face), quickly clearing his throat.

"Yeah," Is all he can manage before he attempts to dislocate himself from the chair.

"No— Where are you going?" Harry tightens his grip on Louis' neck and when Louis sighs, he follows his eyeline to where Liam is now casting a disapproving stare his way. Harry is speaking to Liam if the vibrations against Louis' chest are enough to go by, but Louis can't hear what he's saying with the way his body is half-turned towards their managers in the overly crowded room.

"Harry," Liam warns, this time loud enough to be audible, tilting his head not unlike a scorned mother. Harry humphs before turning back to Louis.

"I have to get my own chair."

His pout is clear as he rises to his feet clumsily both in general nature but also influenced by drink; Louis burns under the heat of his gaze as he allows Harry the seat and departs to go join his friends at the other table before he can think twice about staying there.

"Someone is glad you made it," Niall jokes, gesturing with this thumb towards Harry’s table. “I take it your apology went well. Nice to see you two getting on.”

Zayn eyes him suspiciously. There’s a heaviness in his dark eyes. Louis can feel the moment it penetrates directly through him as if his body is made of transparent glass, lighting his bones afire and illuminating all of his thoughts like a neon sign glowing in the night.

"You like him," Zayn's expression is flat, matter-of-fact, and Louis baulks immediately.

"No, I don't," He retorts, instantly on the defence. It’s probably obvious to Zayn, the way that the mirror that doubles as whatever is left of his resolve has cracked directly in front of him. He’s swallowing shards from it, gushing wounds opening and consuming his entire throat.

"It's alright, mate, he’s cool. His whole band is cool," John chimes in, sliding a pizza box across the table. It’s almost comical how naive John is to what Zayn actually meant, though perhaps it’s better this way. Even Zayn couldn’t possibly understand the degree to which Louis is done for, and Niall also seems blissfully ignorant to the truth behind it all as well.

"I suppose maybe they are,” Weak is the voice that comes from Louis’ lips. Even to any blind man, Louis would appear fidgety and restless. It’s a wonder that Doc or Liam hadn’t come to the conclusion without CCTV or Harry acting like a lap dog.

"Yeah, Lou! Finally," Niall exclaims. "Does this mean we're finally all going to get to hang out and fuck shit up together?"

It takes a minute, but a slow smile spreads across Louis' face as the knot occupying his chest loosens. He glances at his band. He looks directly at Doc, who is sitting at the edge of the booth, arms folded, one eyebrow raised, and scowling. He hasn’t spoken up once, which Louis is thrilled about. Surely he can’t possibly expect Louis to just excuse himself from all future group activities. It would be infinitely more suspicious.

And finally, Louis shifts his focus over to where Harry and his team are sat, the former already looking his way with a bashful grin on his face. He absently touches some of his curls, waves softly, and mouths a silent ‘hi’ from across the room. "...Yeah, I think it does."

Whispers flood the venue when they walk in.

“Don’t pay them any mind,” Louis assures, his hand on the small of Harry’s back as they weave through throngs of people with their eyes glued to them. “People in these types of places are quite lax.”

“If you say so,” Harry’s entire demeanour is tense, his body understandably on high alert after being in the spotlight and scrutinised under a microscope for so many years. “I’m going to get murdered if anybody finds out I’m here. You know that, right?”

“That sounds very different from the eagerness I heard earlier. ‘Oh, Louis, that sounds like so much fun!’” 

“I did not say that!” Harry whisper-shouts, slapping Louis’ shoulder. His hand slides down between his shoulder blades and his thumb strokes delicately back and forth between the seams of his denim jacket. It’s a sensual touch, one that Louis doesn’t think that friends would partake in. He’s been hyper-aware of all of Harry’s obvious flirting throughout the past couple of days. He doesn’t mind, actually, it’s been sort of funny to watch Harry try so hysterically to get a little extra attention.

…Which is why they’re at a pop punk gig in a dingy Chicago venue in the back of a pub with a 600 capacity. Of course it's not Harry’s scene. Louis isn't ignorant to Harry practically tripping over his own feet for just a smidgen of his time. Louis loves it, of course, a bit of a diva himself. 

As the show commences, Harry voices his shock that not a single person has approached and asked for a photo. Louis just smiles at him, and rather than explain that most of the people in this crowd probably think that Harry Styles™ is a mainstream twat, he bumps their hips together smoothly enough that it could be brushed off as an accident. He knows that Harry had a lot of trepidation about coming here with absolutely no security detail—about coming here at all, really—and Louis almost feels a little bad about taking advantage of the fact that Harry is so desperate for Louis’ reverence. But to answer those fears, he tries his best at always keeping some form of contact, whether it’s their pinkies linked together, a leading hand on his back, an arm around his shoulders. It obviously comforts him in such an unfamiliar environment, and once the first act is about halfway through, Louis is thrilled to see Harry loosening up.

It does genuinely surprise Louis to see that not a single person has been annoying about seeing Harry here, and it gives him a bit of faith in his punk rock people. He expected at least one phone trained their way, one inquiry about taking a selfie, one single interaction. But there’s none. It’s calming, and it’s obvious that Harry is so thrilled about it, especially since they’re not exactly being subtle in regards to sharing touches. It’s exactly what Doc warned him about, and he’s vehemently going against what he’d been told to do. 

But, at the end of the day, Louis does whatever the fuck he wants to, consequences be damned.

“Alright, I want to see you open up a circle pit!” The singer shouts, and Harry’s eyes go wide. He looks to Louis in horror, and Louis grins maniacally. It’s likely Harry had seen some of this at Warped Tour when he’d visited, but he’s quite unmistakably never been in one.

The pit expands, and people start shoving each other around aggressively and laughing as  they do so, Louis screeching in excitement as he’s thrown about. It takes Harry quite some time before he appears to start to accept his fate. Eventually, though, he ends up giggling every time he’s pushed directly into Louis, and Louis collects him into his arms after the support finishes their set. After the bands shift and the main act takes the stage, Louis pulls him in as the people around them start to get quite jumpy.

“Do you trust me?” He says, and Harry doesn’t hesitate when he nods, though he does appear a bit sceptical. “Alright, babe. Let’s fucking go!”

Louis scoops Harry off his feet, and the instant he does, the crowd takes hold, and Louis leaps up as well, hands lifting their bodies into the air. Harry is screaming, flailing around, desperately reaching for Louis as they’re passed about. Louis laughs, letting Harry clutch his arm, the fans raising them up until they’re suddenly at the front of the stage, the security guards helping set them back on their own feet. The crowd hollers when Louis raises Harry’s arm up, and the singer holds a fist up to him as they make their way to the back of the pit, thousands of eyes on them as they go.

They linger off by the washrooms, giving Harry some breathing room after his first ever crowd-surfing experience. There’s nobody around and an outside door is open at the end of the hall, letting in blowing crisp autumn-esque air. Harry shivers.

“So?” In a bold move fuelled by adrenaline from sharing something he fucking loves with someone he’s feeling a bit too out of his depth for, Louis grabs Harry by the belt loop and smirks at him, his gorgeous curls wild and tousled.

“That was…fucking insane,” His green eyes are shining and he rubs his forearms, the chill from the breeze a stark contrast to the boiling temperatures in the non-air conditioned venue.

“In a good way?”

“In an exhilarating way,” Harry grins, swaying his hips closer towards Louis, “I want to do it again.”

“Right on, mate!” Louis grabs his hand and leads him back to the audience.

After the song ends, the singer of the band shouts out. “I can’t help but notice we have Louis fucking Tomlinson from Broken Beaks in our audience tonight! What the fuck!” He exclaims, and the crowd roars. It’s rather unexpected, and he prays that nobody draws attention to Harry, though it seems as if no one is going to. He’s grateful, and he salutes. He’s also a bit smug at the way Harry gapes at him. He supposes his band is making a bit of a stir in the scene, and has quite a large following compared to this one. Louis doesn’t let it get to his head. He quite enjoys listening to up-and-coming artists, still much like themselves, just on a slightly smaller scale.

“Dude, you wanna come up here?” The singer gestures, waving his microphone and hand towards the stage.

Louis waves him off, but the audience starts chanting and eventually, Louis caves in, making his way up to the stage. He glances back over at Harry, who encourages him, a dopey smile on his face. The fans cheer for them, and the band invites Louis to sing with them on their next song. They pass him a microphone and count off, every one of them leaping into the air as the first chords ring out. Louis is on cloud nine, jumping around on stage and kicking the air and throwing his head around, his hair whipping out in front of him. He’s in his element, surrounded by his people and his favourite kind of music. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this, how he yearns to be back in his own safe haven. But something is different, and it’s not just that it’s not his own band encircling him on the stage. It’s the feeling, something new and exciting. It’s the way that his body reacts to cheers, the manner in which his confidence exudes from his person. It’s cosy, being in such a small, tight, familiar venue, and it’s home. 

It’s home.

And in the centre of the crowd, he spots Harry. His beautiful friend Harry, so carefree and saccharine, bouncing around in a sea of people with a grin plastered on his face from cheek to cheek and his hands in the air waving to him like nothing else matters in the world except for them and 598 of their closest mates.

"Shh! You have to be quiet!" Louis whispers aggressively. "We're gonna get caught!"

They lean against the wall next to the ice machine, listening for the click of the door and Doc's distracted voice as Niall calls him with a distraction.

They've just arrived at a hotel in Sunrise, Florida after only spending an hour at the beach and leaving early, Harry claiming he needs an ice bath before the show and everyone simply accepting Louis wanting Broken Beaks to leave ten minutes later because he's sick of the beach and it's a 40 minute drive to the hotel they all reluctantly agreed to split due to Floridian weather. There was a 6 day break in between Nashville and the first Florida date in Orlando, and every day except for the first day off (which they spent in Nashville), they have spent lounging about at the beach. Louis despises the cold, sure, and his body usually accepts a great tan, but he got burnt yesterday before the show in Orlando and now he's just crabby and sore.

Carefully, they sneak into Doc’s room and start their work, meticulously taking every piece of furniture in the room and turning it upside-down, even including the flat-screen television thanks to wooden pegs Louis had ordered off of the internet to help it stand. Harry cannot stop laughing the entire time, and when they're finished, he snaps a photo of Louis flipping him off next to a completely flipped over sofa propped up against the bottom of the side tables. 

Doc's voice echoes through the hallway as Louis gently pulls the door shut and tugs Harry by the wrist around the same corner as before. It only takes a moment before they can hear Doc’s indignant ‘Jesus, what the hell is this?’ followed by furious grumbling about Louis being unbelievable and resigning from his job, and then Louis' phone is ringing silently in his hand.

They share a fit full of giggles, and Harry gasps out in his laughter. "I feel like I'm living on the edge right now."

"If you think that was fun, you should see the kind of shit we got up to during Warped."

Harry smiles brightly at him. "Punks."

"Yeah, that's me," Louis plants his thumb against Harry’s chin, just below his lips, and they grin at each other for a beat.

And in a moment, something changes.

Electricity shocks the air around them, Harry’s eyes flickering back and forth between Louis' mouth and his eyes, and before Louis can register it, he's pressing Harry back against the ice machine in the vending area, nearly knocking the breath from him. He's not sure if he's ever felt such a hunger before, the high of a successful mischievous act and the touch of another man coursing through his veins like liquid lightning. Beneath the scent of Harry's perfume, he smells like the ocean and sand on sun-kissed skin and suddenly Louis isn't so sick of the beach anymore, wants to drink every drop of saltwater and kiss every freckle.

Louis' mouth travels to Harry’s cheek after he whimpers against him, dragging his lips down beneath his jaw, his nose skimming across the heated and slightly sweat-damp column of his neck. "Oh my God, Louis," Harry moans, his hips pressing forward against Louis'.

"Want me to make you feel good?" Louis breathes, and Harry tenses.

"Anybody could walk by!" Harry exclaims, careful to keep his voice down. "Liam would fucking kill me."

And. Well, that's an understatement.

"We'll hear them coming. Or they'll hear you first."

"OhmyGod," Harry pants against Louis' temple as he dips his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s joggers. He gasps out and ruts up towards Louis' hand, gripping his biceps for leverage as his head lolls to the side. "Yeah, okay, yeah. Yes. Please."

"Perfect," Louis smirks, wrapping his hand around Harry, pulling him half-out just so that the tip of his cock is poking out as he strokes. He nibbles beneath Harry's sharp jawline, the rumbling of his groans and the humming of the ice machine vibrating against their shared bodyspace. 

The lift dings as it arrives on their floor and Harry huffs out. "Louis! Someone is—"

He shushes Harry with a palm over his mouth, thumbing over his slit while the telltale sound of a keycard beeping and a door closing reverberates through the hallway around the corner. 

Harry’s body stiffens, his fingers reaching up to desperately tangle in Louis' hair as he mumbles against Louis' hand. "Fuh, 'm loh—"

A door opens and shuts, and distant voices inch closer and closer, and Louis quickly squeezes Harry’s cock, digging his finger along the bottom of the shaft and twisting his wrist as Harry comes, pulling his shirt down as far as it can go in a shitty attempt to catch as much of the mess as he can.

By the time the couple rounds the corner, Harry is supporting himself with one hand pressed against the soda vending machine next to where he'd just been pleasured, and Louis lingers behind. "Hi, sorry," Louis says, voice cool and smooth, like he hadn't just given someone a hand job in the hallway of a hotel. "Need any ice?" He gestures toward the machine next to where Harry is still recovering. 

"Oh, Lord. Is he alright?" The woman asks, concern colouring her features.

Louis glances over at the hunched-over Harry, who is accomplishing a double feat by hiding both his famous face and also how fucked out he looks by just staring at the floor, forehead pressed against the glass of the soda machine, back towards everyone.

Louis sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Ah, yeah, he's alright. Just a bit gutted as they're sold out of Dr. Pepper."

"What is there to do in North Carolina?" John asks, throwing a bouncy ball against the wall and catching it, time, after time, after time.

Louis is surprised that Zayn hasn't killed him yet, the repetitive motion and noise having a mind-melting effect if the way he twitches every time it ricochets off the bus wall is anything to go by. “Not much, probably,” He grumbles, picking at his nails. Thump, catch. Thump, catch.

After another twenty minutes on the road, the bus pulls over, and all four of the men poke their heads out the window to see what's happening. They're at a service station, and Doc is stomping over from their van with an extremely giddy expression on his face.

Louis is afraid.

"What the hell is he doing?" John squints out at their manager as he approaches.

Doc bursts onto the bus with a wide, wicked smile. "I just got off the phone with some pretty important people," He puckers his lips and strolls in with pep in each step, the complete opposite of everyone else on the bus who all stare at him with zero emotion. "Broken Beaks have just been booked on a ten show UK tour from January and then…Warped Tour again in the summer!"

All four of them shout out loud, putting a fist in the air, clapping, and giving one another hugs. 

"I take it you're all up for it?" Doc smirks, his arms folded across his chest.

"Fuck yeah!" Louis shrieks. He turns to everyone else, who all nod and voice their affirmation. "Booked and busy!"

Doc pats Louis on the back. "I'll make some more phone calls. Once Love on Tour wraps up, you'll have about a month and a half off and then we'll get you lot packed up for your UK headlining shows."

Once he departs, Zayn bops his head back and forth. "It'll be nice to get back to our own crowds."

"And ten shows. That's pretty fucking good. Like an actual  tour of the UK for just us, lads. It's gonna be great!" Louis climbs atop the table, his head bumping against the roof of the bus. He screeches at inhuman volume and pumps his fist in the air. "Crack open the fucking vodka!"

Chapter Text

In Boston, Louis watches Harry’s set from the back of the pit, relatively bored and unbothered by almost all except for a few fans who spot him and ask to snag a photo with him. He can tell by their attitude and appearance that they only care because he’s the support act for Harry and not because they’re big into his music, but he shrugs it off. He’s trying to get over himself, and it’s not like he’s going to tell someone to name three Broken Beaks songs before he takes a photo. He’s not that far up his own arse. He spies on them as they walk away snickering, one of them posting their photo to Twitter account and captioning it with a tongue emoji and ‘daddy’. He bites back a laugh. He’ll have to tell Niall about that one later.

Truthfully, Louis has paid little to no attention to Harry’s set, he doesn’t really know a lot of his songs save for the radio hits as it’s just simply not his favourite type of music. So when Harry boasts about fifteen minutes of straight dancing and Louis finds himself being reluctantly thrown into a conga line during a song with plenty of rainbow lights, a trans flag, and Harry cocking a hip and shimmying singing about feeling good in his skin, he’s absolutely flabbergasted. He truly cannot believe how different this audience is from the typical crowd during Broken Beaks concerts—ones that house circle pits and moshing—and he silently hopes that anyone who has decided to purchase tickets to their future shows learns pit etiquette because these don’t seem like the type of folk to enjoy getting their shit kicked by a crowd surfer.

It takes nearly the entire set, but Harry eventually spots Louis in the crowd from where he’s retreated behind the barrier (square dancing was too much for his punk rock pea-brain to handle) back off to the side of the pit by where the band exits and enters. Harry makes a visor out of his palm to squint off into the distance. A slow smile blooms on his face when his suspicions seem to be confirmed, and Louis’ heart beats a little faster for it. He doesn’t announce Louis’ presence, per say, but his simple gesture inflicts enough attention upon him to be an inconvenience, the weight of thousands of stares bearing down upon his shoulders.

During the speech before what he assumes is going to be the final song, Harry takes a drink and wanders around the stage. Louis has seen videos on the internet of Harry throwing water on people, but the absolute last thing he expects is for Harry to abruptly dash off of the stage and run all the way over to Louis to empty the contents of the bottle directly into his face, splashing him and holding it above his head as it finishes dripping, barking out a laugh as the arena erupts into deafening screams.

Louis’ jaw hangs open, his cheeks flaming in embarrassment. He just stands there pathetically, soaked, as a giddy, giggling Harry skips away, leaping up almost the entire staircase to the stage and sprinting over to his microphone stand to start his song as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. There are loads of phone cameras pointed at Louis as he huffs and wrings out his long hair. He can’t even tell what facial expression he’s making in all of the shock, so he’ll have to worry about that when he checks the internet tomorrow. He can only imagine the kind of shit they’re going to get up to with this fuel. It’ll be funny later when he’s not so devastated with no means for immediate retaliation.

He’ll admit it.

He got got.

It was a good one, too, the little shit.

The first half of Harry’s final song goes by in a wet, sopping blur, a few people approaching where Louis stands behind the barrier to ask for photos, but Louis doesn’t reply, instead simply allowing them to take pictures of him looking like he’d gone for a swim and keeps his eyes trained on Harry. He dances and prances around the stage, tossing repeated glances Louis’ way, galloping to the closest edge of the catwalk to him and locking eyes while he drags his palm down his torso, over his crotch, down his thigh, singing something about a black dress. Louis fleetingly thinks this is one of the only songs he listened to of Harry’s that he even remotely liked, it seems to be a bit more on the rock side of things instead of his typical silly dreamy fun pop. Maybe he should give the others a listen later though, when everyone is asleep and he’s got his earbuds in.

A bunch of heads whip to his direction again when they see Harry staring his way during a line, popping his arse out in a much-too-familiar way to Louis. He’s both mortified and quickly approaching horny with the way that Harry is throwing himself around on stage. He’s sexy; he’s a beautiful star shining brightly for so many people, and something catches in his oesophagus thinking of all of the different sides of Harry. He’s loud, obnoxious, silly, bull-headed, and sullen. But he’s also shy, sweet, kind, and thoughtful, and Louis’ mind flashes to white as his lungs coil into tight ringlets.

This was a bad idea.

Quietly, he evacuates behind the black curtain, rounding a corner and resting against the clinical off-white cinderblock wall, his chest heaving. Surely that generated a lot of attention, and Louis doesn’t understand why somebody who presents himself publicly as straight makes it so bloody obvious on stage that he’s not. How does he get away with it?

More importantly, why did Louis get scolded for his behaviour if it’s so apparent that Harry is queer?

Surely people can’t possibly think—

Louis sighs.

He’s sure there’s a lot to unpack there, and luckily, he is not famous enough to have anything he does truly scrutinised like that, and there’s a wave of sadness for Harry that bubbles up from within him. Louis isn’t comfortable going out and pulling anymore due to their rising status, sure, but he’s never been told to hide who he is. And perhaps that time will come, perhaps soon enough Doc will call him in and have that discussion about himself instead of Harry. To tone himself down, to curate his image into a more marketable one. Of course, he hopes it won’t be in the cards, but, he supposes, it’s possible. Especially after the attention they’re gathering from the tour.

Louis needs to find a washroom. He weaves through the hallways, searching for one that isn’t closed. He spots Harry’s dressing room and waves to the guard standing outside of it, quietly letting himself in. Leaning against the vanity, he stares at himself in the mirror: cheeks warm, shaggy, wet hair, liner smeared beneath bloodshot eyes, tank top soaked, water droplets across his collarbones and shoulders. A thousand things race through his mind about his identity —his band, his music, his sexual orientation, his style of dress—and how Harry probably has all of that dictated to him. Surely he has choice in the matter, but the level of choice is no-doubt restricted and Louis feels for him. He truly cannot imagine.

The door opens a short while later and Louis nearly leaps out of his skin, glancing over his shoulder to see Harry enter, out of breath, smiling, though his smile dies quickly when he sees Louis. He immediately holds his arm up, preventing whoever was following him from coming in, kicking the door closed and rushing over towards him.

“Louis, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no, it was funny. It’s fine. I truly wasn’t expecting it, you got me good,” Harry pauses halfway across the room when he’s interrupted, glancing down to where he’s twirling his thumbs in an awkward, nervous manner. Louis wishes his voice were stronger, because he loves pranks, he lives for that kind of thing, but he’s weak at the moment. “Don’t apologise. I’m going to get you back, though, babe.”

Harry slowly creeps up closer to him. There’s so much pink in the room, so many sequins and feathers and flowers, all things Harry and things Harry looks nice in. But he’s brought so much more colour into the space since he’s arrived, and Louis is overthrown with butterflies when he appears behind him, a strong desire to catch a glimpse of Harry’s dimpled smile and sweet disposition. But instead the face he’s wearing is worried and ashamed, and Louis despises it with his entire being.

He can see Harry looking at him in the mirror, his eyes hungry, studying the dip in his shoulders and the way the cut of the tanktop on the sides shows his ribs and waist. He feels oddly sexy, in a way, with someone so globally desired feasting their attention on him. Harry is adored worldwide, the subject of millions of people’s fantasies. And Louis always shrugged off his fame at first, tossed him to the side because in his mind, he was an industry baby or a mainstream loser, but seeing the human side of him…it’s breathtaking. Everyone on Earth wants Harry Styles, but in that moment, Harry Styles wants Louis.

“I like all of your outfits,” Louis whispers, their eyes connected in the mirror. “Tonight’s especially. You look really pretty.”

He can see Harry’s Adam's apple bob, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You think so?” The question is shy, and it hurts Louis. Maybe, maybe he'll show Louis more of himself someday, more of Harry beneath the surface.

Louis nods slightly with his head, a gesture for Harry to come closer. He does, bashfully sidling up next to Louis at the vanity, both of them gazing into the mirror. Louis steps back for a second, and there’s a flash of trepidation in Harry’s eyes, like maybe he did the wrong thing. In response, Louis simply places an arm on the other side of the counter, bracketing Harry in, his chest nearly pressed to Harry’s back. 

“You look so free up on stage,” Louis says plainly, against the space behind his ear, and Harry tenses.

“I— Y-Yeah. They…let me do things up there that surprise even me. I get called names a lot for it, though. But it’s—um. It’s worth it. To me.”

Louis hums, sliding his palm on the counter closer until it touches Harry’s, and Harry wiggles his pinky against Louis’ thumb.

“I think it means a lot to young people, older people. To fans. To queer people. To people like—people like me.”

“I admire that,” Louis smiles softly. “I think it’s brave.”

“You’ve done a lot, too, though. You do loads of charity work and are vocal about what you do and believe in. I’ve seen it. It’s one of—uh. It’s one of the things that drew me to your band. I…read an article once,” Harry turns his face to where Louis’ is idling right beside his shoulder, puffs of his breath hitting his nose and lips. Louis doesn’t look away from the mirror, just watches Harry’s side profile in it, watches him be so close from another perspective. “And you were screaming fuck the government in some way, shape, or form, as you do. And I just…I thought it was so cool. It was something about weed, and then it was something about making queer people feel safe. I admire that.”

Louis huffs out a laugh, and Harry’s eyelashes flutter due to their proximity. “I say fuck a lot of people, a lot of times. It’s nothing spectacular.”

“I mean, I liked it,” Harry smiles, and then he giggles and fans himself dramatically with his palm. “And don’t even get me started on everything you do for children and animals.”

“You’re really something, you know that?” Louis snickers, finally making eye contact. They’re extraordinarily close, and Louis’ body is on the verge of bursting into flames.

“I’m sorry I doused you with water,” Harry says, laughter tickling his lips. “But for what it’s worth, I think you look hot right now.”

“I look like a wet dog.”

“Can I make a bestiality joke?”

Louis snorts. “No, especially not after saying charity work for animals turns you on.”

Harry sputters out a laugh. It’s truly a lovely sound and Louis would drink it every morning with his breakfast if he could. “I don’t take no for an answer, though, do I?” And the way that Harry’s smile has spread to his cheeks has something loosening in Louis’ chest. 

“No, I don’t reckon you do,” His voice comes out different than he’d anticipated, lower and gravelly. Still leaning against the vanity, the arm on the opposite side of Harry shifts from the countertop to ghosting a touch along Harry’s waist, causing a tiny gasp to escape from his lips.

Harry spins around and allows himself to be pulled in tighter, taking Louis’ touch as an invitation to do the same. His fingers head for the opening cut of his tank top and trace along the side of his pec down his ribcage. “If you say no now, I promise I’ll listen.”

Louis suppresses a shudder. “Not saying no.”

“Are you saying yes?”

“Are you saying yes?”

Harry giggles, stepping impossibly closer to Louis, pressing his hips forward until he brushes up against him. “Does this feel like a yes?”

“It feels like a ‘please’.”

"If I say please, will you say yes?"

"I thought you were going out for drinks," Louis raises an eyebrow.

"I'd rather get laid," Harry says, flushing pink. He plants his palms on Louis' damp chest, tugging down the collar of his tank top. "Your chest tattoo is…"

Louis knows better. He should stop. They should stop. It's a bad choice. People are waiting for Harry. Louis leans back just as Harry leans forward, separating their bodies. The scowl that forms on Harry’s lips is instantaneous.

"Where are you going?" Harry pleas, grabbing Louis' hand.

"I just—relax. Do you have stuff this time? Something not in your manager’s bag?" Louis cringes at the memory of getting scolded by Doc.

Colour floods back into Harry’s face. "Y-Yeah, it's um. It's in the tin by the kettle. It's…uh, in with the tea."

Louis whips his head around, expression twisting up. "You put lube and condoms in with your tea?"

"I didn't want to get questioned, okay? I'm supposed to be fucking girls, not getting fucked by guys."

Louis makes a hmph sound. "You ever do the fucking?" Louis asks casually, picking through different herbal teas along with some Earl Grey and Yorkshire. A man after Louis' heart. 

"Not my preference, necessarily, especially since you’ve got such a big dick.”

“I’ve got a nice bum, too,” Louis snorts, and Harry quickly falters.

“I-I mean, yeah, I would, though. I’m not like, strictly—”

“I’m only teasing, H. I get it. It was just a question. Was just curious.”

A second passes before Harry slowly smiles. “Oh, um. Yeah. You’re pretty confident in your big bum.”

“I know that it’s big best of all, to be fair. I have to sit on it every day, don’t I?”

Sputtering out a laugh, Harry smirks, his face bordering on demure and a bit shy. “Is it okay? That I…um. That I kinda like it that way more?”

"Doesn't affect me what you like to do," Louis shrugs, huffing out a laugh.

It was a stupid comment, really, especially considering they're clearly about to have sex, but Louis doesn't particularly want to imply that he's interested in something long-haul. Even if he and Harry fucked on the regular, their extraordinarily unlikely tour is only on for two more months, and then they'll never see each other again. They’ll go their separate ways back to their entirely separate circles and the strange combination between mainstream pop powerhouse and punk rock delinquent will become just a silly memory.

He doesn't pay much mind to Harry's odd expression when he says it, instead crowding him up against the vanity. His face switches from a mild frown to something more eager as Louis starts to unbutton his lavender-coloured trousers. When he begins to peel them off, his throat closes up.

Harry immediately tenses, scrambling to apologise for whatever it is that he seems to think has offended Louis. "Um. Sorry. I'm—uh. I'm sweaty. Maybe I should—"

"Is this a bodysuit?" Louis gapes.

Harry freezes again, nodding painfully slow.

Louis finishes tugging the trousers down, trying to find air in his lungs as he reveals more and more of Harry’s long legs. The waistband is tight, the trousers flowing wide down to the rug. There’s something about the openings of the crotch of the bodysuit arching up close towards his hip bones that ignites something feral inside of Louis. It reveals the bottom of tattoos there—leaves, perhaps?

He's never really gotten the pleasure of really seeing Harry's body, considering he paid near zero attention to him before they'd met at Warped last year and the only other time he'd been close (and open) enough, he was more concerned with chasing his orgasm and leaving to go perform a concert. But now, even just having those sinful mile-long legs in front of him…he's becoming a beast. There's a tattoo of a tiger just below the bodysuit, along with some words by his ankles and knees and up on his thigh. The way he's standing with those same thighs leant up against the vanity has what little meat is on them out and ready for Louis to bite like a starved man who hasn’t seen a meal in weeks.

"Louis?” Harry’s voice snaps him out of his insanity. “Are you okay? I'm sorry. I should have warned you—"

"What? No. No, there's nothing wrong with your clothes, Harry. Or with you. I'm just— Fuck. I'm admiring."

"Oh, um—" Harry flushes again, his knees knocking together on instinct and driving Louis even more mad. He brings a finger to his mouth, chewing on a painted nail. It makes him look almost cherubic and innocent; Louis’ blood pressure spikes with the need to defile him. He might need to unpack that with a therapist. "Thank you, Lou."

Louis reaches a cautious finger out, touching the tiger's ear, sending gooseflesh through Harry’s body, down his thighs. He softly trails it up until he reaches the crease between his thigh and where the bodysuit rests. He has never felt so unhinged before. There’s something about Harry that drives him absolutely crazy. He needs, needs, needs. "Can I?"

"Yes," Harry breathes out, his chest rising and falling rapidly, like maybe he needs it too.

Louis swallows. The tension in the room has rocketed from zero to one-hundred. He's never been more turned on in his life. He's done dancing around it: Harry is fucking sexy. He unbuttons the bottom of the bodysuit, Harry muffling a moan when his fingers brush where the suit is holding him in. Once the buttons are open, Louis gasps as Harry's cock springs free and pushes the fabric to the side like it’s got a mind of its own. He hasn't sucked a dick in months, and he'd really like to now, with Harry sweaty and pliant for him, but Harry seemed intent on getting fucked. 

But he needs a taste.

Ducking down, Louis pins the flap of the bodysuit out of his way with his thumb and takes Harry into his mouth, slowly flattening his tongue to lick against the underside of his cock as he pushes on. 

"Shit, Louis."

His nose brushes against Harry’s neatly trimmed pubes and he pulls back, his lips giving special attention to the head before he's gone completely. Deviously, he grins as he watches Harry’s eyes roll back. "What do you want? I could suck you off, I could finger you, could fuck you."

"Want you to fuck me. Been thinking about you filling me up so much. Every time I see you,” Harry whines, face contorting into a pout.

Louis purses his lips at the compliment. He doesn’t tell Harry how many times he’s thought crude thoughts about him. Wordlessly, he rises to his feet and grabs the bottle of lube from where he'd left it. "Is the door locked?" 

Harry looks over his shoulder, then nods. "Uh huh."

A sudden chill runs through Louis as he returns to their shared space. It feels far too intimate to be this close to Harry. He's had one night stands before, been through casual hookups, and had friends with benefits. But it's never been like this, never been so much, and Louis can't explain the feeling. "Can you just—" He helps Harry slide back onto the countertop a bit, his toes barely touching the carpet. He wraps a hand around the bottom of one of Harry's thighs and hikes it up, resting it on his inner elbow as he coats his fingers in lube. Pressing a light touch to Harry's hole, he flicks his eyes up to pretty greens, silently asking for permission.

"Please," Harry whispers again, and Louis pushes in.

Harry is definitely tight, and it's been quite some time since Louis has actually fingered anyone. He enjoys the resistance, relishing in the way he can feel Harry's body slowly opening up to his intrusion. He attempts to not watch Harry, to not pay attention to his face as he squeaks and gasps and murmurs little sounds, but more importantly, to not make any more eye contact lest he be a true goner.

Once he works up to a second finger, the angle is getting awkward and Harry is practically sitting fully on the vanity, restricting Louis' ability to bend his wrist. Harry’s head rests against the mirror, his hands on Louis' shoulders. He’d really like to give three or four, but he can tell Harry is starting to get restless, and Louis might actually lose some feeling in his hand if he keeps at it from the wacky position.

He thinks they must be a sight, really. Harry—sitting on the counter, sweaty curls stuck to his forehead, head thrown back, moaning, one leg up and cock straining back against his unbuttoned bodysuit. And Louis—long damp hair, jet black liner smudged beneath his eyes, half-dry tank top displaying the entire side of his torso, girdered between a pair of long, long legs with fingers up an arsehole.

He'd die if anyone walked in.

Louis has never had better sex in his life than he did with Harry over a month ago, and as much as he wants to tear his hair out at the mere idea that he’s doing this again, his body is even more thrilled at the idea that he’s doing this again.  

He hates himself. 

Mumbling a quiet ‘ready’, Harry reaches down and fumbles with the zipper on Louis’ jeans. His trousers are still damp from Harry’s water bottle concert shenanigans, and honestly, the thought of trying to peel off wet jeans is abysmal currently. Harry grabs hold of his biceps, and Louis could throw up at how plush his lips look right now, how wrecked he already is simply from Louis’ fingers, how desperate and wanton he seems. Those lips, fuck. So pink and so perfect. Louis really might want to kiss him.

So naturally, he puts up walls in defence. "Turn around."

Harry does, sliding off the counter and planting his palms on the edge of the vanity. Louis can still see him in the mirror, licking his lips and wiggling his bum. The bodysuit is still on, covering Harry’s torso in sparkles and pizzazz, the back flap tucked underneath the waist of the garment. Instead of Louis removing his jeans, he just simply pulls himself out of his pants and sighs.

“Condom?”

Harry nods, extending his body out to grab it from where Louis had left it across the countertop, giving him a view of the muscles in his arse flexing as he reaches.

Louis might be drooling.

He wants to fucking wreck him.

Louis makes quick work of the condom, slicking up his cock and immediately sliding it down Harry’s crack. If he’s over-eager, sue him. “Ready? Still wanna do this? Gonna be tight.”

“Yeah, yes,” Harry looks at him in the mirror, nodding and hunching down onto his elbows, pushing his bum back out again. “Like it tight.”

Louis pulls back on one of Harry’s cheeks slightly to allow himself some room to aim as he presses in, once again almost having his own breath punched out of his lungs at watching how far Harry’s body stretches to accommodate his size. He’s not overwhelmingly huge, but he’s decently big and Harry’s hips are narrow, and it makes a sight for sore eyes. After a few moments, when his hips are finally pressed flush against Harry’s arse, Harry straightens out and falls backwards toward Louis, gasping out a breath and tangling his fingers into Louis’ hair. The motion startles Louis, almost slightly affectionate when Louis was simply planning on drilling him into oblivion. He doesn’t really know what else to do besides start to move slowly, his hands wandering across Harry’s torso as he fucks in and out of his body gently.

“Wanna go faster, don’t want your plans to have to wait,” Louis grunts into the space next to where Harry’s leaning back against him. Maybe that, yes, but there’s also the fact that Louis’ primal instincts are screaming at him to claim this person, that his entire being wants him in every form, that he’s loving all of Harry’s sweet caresses and soft touches. 

“Oh,” He breathes. Louis is literally inside him, can absolutely feel the way his body reacts to his words. He’s clearly a bit disappointed, and Louis receives a sting of guilt in response. “Yeah, that’s—alright.”

At the affirmation, Louis thrusts a bit deeper, forcing varying noises out of Harry, his pace quickening after each one. Louis is thankful that the post-show playlist is still going inside the venue, because they’re being loud. Both Harry moaning and the wet sound of Louis’ balls slapping against Harry’s arsecheeks echoing in the small room would definitely (and still may) be audible through the door. Louis loves how vocal Harry is, how his body reacts to his own, and now that he’s witnessed it, he really likes the faces Harry makes while he’s being pleasured.

He’d been trying his hardest to not look into Harry’s face while he was fingering him, but he’d seen the little ecstatic smiles, the way his chest heaved, his eyes falling shut in glee. But now, he’s regrettably looking at Harry in the mirror—knuckles white and fingers splayed desperately on the countertop as he’s shoved further and further up, crease between his brow, lip bitten in between his teeth, cheeks flushed red and curls slipping down in front of his forehead—and he’s in pure awe.

Harry is a work of art.

When Harry’s face finally smushes against the glass of the mirror, Louis pulls out. Harry whips his head around, a devastated, moody look on his face, but he’s relieved almost instantly when he sees Louis is simply going to help him hitch a leg up on the countertop so he has a better angle, and when he slides back in, Harry immediately moans, sinking his teeth into his forearm to muffle it, the profile of his head and parts of his shoulder pressing against the glass.

He’s even louder after that, Louis assuming that he’s found his prostate, and he takes a bit of time to explore Harry’s body while he fucks into him. Sliding his palms down his sides, he gulps at how Harry’s position really accentuates his slim waist and how thick Louis looks penetrating him, his pert little bum taking a brutal assault. Louis has never been with a partner during sex that is so…delicate. He’s had his fair share of bearded, heavier men, some who couldn’t grow a moustache at 30 even if they tried, and just underwhelmingly normal guys, which was fine, because they’ve all had a dick and balls and that’s what Louis wants.

But Harry, Harry is almost… effeminate, perhaps. Even looking past the pink polish and the rings and glittery, glitzy clothing, he’s soft; his nails are clean, his skin is moisturised, his hair smells like flowers, his chest bounces with every thrust of Louis’ hips, and his waist-to-hips-and-thighs ratio is really something. Louis does not have massive, huge hands, so when he wraps his hands around Harry and his fingers go entirely from the sides of his front to his back, it’s jarring. It’s sexy. He’s so out of Louis’ traditional wheelhouse that it’s exhilarating, and he just wants.

He doesn’t know what possessed him when he does it, but his hand slides from Harry’s hip up to his lower belly, pulling his body more upright, up past his pecs, and finally, to his neck. He holds Harry against him, life moving in slow motion, hand wrapped faintly around the base of his throat, and they lock eyes in the mirror in front of them. Harry’s are nearly black, blown in lust, a thin ring of green surrounding his pupil. He gasps out, groaning sensually and smiling at Louis. He throws his arms back to sloppily attempt to pull Louis closer, further inside. To melt into him, perhaps.

Louis wishes he could take a photo, the carnal being in his chest frothing at the sight of Harry looking so wrecked, sweating and moaning. Louis thrusts hard up into him, grunting at the sight of Harry’s lower abdomen twitching, the barely-there impression of his hard cock filling him driving Louis insane. Harry must see it too, because his head falls back, right next to Louis’ face near his shoulder, crying out as his body tenses and he comes. Louis follows closely, impossible not to with the sweet heat of Harry’s breath in his face, his nose brushing his cheek, sweaty curls falling against his temple.

Holding his body up while Louis pulls out, he helps Harry stagger over to a beanie chair, where they both end up collapsing together into a pile.

A light giggle escapes Harry’s lips. “‘M sorry. Legs feel like jelly,” He whispers, face centimetres away, a smile spreading from dimple to dimple.

The only light in the room is from the bulbs around the vanity, casting warm shadows across the dressing racks with stage outfits on them. In the low, cosy light, Louis studies Harry's face. Once again, it feels too intimate, as if it's a scene from a film where the protagonist has just had their first kiss and everything is just real and right.

Louis' cheeks are too hot for him.

Because he doesn't blush. No, not him.

Never.

But there's something about the way that Harry is gazing back at him, his eyes so heavy that it overwhelms him, flusters him in a manner that is unique to Harry.

Louis laughs too, a giddy sort of thing. If it were someone he were trying to impress that was all tangled up with him, he might be embarrassed, but he's just simply content and unbothered to lay here with Harry. Like there's not a care in the galaxy for either of them. Like it wouldn't matter if the world saw them at their most vulnerable. 

It frightens him.

"Can I ask you a question, Louis?"

Louis makes a face at him, fully exasperated, but it's light hearted and Harry pokes his nose, breaking his façade. "Yeah, of course you can."

Harry’s eyes dart all across his features. Louis feels scrutinised when he does this. It happens often, like he's trying to consume everything about him at once. But instead of sourness, the stare heats his veins, fills him with flowers. "You're so different around me. You're loud and boisterous and funny around other people, but you get…like…almost quiet around me? Did I do something wrong?"

Louis considers him for a moment, their eyes never blinking apart. He's baffled by the absurdity of the question. Harry has truly never wronged him once. In fact, it's so catastrophically the opposite that Louis almost bursts into laughter.

"No, darling. Never."

Instantly, Louis feels like he's just taken a gunshot to the chest.

Darling.

He can't believe he just said that.

He’s called Harry ‘love’, he’s called him ‘babe’. But to be fair, those are just a part of Louis’ vocabulary. But he doesn’t think he’s ever called anybody ‘darling’ before, and the ease in which it slipped the blockade within his mind is worrisome. His heart is hammering in his chest, because he knows himself, and he’s sincere in the way that he’s feeling here, now.

Harry purses his lips together, muffling a smile. It's so pure and so angelic, really. Something expands beneath the surface of Louis' skin that feels a hell of a lot like he’s jumping headfirst off of a tall, tall building. "Just no? To all of that?" He teases.

"I don't know? I don't really…um. Don’t notice that I do it. If I do," Louis murmurs, his calm, cool, and confident self long buried beneath the volcanic eruption of unknown soft and fuzzy feelings. Harry reaches out to brush some hair behind his ear and he shivers, glancing down to his gentle hands. He envelopes Harry’s wrist, skating a finger across the smooth skin under it. Suddenly he feels juvenile and naive, and from Louis’ experience, it’s one of the worst feelings in the world. It's as if he's back on his first ever date, or he's just had his first kiss, or had sex for the first time. He feels stupid, foolish, even. The wave that flows within him is unlike anything he's ever experienced before, and perhaps that naivety that is so overcoming is intentional in an act of self-defence.

Not from Harry, no, but from his own thoughts.

"But you're silly, too. You get my humour and you don't make me feel dumb," Harry says, a saccharine smile decorating his face. Louis watches as Harry's eyeline darts back and forth between Louis' lips and his eyes. 

Louis is scared, petrified even, and he finds that his heart is beating faster than he'd have ever thought it could. He reaches out, pressing his thumb softly against Harry's bottom lip, and Harry grins, cheeks denting in, one of the most beautiful things in the universe. Louis smiles too. 

"Louis, I really—"

"Harry? Are you finished changing? The car has been waiting to take you back to your flat."

Harry shoots up, quickly grabbing a pair of joggers and a hoodie, sliding them on over his come-stained bodysuit. "Fuck, fuck. I—fuck. I'm sorry. I'll—"

"Shut the lights off when you leave. I'll sneak out later, yeah?" Louis rolls over on the squishy chair, waving lazily.

Harry pauses, a shy grin spreading across his lips. "I was going to suggest that. You read my mind."

Louis ignores the odd truth that underlies there. "Unfortunately, I don't really want to hear about fucking my boss."

"I'm not your boss!" Harry whisper-shrieks, planting an affronted hand on his chest.

"It's your tour. You're sort of like my boss."

Harry slaps a palm over Louis’ mouth, waggling a finger at him. “I’m not your boss. We are equals. If I had it my way, we’d be co-headlin—hey!” Louis licks his palm in revenge and Harry squeaks, playfully swatting at his arm.

Louis scoffs, a laugh escaping him. He readjusts his face against the beanie chair, his long hair sprawled out across it and threatening to tangle. He’s so comfortable. He doesn’t want Harry to leave. He wants to have a chat, and maybe a snuggle.

He’s fucked.

Instead of analysing that, he tapes on a temperate smile that he hopes can possibly convey how appeased he feels. “You’ve got jokes, I see.”

“Bye, Lou,” Harry replies, his grin looking a little bit like sunshine, and when he flips the lightswitch and shrouds the room in darkness, Louis swears he can still see Harry’s glow linger.

“Fuck, you could have had him,” Louis frowns, leaning back against the pillows on the sofa. They're all watching Zayn play Modern Warfare, munching snacks and downing fizzy drinks on their way from Atlanta to New York City. It’s supposed to take around thirteen and a half hours, and since they’re travelling after a show, the traffic should be decent. Harry has joined them on their bus at Niall’s insistence and nobody argued, and if Louis is enjoying having their legs pressed together a little more than he’s letting on, no one has to know.

Harry pops a pecan into his mouth, eyes glued to the screen like the rest of them, but Louis, on the edge of the sofa and furthest away from everyone else, can see him given the angle of the TV and the couch. Harry doesn’t look at him, but he folds a leg under him, his socked toes brushing up against Louis’ thigh. It might have been an accident, who knows, but Louis slowly drags his pinky along Harry’s foot, causing him to jump. He whips his head around to him, eyes bulging, mouthing a silent ‘that tickles!’

Louis leans in, and gestures for Harry to come closer. He does, and Louis cups a hand around Harry’s ear. “Wanna prank Niall when we get to the city?”

Harry's eyes brighten as he turns to face Louis, his cheeks denting in. "Yes," He whispers. The word sends gooseflesh through Louis' body, his eyelids drooping. It's silly, but it's almost instinctual to be so affected by everything Harry does. He's half turned on by just one simple word and the thought of Harry wanting to harass his friends with him is absolutely thrilling.

Louis just smiles at him, his fingers lingering gently along Harry’s jaw. His eyes dart over towards where John is watching them with a raised brow and he clears his throat, leaning back in his seat but keeping the contact tight between their thighs. 

About thirty minutes later, Harry offers Louis his bag of trail mix. Louis peers inside, poking around to look for any sort of sweets.

"Where's the chocolate?"

"You can't just eat all of my chocolate."

Louis fixes him with a bored stare. "No chance you thought I would just eat a handful of raisins and cashews. Do you even know me?"

Harry giggles, fishing him out a couple of chocolate chips, unfolding Louis' fingers for him and dropping his finds into his waiting palm. "I'm getting there, yeah," He smiles softly, and not for the first time, Louis wishes he could just grab this beautiful boy and introduce his lips to his own.

"I like different types of nuts," Louis says, popping a piece of chocolate into his mouth and completely ruining any sort of sentiment that had been shared.

Harry snorts, smacking Louis’ bicep and sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "Louis!" He chides, turning and glancing at where the others have started laughing good naturedly as well.

Louis and Harry pull their hoodies on first before everybody else, dashing in and grabbing Louis’ keycard. Harry carries his bag and helps him set it up in his room (he’d never set up shit if someone else weren’t doing it for him. He doesn't tell Harry that), kicking off his shoes and taking a seat on the armrest of the sofa.

“How are we going to get into his room?”

“He’s going to grab a drink at the pub downstairs. We go down there, you distract him, I sneak it, we go up to his room. Simple,” Louis grins. He’s thought about this more than he’d care to admit. His brain might just be an endless cycle of imagining ways to prank people. Who knows.

“And he won’t notice?”

“No, defo not.”

“What if I’m not a good distraction?”

Louis fixes him with a flat stare. “You’re very distracting.”

“I—” Harry’s mouth snaps closed and his cheeks pinken. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, well, I did,” Louis shrugs, walking over to Harry and grabbing a hold of his calves from where they hang over the armrest. He’s leant back on his elbows, flustered, knobby knees bent over the side of the couch. He’s cute, Louis thinks, in his tight pink tee-shirt and matching blush. He tugs Harry’s legs until his bum hits flush against the armrest and he lets out a squeak. “C’mon.”

Harry scrambles to catch up with him, and Louis thinks he’s on another planet. Harry looks spacey, like he’s got cogs turning behind his eyes. “Did you just flirt with me?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then you have a lot of faith in me.”

“As a distraction? A partner in crime and all things pranks and mischief? Should I not?” Louis glances over his shoulder, his hair blowing back as he speed-walks.

“Mmm, maybe. ‘Dunno," Harry shrugs one shoulder. "I’d do a lot for you, though.”

Louis nearly stops in his tracks. Harry does this on the regular, says strange things that make Louis question his entire existence, things that don’t really go with the context, things that cause him to slip further and further into the quicksand pit that’s opened inside of his chest cavity. He swallows the brick that's somehow lodged itself in his throat and pushes forward, struggling to not baulk at Harry’s words.

When they arrive at the bar, they find Niall, Zayn, John, Liam, and Doc all sitting at a high-top table, drinks in hand. “Nice to finally see you’ve joined us, Harry. Where’s Louis?” Doc asks, sipping on his martini. He’s fishing, of course he is. “But don’t tell me if he’s causing trouble, please. I want to be ignorant for as long as possible.”

Harry mimics a zipper across his lips, and Doc sighs. Louis knows him too well to not know that he’s irritated, and he knows he’s irritated because Louis isn’t exactly supposed to be spending so much time with Harry. None of them were born yesterday.

“You’re supposed to be keeping him out of trouble,” Liam jokes, and Louis rolls his eyes so hard he’s worried for a split second that they’re going to get stuck backwards in his head. He slinks around behind groups of people, toeing up towards the bar and sliding Niall’s keycard away from where he’d left it on the bartop next to his wallet. Classic carefree lad. When Harry gives him a small smirk, he’s already disappearing back into the crowd.

“You’re evil,” Harry giggles as Louis pours the dye into the bottle.

“It’s purple shampoo, so he won’t even notice the dye in it. It’ll happen slowly, too, because it tints the blond to make it less yellow, so he’ll just think it worked really well and then the second time he goes to use it, it’ll just add more. Or, on the chance I didn’t dilute it enough, it’ll just fully colour his hair purple,” Louis says casually, like he’s not a massive fucking arse, smirking at Harry. “I’m gonna go rub my dick on his pillows.”

“Oh, you’re vile,” Harry cackles loudly, and Louis doesn’t realise until after he’s already got his cock out and started smearing it across Niall’s bedding that Harry is still watching him. He turns around and catches him staring.

“Nice view?”

Harry’s face flames red. “Um, sorry, I—”

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Louis jokes, feeling a bit empowered at how he can make Harry colour such a sweet, sweet rose. As he’s stuffing himself back in his jeans, however, he’s hit with a twinge of regret. They’ve had a sexual encounter three separate times now, and Louis knows it’s not a big deal, it’s not awkward or anything, but he feels like perhaps he shouldn’t toss it around so nonchalant-like. At least if he wants to save his heart. It’s clearly taboo between them or something to actually talk. Louis has never been the best at communication, and evidently, neither is Harry.

“Sorry. I walk around my flat fully nude all the time, my mates have all gotten eyefuls. I forget that most mates don’t just — You know. Most mates don’t see one another bare all the time.”

He’s not lying, that’s actually one of the first warnings he got from Liam. He’d let Zayn, John, Louis, and Niall know that if they spend a lot of time in close quarters with Harry, they’d likely see him in the nude because he just roams around naked constantly. Louis had scoffed, and he ended up not once getting an unintentional glimpse. Well, until he presented himself in Liam’s hotel room, that is.

Fucking people in your manager’s bed, rubbing your cock all over your bandmate’s pillows…

They’re the same, Louis and Harry.

“Most mates don’t have sex twice, either, but here we are,” Louis throws up his hands in a silly gesture, and Harry blushes. He doesn't say anything else though, so Louis takes it as a good time to move on. "Niall is gonna shit himself."

Harry falters, but then his expression softens and he snickers along with Louis.

They return back to Louis' hotel room in a fit of giggles, collapsing onto the king-sized bed side by side.

"When will you know?" Harry asks.

"Well, I'll either have an angry text or I'll see at soundcheck. But not for another day yet. I'm sure he won't shower until tomorrow."

Harry snuffles, rolling over and grinning at Louis. They sit there for a beat, simply basking in one another’s presence before Harry sighs. "I should probably get home."

"I forgot you have an apartment here."

“I’m really glad you actually agreed to getting a hotel room this time.”

“Yeah, well…we’re going to be here for quite some time, aren’t we?”

“You need some space,” Harry agrees.

“Yep,” There’s a moment where Louis almost gives in to the urge to caress Harry’s cheek, one pressed against his pillow and the other one looking so lonely in the open air. He wonders if the pillow will smell like him when he departs, leaving the flowery and candied aroma of his perfume lasting even though they’ve only been laying here for the tiniest fraction of the day.

"You've never seen the actual city before," Harry states plainly after some pensive silence between them, as if he can see the wheels struggling to turn in Louis’ expression.

"Correct,” He replies. “Warped Tour was in Upstate.”

"Are you tired?"

Louis arches a brow at him suspiciously. "Now? Honestly? Yes."

"Not up for a tour?" Harry's lower lip puffs out into a pout. If Louis doesn’t act fast, he might just give in and give this boy everything he’s ever wanted in life.

"...Tomorrow night maybe? After the show?" Louis asks slowly, mildly nervous. "I'll probably sleep all day today considering it's gone four in the morning already."

"Okay," Harry smiles, and before Louis can protest, he's reaching over and piecing a strand of Louis' hair between his fingers. "It's really pretty at night.”

“Thank you,” Louis teases, and Harry coughs, his lips puckering up to muffle a smile.

“No — I mean. Yeah. You always are. But I—um. I meant the city. A- And there's less chance we'll be recognised. I'll show you my favourite places. You'll feel like a proper tourist."

"And my tour guide is some fruity guy with luscious curls and a sparkly jumpsuit."

A bright, sharp laugh escapes Harry, the force of it shaking the mattress, and Louis wants to bottle the sound and keep it in his pocket. "Sounds like New York to me,” He mumbles, his fingers still stroking through the caramel strands of Louis’ locks.

Louis snorts. "You do like my hair, don't you?"

Harry pauses, his face stunned like he's been caught off guard. "I do. I think the colour is nice and…I just…like the length. It suits you."

Louis smiles softly. "Thanks."

"I should go," Harry switches subjects, his index finger curling around Louis' cheekbone, following down to his jaw and neck and landing on where his tank top rests just below his chest tattoo. Louis wonders how much domesticity he can handle before he’s quitting the band and taking his nonexistent children to school. He shakes off the bizarre thoughts as Harry stands, and just as he's about to grab the door handle, Louis calls out.

"Does Liam know?"

Pausing, Harry turns around slowly. "About…us?"

Louis doesn't reply. 

"No, he doesn't, if that's what you're asking. And he won't, either, if that’s actually what you're asking. He—um. I'm bisexual, but Liam doesn't know that. Technically, I'm sure he knows without me saying it, but, well, I've never told him that I’ve…uh. That I’ve fucked guys."

Louis needs a second to absorb that information. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s had his cock up Harry’s arse, but he finds it impossible to think Harry is completely straight. Especially after seeing his live shows and the amount of pride the boy radiates at them. "I'm not like, embarrassed. Of what we did. Or…whatever we’re doing, I guess. Just so you know,” Louis holds back a smile at the way a bit of tension seems to escape Harry at that. “I just wanted to make sure I knew what page we were on."

"Okay…” Harry bites down on one of his pastel-painted nails. He doesn’t look uneasy anymore, but he doesn’t necessarily look confident, either. Louis figures it’ll have to do.

"Okay. Goodnight, Harry. I'll see you tomorrow before the soundcheck?"

"See you tomorrow, Lou. Sleep tight," Harry dimples then, lingering in the doorway for a beat before he slinks through and clicks it closed, leaving Louis alone with his ragged thoughts.

Louis is in trouble.

Again.

He pushes some of his hair behind his ear and sighs, judging himself in the mirror.

This is becoming a recurring thing for him, apparently.

The bags under his eyes tell the story of how many cities they’ve played so far, how many late nights spent driving and how much incessant worrying he’s done over anything and everything and nothing all at once.

And he can’t stop thinking about Harry.

And Harry’s public image. And his own public image. And Liam. And Doc. And Broken Beaks. And how what they’re doing could ruin their careers. And how they’re not even really doing anything, they just had sex a couple of times and now Louis is spiralling because he hated Harry at first and thought he was annoying and now they’ve become friends and he’s pretty sure that they could get together and fuck whenever they wanted during the week-and-a-half-long stay in New York City and maybe Louis is just thinking with his dick but he hasn’t had a regular way to get laid in so long but if they keep having sex, then they’re more likely to have to explain what they’re doing and—

“Louis?” A muffled voice comes from outside of the washroom, someone knocking on his hotel room door. “It’s Liam, can I speak to you for a second?”

Oh no.

He’s going to get busted. He and Harry are going to get busted. Liam knows about them. Maybe Doc told Liam. If Liam knows that they’re proper friends then he might suspect that there’s more going on but there really isn’t it’s just that they got off together twice and it’s not like they’re getting married or something foolish—

“Hello?” Another, more harsh knock.

Louis scrambles out, flinging the door open, almost braining himself in the process. “Hi. Sorry, it’s—um. It’s been…a morning.”

“Well, it’s nearing two in the afternoon, so, finish your morning quickly. Listen, can I come in for a mo’?” He asks, but he doesn’t give Louis time to answer before he brushes past him and enters anyhow.

Louis is mildly ashamed at the state of his room: unmade bed, pants and jeans lying everywhere from when he was digging through them this morning. It’s not even been twelve hours and Louis has already made a mess of his things. The things that Harry had so caringly and meticulously organised for him. This is why he usually just lives out of his case and that’s typically fine when they have exactly one night in a hotel before it’s back to the bus for weeks, but this eleven day stretch might kill him.

Liam takes a seat in the armchair across from the bed, appearing a bit like he’s about to scold a child. Louis has gotten a lot of this for the past few months. He doesn’t really appreciate it. “I’m here on behalf of Harry.”

Louis doesn’t react openly, but his heart starts to pick up pace, and he hates it.

“He’s told me to tell you that you are to wear a blindfold on your way to the venue, because he is going to be the one to show you the city for the first time,” Liam laughs lowly. “And he wanted to come here himself, but I wouldn’t let him, because well, it’s getting too close to your soundcheck and venue time that it just wouldn’t work. He’s already had his while you were snoozing away.”

“Okay,” Louis says, voice a bit wobbly in an attempt to hold back his own laughter, something akin to fondness blooming inside of him. “Yeah, um, I don’t really have a blindfold, but I have some bandanas I can probably use. If His Highness insists.” 

Liam chuckles, crossing his legs. “I’m glad you two get on so well.”

“We do,” Louis says cautiously. He knows there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, can feel it in the thick tension wafting through the air. He steels himself for it.

“I do need to lay down some ground rules, though, if you’re going to be hanging around one another. And you might not like them, so just…hang in there while I explain,” He opens his hands like he’s looking for something to drink, and Louis awkwardly grabs him a water bottle from the fridge, scowling at the note that the water will cost him five dollars if used. “I know that you and your band aren’t used to needing security, that you can just roam freely and on the off-chance someone recognises you, snap a photo and be on with it. With Harry, however, it’s not like that. Especially here, where he lives. Harry needs to have a guard with him at all times, and he’s not to spend extended periods of time with fans. He sometimes goes out for runs, but it’s a bit difficult for him to do anything really without being spotted. And, well, this need for security is going to extend to you, should you choose to spend your time with him.”

Louis nods. He supposes that somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it would happen. He doesn’t mind having a guard tailing them at all while they’re walking around. He doesn't bring up the fact that tour won't be on forever.

“That being said…” Liam tilts his chin down, his face similar to a disapproving parent, “I unfortunately also have to ask you to watch what you say and do around Harry, as well.”

Louis furrows his brow. “You’re taking the piss, yeah? He’s a full adult.”

“He’s a full adult, yes, but he’s a full adult that has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I don’t know how much you pay attention to popular media and culture, but everything Harry does is scrutinised," He makes a wide gesture with his arms as if to punctuate his message. "Everything. From the people he associates with to the clothes he wears to the things he says and sometimes even the things he doesn’t say. Harry is a sweet boy, and I’d rather he spend time with you than go out to clubs and pick up women who will sell their story to the tabloids for the highest price tag. But I need you to be aware of this: If you two make a mess, I have to clean it up.”

Louis’ jaw is clenched tight. There's so much he wants to say, but he's positive that Harry hasn't a clue that Liam is even here, and he doesn't want to bury him in any more trouble. “Isn’t cleaning up after Harry part of what earns your salary?” 

Liam snorts. “I like you, Louis. You’re spunky. I think you make a great friend for Harry.”

Louis wishes he could ask if he’d appreciate it as much if he knew it was a mix of both his and Harry’s come that soiled his bedspread. Instead, he's mild, though he's sure Liam can see the rage boiling behind the blue of his eyes. “ Are you finished? I have to get ready for soundcheck.”

“Good boy. See you soon," Liam says, a condescending smile on his face. In that moment, Louis knows that he’s aware of exactly what he’s asked of him. This wasn’t supposed to be a friendly visit at all.

"Don't call me that," Louis growls, and when the door closes, Louis turns, takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and puts his fist straight through the wall.

Chapter Text

“Oh my God, what did you do?” Harry nearly breaks into a sprint over towards Louis, who is grumbling to himself as he leaves the hotel lobby to slink out the back door. He doesn’t question why Harry had been waiting outside the building for him, instead waving to his bandmates, signalling for them to meet him at the van to depart for their late lunch.

Harry immediately takes Louis’ bandaged hand, eyes wide as he studies it. Louis winces, and Harry’s gaze locks into his own, concern ebbing from him. “‘S nothing,” He cringes, his voice creaking a bit like an old door.

“Louis…” Harry’s timbre is gentle and his touch is delicate, rubbing his thumb along each of Louis’ fingers and down to his pulse point in his wrist. It makes his heart thump a bit too hard, an embarrassing phenomenon considering Harry is quite literally feeling its beats as they speed up. If he thinks it’s silly, though, Harry doesn’t let on, instead just massaging different parts of Louis’ hand in a very nurturing manner. It feels like something his mum might have done when he was a child, like he’d just fallen off of his skateboard. It’s caring and loaded, and Louis could just melt beneath the caress.

“I promise I’m alright,” Louis allows himself to be led off to the side of the main hallway where they’re not entirely shrouded in shadow, but are at least away from prying eyes.

Harry, stubborn as he is, doesn’t respond to that, but instead steps closer and continues inspecting where a couple of drops of blood have soaked through the shoddy bandages by his knuckles. Louis doesn’t pull away, but presses his free hand lightly against Harry’s shoulder as a barrier of some sort. He just looks up at him, though, eyes like a sad puppy, a slight frown on his face, and concern festers within Louis that if he looks into that pretty shade of green for too long then he might do something foolish.

The same hand finds its way to the soft, fleshy part of Harry’s waist, pinching it ever so slightly. “Space, love.”

Harry lets out a tiny squeak, a giggle slipping from his lips. “Tickles,” His voice is deep, but so temperate. It’s lovely, and it’s becoming mildly alarming how often Louis finds himself yearning to hear it, to listen to it for hours. Like a safe haven. It scares him more than anything else has before, and he uses up his entire willpower battery trying to stuff the feeling into a suitcase and throw it into the luggage compartment to be forgotten about.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours, yeah?” Louis forces a tight smile and tries not to pay attention to the frown that begins to line Harry’s face as he escapes his care, and he definitely doesn’t pay attention to the way the steady pounding in his chest tames only after his departure. He pinches his eyes closed and hums as he purposely avoids glancing back, craving just one more look at the sweet, lovely boy.

"Hiiii," Harry's voice is the first thing Louis hears when the van door opens, then his seatbelt clicking open, and then the warmth of hands around his own guiding him out of the vehicle. He’s on edge immediately simply because of the lack of one of his major senses, though knowing that Harry is the one gracing him with gentle navigation and a whiff of sweet roses, vanilla, and a bit of musk that follows him is quite calming. He wouldn’t admit that with a gun to his head, however, especially when Niall and Zayn are within 500 kilometres of him.

"Okay, see you later then, Tommo, nice chat. I see we've been pushed to the backburner," Niall calls mockingly, he and John laughing. "Have fun with your new best mate."

"I told you, I have to wait to see the city until after the show," Louis replies sternly, turning around and looking in the general direction he thinks their voices are coming from. He just knows he looks as stupid as he feels.

"If I said that to you and made you put on a blindfold, you'd probably have punched me in the throat," Zayn snorts.

Louis, scandalised, places an exaggeratingly aghast hand over his chest. "I would never!"

"We get it. Harry is cooler than us."

"I didn't say that!" Louis calls in defence, but someone he assumes to be Harry is dragging him away. He chooses to ignore whoever had mumbled ‘whipped’ under their breath before he’d left earshot. Fuckers.

He's led through a variety of hallways with different floor textures, smells and sounds passing by until they halt. He hears Harry open a door. The overwhelming scent of Harry's perfume instantly floods Louis' nose, warm and inviting, a subtle mix of floral, fruit, and fresh, like a more potent version of what guided him here in the first place. His dressing room, undoubtedly, given the combination of warm air and the smell of Harry plus all of his beauty products. He distinctly does not hear the door close, however, and keeps that in the back of his mind.

"Okay, you can take off your bandana," Harry instructs, and Louis does, absorbing the typical white cinderblock walls and racks of pink and blue and purple and green and yellow.

"It's…a dressing room."

"Yeah, you silly goose. Seeing Madison Square Garden is the first part of your New York City tour, and I'm a professional tour guide," Harry teases, taking a step forward and poking Louis' nose. 

"Hey," He narrows his eyes at him, the little bugger, with his stupid cheeky grin extending for miles. "Behave yourself, or I'll find myself a different tour guide."

Harry giggles and raises a sharp eyebrow at him. "I could just leave you in the dust anyway."

"You won't though, will you?" Louis challenges, taking his bandana and circling it around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him closer towards his own body and tying it into a loose knot. He tugs gently, and Harry's throat works beneath it, his cheeks flushing. "I've marked you. You can't abandon me, now. Bound to my service and expectations."

Harry fishmouths, his lips parting silently for a beat. "I wouldn't," He breathes.

A stagehand speeds past in the hallway, his cart rattling. Louis backs away and runs a hand through his hair, the air in the room loaded. With Harry’s blown eyes on him, he feels a little hot under the nonexistent collar. "You gonna show me around the palace, Your Majesty of Madison Square Garden?" He chokes out, hoping he at least comes off as cool and collected.

Harry idles there for a second, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the ends of the bandana. "Oh, um. Yeah. Follow me."

Louis notices he doesn't take his hand this time and frowns. He doesn't dwell on it considering he shouldn’t be wanting Harry to hold his hand anyhow. He shoves that into the furthest crevice of his mind, directly into a bin labelled ‘don’t think about’ . Following Harry down the halls as he walks through the lobby, Harry throws his arms out and excitedly shows Louis the decorations displaying artwork with flowers and household objects before making their way up to the 100s level where they have photo opportunities and concessions. 

"Is it strange to have your name everywhere? Like on all of these signs and props and posters? And people want to take photos with it?" Louis asks, spinning in a circle as he walks, consuming the miscellaneous New York Knicks basketball memorabilia in cases between Harry’s photo spots.

Harry shrugs it off. "Yes, it was at first. I'm used to it now, though. I mean, it's still odd because I'm…like…just me. Just Harry,” He watches Louis as he glances around. Louis can feel the intensity of his gaze on him and he stops his meandering to take a step towards one of the setups. “But yet, all of these people have such a high view of me."

"You're their idol."

"And in reality, I'm just a boring person," Harry grins, popping a hand on a hip next to a giant sign that boasts of Harry's multiple-night run next to a mural designed to look like an MTA subway stop.

"You are everything but boring," Louis finds himself saying truthfully. "You’re one of the most interesting people I've ever met, if I’m honest."

Harry looks at him a bit quizzically, like he can’t quite figure Louis out. "Not sure if I can tell when you're joking." 

Scoffing, Louis shakes his head. It almost offends him that Harry would think he’d be kidding about that. "I'm not taking the piss, Harry, I'm dead serious."

A bout of silence passes between them and Harry shrinks into himself. He runs his tongue along his teeth, and Louis immediately picks up on there being something left unspoken. He doesn’t press for it, however, just allows Harry to take his time before he manages to force the words out. "You know, one time, you said that you weren't sure how people ever liked me. Said my music was overproduced garbage made only to put me in the spotlight. To get as much money from teenagers as they can," Harry says quietly.

Louis’ stomach drops to his feet. Harry had heard that? His entire world begins to shake, to tremble beneath his Vans. Does New York City get Earthquakes?

He doesn’t look at Louis, and it’s a fine line between saving Louis’ life and utterly shattering it into smithereens. "And, um. You said something that sort of went along the lines of calling me…not ugly, but something negative about my appearance."

“Oh, Harry…” Louis swallows. Hearing that again is like a knife to the heart. He’s disgusted with himself, and if it’s nagging him to be reminded that he’d spoken such vile words, so he can’t imagine how difficult it was for Harry to hear that. Especially after he’d brought them onto his tour out of the kindness of his heart. "I…am really fucking sorry you heard that. I’m even more sorry that I said it. I should have never done so. I don’t—"

"Please don’t apologise. I know you’ve changed your mind. Or, at least, I hope you have. It seems like it anyhow,” Harry finally meets his eyes, a gentle, calming aura buried in there. He sounds optimistic, his face like the sun peeking its way through thick cloud cover on a rainy day. Louis is completely baffled. “I usually don't get that offended over people’s rude opinions, but that one hurt me pretty bad."

They sit in eerie silence for a moment. Louis is unsure how to reiterate how apologetic he is. He desperately wishes for all of the time they’ve spent together to have cemented into Harry’s head how much he really does enjoy his company. "You didn't even know me," Louis says finally, after a stretch of too much self-deprecative quiet. He can’t force himself to directly ask ‘why?’ so he, as per usual, tiptoes around it. “I didn’t want anything to do with you, and you tried so hard to break through whatever my fucking problem was.”

"No, I didn't know you. You’re right. But I also didn't lie to you when I came to see you in Vegas for the first time last year, or any of the other times. I've been listening to your music for a long time, and I really wanted to meet you guys and I really wanted to be friends. I really, really, thought you guys were cool," Harry’s voice is meek where he stands, fiddling with his rings. It's surreal hearing that statement while he's leant against a giant photo prop with his own hyper-famous name on it. “You especially, Lou. I think you’re so cool.”

Louis is at a loss for words when Harry’s eyes flicker up to meet his once again. "I…I’m not—"

"Will you take a photo with me? Here? I know it's sort of silly, but…I don't—” Harry quickly stands up straight, plastering a grin on his face, though Louis can see it’s moderately strained. “Um. I don't really hang out with a lot of people like this, so I want to remember it."

There's a strange finality to it, and Louis' heart aches. He won’t deny that it is a bit of a strange request, but he supposes the price of fame weighs down hard, and, well, he’s actually sort of flattered. "Yeah, of course I will, love."

Harry springs into action, all business immediately. He drags a high top table over and props his phone against a napkin dispenser that goes along with a concession stand, setting up five consecutive self timer shots on his camera app. "We have 3 seconds in between each shot."

Harry is adorable with his tongue poking out from between his lips and the space between his eyebrows creased in concentration. When Louis feels a smile crack across his unwilling lips, he abruptly feels as though he’s been hit by a bus with the vague realisation of what Zayn meant earlier. There's absolutely no way that he would ever do this with anybody else. He would have waved them off or poked fun at them, would have thrown a light-hearted joke at the bare minimum. He doesn’t even like his picture taken, and he could probably count the amount of photos of himself with his mates that he’s taken in a decade of friendship on two hands.

Louis is interrupted mid-crisis by Harry grabbing the sides of his shoulders, his thumbs skating across bone so lightly it feels like a summer breeze. His teeth are bright and his grin a little lopsided when he gestures eagerly for Louis to pose with him, and in his daze, he allows Harry to manoeuvre him into position. 

The first photo is Harry and Louis standing on each side of the board, likely looking like a piece of plywood themselves. The next one Harry turns to face Louis, considering him for a beat before bending at a slight angle and making a silly face at him. Louis scoffs and decides he's too far away, so he hooks a finger in the bandana around his neck and pulls him closer. Harry yelps, cackling and stumbling closer. He bumps into Louis and throws a leg up around him and Louis reacts instantly, grabbing it and dipping him back. When they return upright, they just stare at each other for a second before the pair of them burst into a shared fit of giggles, Harry grabbing Louis' biceps and doubling over in bright, lovely laughter. 

Louis doesn't know when exactly the timers went off or what they even captured, but when Harry grabs his phone, he furiously blushes the colour of a ripe tomato and refuses to show Louis a single one, insisting he'll send them later (liar). He takes Louis’ number for the first time and adds himself to Louis' contacts as "MSG Queen", complete with a double pink heart, to which Louis rolls his eyes and busts out a lame joke about MSG in processed foods and Harry’s organic diet. Harry pulls his hair in response.

In a strange way, it seems like there's never been even one second in Louis’ life that he hasn't known Harry, hasn't been invested in the enigma that is his person and career. It's a bizarre and mildly disturbing feeling, really, to lose yourself into becoming slowly overwhelmed by another person. He’s never experienced it before. Never wanted to. But yet, here he remains, following Harry Styles with zero complaint and not unlike a puppy might follow someone they adore.

He swallows that down in lieu of some light bullying.

“Show me at least one of the photos, babe,” Louis pleads as they exit the corridor into a stairwell, headed up to the next floor. 

“No!” Harry exclaims. He starts jogging up the steps and twitches away from Louis' prying fingers. “Call me darling again, and maybe I will, though.”

Momentarily distracted by Harry’s cute little peachy bum in his face, Louis reaches into his back pocket as they make their way up to the first landing. Harry squeaks at the loss of the weight in his trousers, turning around and making grabby hands at Louis. “Don’t underestimate me, darling.”

“Eek! Louis! Give me my phone!”

“What’s your code?” Louis slides open the camera and snaps a photo of Harry, who is busy pretending to be angry but the sunshine smile breaks through. He reaches a hand out to block the camera, and Louis pushes him back up the remaining steps. He playfully tugs the phone away from Harry, gently walking with him and his clumsy legs in reverse until Harry’s back hits the wall with a quiet ‘oomph’.  

“Hi,” A wispy voice comes from Harry, his lower lip bitten between his teeth, corners of his mouth raised in a grin.

Louis is physically stunned, both from bumping into his chest and from how Harry looks, so giddy and pretty with curls looped messily around his forehead and Louis’ heart is rabbiting in his chest like he’s a schoolkid again. He shakes his head, blinking rapidly to try to calm his heart and hands Harry the phone, photos not forgotten but necessarily brushed off at the moment. He may have accepted a semi-defeat over the phone, but he doesn’t back up. Instead, he brings his arms up to plant his palms against the wall, effectively bracketing Harry in. He doesn’t appear flighty though, mostly calm with a hint of daring. Louis loves it.

“Where’s the next stop on your tour?” Louis cocks his head. Fleetingly, he remembers Liam’s warning about security, and takes a tiny step back, though his sternum rings with the loss.

It’s weird for friends to stand pressed chest-to-chest anyhow, right?

Weird.

Harry follows him, though, shifting his body closer again. “Well…we could go see the actual arena…” He flutters his eyelashes seductively at him, “Or…we could do something else.”

Louis just stares at him, mind racing, and Harry touches him then, resting a hand on his shoulder, his other lightly tapping at the zipper on his jeans. It’s bold as hell, and normally, Louis would admire such a staunch sexual motivation. He just clears his throat, however, breaking free from the trance. “I wanna see the arena, so I’m not like, shocked,” He tries, but his voice cracks, and Harry’s gaze is unfocused. He’s clearly thinking too hard, and Louis tries to file that away.

“Okay…” He replies flatly, obviously scorned, but this time when he brushes past Louis, he takes his hand at least, and leads him back down the stairs into one of the entrance tunnels. “Here you have it,” He waltzes in, arms open. “One of my favourite venues, truly.”

“Wow,” Louis feels like a dad when you show them something uninteresting, but in reality, he’s properly stoked. “You know, my mum thought it was so fucking cool when I told her we’d be playing here. Like, she was in disbelief. Legends play here, mate.”

“Yeah, and that’s you now.”

“Oh, come off it. They’re here for you.”

“And you. They’re here for both of us,” Harry takes Louis’ hand again, and something sinks in the bottom of Louis’ stomach at the sight of him standing there, back to the open arena, such a sure and confident smile on his face. The warmth of his hand is pleasant and not clammy, and he just… holds it for a while. He continues to chat about different things, memories he has, his favourite parts about playing here, just leading Louis around through the corridors, hands still clasped tight and never faltering. It reminds Louis of children, fondly remembering his little sisters doing the same, dragging someone they cherish along while sharing something special to them. 

They’re stopped at a display case, Harry rambling about basketball when his eyes grow wide and he drops Louis’ hand immediately, and then a few seconds later, he hears someone call out to them. “Been looking for you two for ages,” A man Louis has seen a few times with a clipboard sighs, a bit winded. “Louis, you’re needed for soundcheck.”

“Right…” Louis glances over to Harry, offering him a small smile. “Thanks for the tour, mate.”

“It’s not over yet,” Harry returns his grin, looking over his shoulder before taking Louis’ hand once the man has departed and squeezing. Louis wonders about Harry’s direct security personnel and how they’re definitely in the vicinity. He thinks it’s a bit curious that someone had to actually search for them when there’s undoubtedly staff close by. Surely Harry must bribe them to keep quiet about any and all of his activities. Louis supposes he would as well if he were watched like a hawk every minute of every hour. “Wait for me in the garage tonight? We’ll leave from there.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“I promise I’ll shower and change really fast. Wear a black hoodie and joggers. I have some beanies we can wear, too,” He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, biting back a dimpled smile. His face is almost as giddy as Louis feels. “I’ll see you later, Lou. Good luck tonight.”

Louis swallows, Harry’s hand still clenched tightly in his own until in a rather cliche moment, Harry’s reverse steps have their arms fully extended, continuing until only their fingers touch, like he doesn’t want to let go. And then he’s gone, his hand is cold, and Louis is left alone in the empty halls with his thoughts screaming at him from every direction to get himself together.

Louis is nervous for nearly five hours straight. His heart rate has been skyrocketed since he got out of the vehicle with his bandana on, if he’s honest. He was stressed throughout Harry’s tour, he was stressed throughout Broken Beaks soundchecking, he’s stressed about performing at the Madison Square Garden, he’s stressed about hanging out with Harry after the show. 

Louis is stressed.

“You okay, mate?” Niall asks innocently, tapping his foot against the white wall, his purple hair nearly taking Louis out every time he sees it. When Louis had arrived for soundcheck, he’d had to turn away immediately to let out his laughter, refusing to look at his friend and acknowledge it. He'd gotten an earful (deserved, he supposes) from literally everybody over it, the comments ranging from blind fury (Niall and Doc) to praise for his comedic genius (Everybody else). Louis had definitely not expected him to have a wash at the venue before the show.

“Yeah, just fucking pumped,” Louis lies through his teeth, and Zayn snorts.

“You’ve been a mess the entire day. What did you and Harry get up to?” He asks, very suspicious about Louis’ deception.

“Gave me some sort of tour of MSG. Wanted to assert his dominance or something.”

“That is so not something that Harry would do and you know it,” Zayn tosses a balled-up napkin at Louis, who skillfully swats it away and points at him.

“And you’re best mates with Harry, are you?” Louis retorts, a twinge of regret circulating in his veins at just how possessive he sounded. Embarrassing, that.

Zayn makes a knowing face, and before he can open his mouth to reply, Doc pokes his head in. “Showtime, lads.”

Nothing is real as he’s led down the tunnel towards the arena. The black curtains part, and Louis, Zayn, John, and Niall all make their way down the narrow walkway towards the stage to the loud screams and applause of everyone who has caught wind of their presence. The lights are different here, somehow, and the way the catwalks hang down above and the banners dangling in the distance are more intimidating than usual. 

They start into their first song immediately, buoyantly amping everyone up for the rest of the show.

“New York!” Louis exclaims, throwing a fist in the air. The crowd roars, and Louis nods to the beat, glancing around at everyone in the pit. “This is our first time ever playing Madison Square Garden.”

Wandering around the stage, he waves at some people in the audience as he speaks. It’s crazy, but it’s the end of October, now, and they’ve been on Harry’s tour for nearly two full months, and he’s seen an increase in excitement from the crowd. There’s been a significant jump in interest in Broken Beaks, and while he knows a lot of it is surface level because they’re entwined with Harry, their streams have nearly doubled, and the interaction between the fans and their band is wildly demanding in the most positive way.

Louis cannot believe he ever was opposed to this.

He’s steadily learning that his ego was his enemy from the start.

“We would like to take a minute to say thank you to the fabulous Harry Styles—” Pause, more screaming, “—for having us on this tour. We are stoked as fuck to be here. To be playing for you, to be opening up for him—for all of it. Can’t express our gratitude, truly, but I have to at least try, so I hope you’ll get it.”

Louis extends an arm out, and squints as he finds himself in the direct line of a spotlight. He’s briefly overwhelmed with emotion, thinking about Harry and how they’re living a fucking dream because of him and the way that he believed in them and their music. He blinks rapidly as he notices unshed tears attacking him, quickly catching himself as the crowd starts reacting to the image of his wet eyes on the jumbotron.

“Fuck off,” Louis laughs, tugging on his tanktop to wipe at the corners of his eyes. The ‘awww’s quickly turn into screams when his top rides up and exposes the white band of his underwear atop his jeans. Fans are feral. “Shit. I can’t believe I’m acting like a knob up here.” 

The audience assures him that he’s not got to worry and that they must think he’s sweet for it or some shit. He can’t exactly hear what they’re saying, but he can read it on their promising faces. Normally he’d be ashamed, but honestly, he’s not at all. Character development, and all that.

“I really can’t properly explain how fucking sick it is to be up here. I am so, so grateful to Harry,” He shrugs off the smirk Zayn is giving him and continues on, “He has become an amazing mate to all of us and because of him, we’re doing the stuff we only could have wished for as kids. I don’t know if you’re listening to this, Harry, but I think you are really fucking cool.”

As he wanders around the stage throughout their set and gains confidence, Louis focuses his sight and tries to read some of the signs scattered throughout the faces. He scans over some really lewd ones clearly meant for Harry, internalising his disgust. He knows there’s nothing to it, but a pang tugs at his chest. It’s hilarious to him, really, because these tweens obviously don’t have any clue that he bent Harry over a countertop and fucked his brains out just the other day. But he’s done it.

He’s done it.

He’s done Harry Styles.

He feels a bit smug.

Finally arriving at the opposite end of the stage from where he began, he hears a group of people shouting his name above the sound from the monitors and glances over, their poster featuring some sort of fanart of himself and Harry kissing with the question ‘have you? ;)’ next to it. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. He’d listened to Niall explaining the theories, but to see it has him creasing.

Louis furrows his brow, but shakes his head and laughs lowly. “I’ve never kissed Harry,” He mouths towards the group, who scream and smack each other on the shoulder over the interaction.

And, well, it’s not a lie at least.

He starts to walk away, but he catches one of the girls waving her arms around in his peripheral and she points to her friend’s sign next to her, which simply has the words ‘would you??’

Rolling his eyes playfully, Louis gives them the finger and gestures to their shirts, Broken Beaks tour tops from last summer at Warped Tour. Iconic of them, he thinks. He purposely doesn’t give them a thumbs up or any other method of acknowledgement because he doesn’t want it to be twisted into something it’s not when Harry’s involved. He personally wouldn’t care if everybody in the entire universe knew that he knows exactly how Harry Styles looks when he comes, but that’s not exactly solely his decision.

Niall, John, and Zayn smashed it tonight, and Louis allows his pride to show when he introduces them to the audience, to raucous applause. He even shouts out Niall’s new hairstyle, earning him a shove and a pinch to the arm. They’ve all been getting loads of attention, and Niall specifically has been eating it up, posting selfie after selfie on his Instagram story, just finger-gunning up the place. Obviously Louis was just giving him another reason to be talked about.

“Headed back to the hotel?” Zayn’s voice stops him in his tracks as he emerges from behind a half-closed door in the hallway leading to the garage.

Hesitating, Louis carefully replies. “No, actually. I’m meeting Harry, remember? He’s gonna show me around.”

Zayn contemplates him for a beat before nodding, his lips pursed. “Don’t forget your hoodie.”

Louis laughs, and Zayn reaches out to give him knuckles. There’s a tense moment where something lingers in the air, and he peers into the room to see Harry’s band, John, and Niall’s purple head all lounging around on a massive L-shaped sofa with snacks and beers. “See you later, lads,” He calls out to John and Niall and waves.

Niall waves back, popping a crisp into his mouth. “Gonna murder you later, Tommo, so enjoy your night!”

Zayn catches him by the shoulder as he heads for the garage, and Louis startles at the intensity of his gaze. “I can see it in your face, Louis,” He says, and Louis narrows his eyes at him. “The way that you feel for Harry.”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek, unsure of how to respond to that. It’s not even an accusation at this point, and that in itself is disquieting.

“Just be careful, yeah? Could really get messy for you,” Zayn forces a tight-lipped smile, clamping a hand down on Louis’ shoulder. Louis just stares at him, wide-eyed. “Love you, mate. Have fun.”

“...Thanks…” Louis watches him quizzically as he backs toward the door to the recreation room. He nearly trips multiple times on his way out to the garage, attempting to shake the heavy thoughts from his conscience as he weaves through what feels like a fucking maze. After what feels like a lifetime, he finally reaches a set of double metal doors and security leads him out to the enclosed parking space that houses the vehicle that they’ll take to escape the venue. 

He leans up against it, using the waiting time to distract himself from the thoughts clouding his brain, chatting idly with Harry’s staff until one of them gets a message radioed to them: Harry is on the way. One of them explains to Louis that they always have three different cars leave simultaneously so that fans don’t know which one Harry is in, taking different routes to their destination. Louis supposes it makes sense. He’s no stranger to fans waiting outside to meet him and their band, but the stakes are a lot less high for him, and his fans tend to be a lot more chill than some of the people that follow Harry simply due to the nature of their general lack of fame.

When Harry arrives, he doesn’t really speak to Louis at first, being ushered rather quickly towards the vehicle. He gives him a smile, though, and they hop into the backseat of the SUV. He smells divine, his perfume wafting through the air, filling Louis’ nose with its sweet delicacy combined with his shampoo and body wash that he sensed in his dressing room earlier. Louis can feel Harry’s stare on him as they make their way out into the city, watching Louis’ eyes brighten in awe as they drive through the street. His pinky brushes against Louis’ thigh, and he glances over to where Harry is already studying him.

When he first sees Harry’s dimpled grin, he’s momentarily unsure if it’s the initial sight of the city that never sleeps or the person in front of him that has taken his breath away. “It’s so cool, it looks just like in films,” Louis murmurs, his eyes locked onto Harry’s. There’s something screaming at him full blast in his brain to abort the mission, to back away, to jump out of the car and into oncoming traffic. Something that scares him, something that intimidates him in the swelling of his heart, in the way his body can’t seem to break away, in the melting of ice where Harry’s touch grazes his body.

They pull up to a curb beneath an elevated subway track, and Harry leans forward and whispers into his guard’s ear. The guard glances back at Louis, then at Harry, squinting at Harry in a moderately exasperated manner and nodding after a brief staring contest.

“C’mon,” Harry takes Louis’ hand—a familiar and welcome sensation at this point—and they exit the vehicle, making quick work of pulling up their hoods.

Harry and Louis walk all over New York City, blending in nearly incognito with the lights and the fast-pace of people minding their own business, drunkards enjoying nightlife, tourists scrabbling for a late-night bite of pizza, and those on their way home from a long shift. They avoid the subway at all costs, and eventually Louis starts to whine about his feet aching. Harry begs him to go one final place with him before they part for the night, back to that raised subway track they’d gotten dropped off at. Despite Louis’ insistent complaining, Harry takes him up a few flights of stairs until they reach the top, and Louis immediately takes note that it’s not actually a train track any longer, but instead a converted walkway, complete with trees, wooden paths with lights, and art and plant life all along it.

He marvels at everything, the cityline above them and the sounds of life beneath them. They stop at a small amphitheatre-style drop, where there are benches laid out in front of a giant plexiglass wall to watch the traffic via the street below. Harry pulls Louis down the steps and they sit on the furthest bench down, right in front of the window. They’re insignificant there, no one around in the middle of the night and anonymous to the drivers under them, all on their own independent journeys.

It makes Louis feel small.

Makes him feel real.

“You know, I read a sign tonight about us,” Louis breaks the silence. He chances a look towards Harry, who’s already looking back.

He finds that nearly every time, Harry is already looking back.

“Was it the one that asked if we’ve kissed?”

Louis smirks. “You saw it too?”

“Yeah,” Harry grins, a dimple denting into his cheek. Louis resists the urge to poke it. “I shook my head.”

“You didn’t lie, so you’re safe.”

They share a laugh, and after a moment of quiet, Harry hooks his foot around Louis’ ankle. Louis glances down to their feet, his throat constricting at the sweet contact.

“It’s a whole thing, you know.”

“Huh?”

The sound of traffic rushing beneath them, even so late and so loud in the night, is hardly audible over the beating of Louis’ heart.

“The fans. ‘Dunno if they just think we’d be cute together or what. I’m not out, so I’m not really sure where they’re getting the idea from, but…it’s a thing. On the internet.”

“Like…they think that…” Louis gestures a finger between his chest and Harry’s, and Harry nods. They both giggle. “That’s…yeah. Niall’s told me briefly, but…”

Louis doesn’t know why his mind won’t settle down. Images from so many moments in his life flash behind his eyes. Even things that seem so irrelevant now, from falling off of his bike at age eight, to sitting beneath a tree with a book as a teenager, to finding out they made Warped Tour, to this moment. Right here, right now.

To Harry Styles sitting next to him, his body warm against Louis’ own in the chilly, autumnal night. He shifts his attention from the rushing road under them back over to Harry, whose foot is now gently stroking against Louis’ calf. Louis feels like he might choke on air at any moment.

“You wore my bandana on stage.”

Harry freezes, the motion against his leg ceasing.

“You’re still wearing it now, aren’t you?”

There isn’t a reply, and Harry starts absently playing with a ring on his finger.

“You do that when you’re nervous,” Louis points out, and Harry doesn’t look at him. “It didn’t even match your outfit, Harry.”

The pink of Harry’s cheeks is visible even in the shitty lighting.

And even in the shitty lighting, Louis thinks he looks gorgeous.

“Should we go? I’m kind of getting tired,” Harry finally speaks, and Louis notices his eyes are wet.

He doesn’t understand. He stares at him, mentally at a loss. He has no idea what’s upset him. “Sure, love,” He allows his gaze to trace his profile, from the tip of his nose, to the shape of his lips, all along his jaw. “...Let’s go, then.”

“I can call the driver and he can drop you off at your hotel. Is it in Manhattan?” Harry stands, raising his arms above his head in a stretch.

“Brooklyn, actually,” Louis replies, and Harry shoots him an incredulous look. “Cheaper,” He adds with a sheepish grin.

Harry purses his lips, and they both chuckle. “Okay…well, I’ll call the driver, and I’ll ride with you to Brooklyn. Is that alright?”

“You don’t have to come. I can just take the subway. Don’t worry about it. I won’t get recognised.”

Harry arches an eyebrow at him, pouting. It’s windy, and his curls are blowing out of his hood. Louis thinks they must look quite silly, both of them in their all-black getup. There’s nobody else on the pathway, though, a small relief.

“What? It’s fine,” Louis insists, giving into the temptation of poking a finger into Harry’s cheek, earning him a giggle in return. The sound reverberates into Louis’ chest cavity.

They start walking towards where they entered the track, because Harry claims the other direction leads to a massive shopping centre, and even though there’s no one else out on the track, it’ll still be easier to get out this way. But then he realises that Harry is not beside him, and when he whips around, he can see him a few paces behind, staring off to the side of the track. In the soft lamplight, he can see a fallen tear streaked down his face.

“Harry, what are you—”

Harry sniffles, using his sleeve to wipe at his cheeks, rosy in the night chill. He turns to Louis, who’s already making his way over. He reaches out a hand slowly. The look on Harry’s face is sullen, overwhelmed, and melancholy. Beneath it all, there’s an air of utter disbelief, and Harry laughs, an almost bitter tinge to it. “Tour is going to end eventually,” His voice cracks with the words, and they hit Louis in the chest like a gunshot.

There’s eleven shows left after New York, about three weeks, and then what? The tour is over and they go their separate ways. Broken Beaks go back to 5,000 capacity venues and beer tossed about in the crowd. Louis misses it, he does. But in a screeching car crash, Earth-shattering moment of extraordinarily cinematic and disturbing clarity, he realises that his heart will miss Harry a little bit more.

“I really, really fucking like you, Lou,” Harry whispers, his lower lip trembling with it. The sound drowns out the city around them, rocking Louis’ world like a volcanic eruption. “I like you so much that I’m afraid I’m falling in love with you and I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

Louis just stands there, expression blank, staring at him while he catches his breath. Harry laughs even harder, the sound that normally fills Louis’ veins with wildflowers now tinged with sourness.

“God, that was pathetic. I’m so sorry. I do nothing but embarrass myself. I should— Um. I should go. I-I’ll call you a car, and I’ll see if we can do something to keep my dressing room away from yours and I’ll tell Liam to—”

“Harry,” Louis steps closer and cups his hands around Harry's face, his cheeks now warm and flushed. He strokes a thumb across his jaw as his hands find the sides of his neck, pressing gently into the space beneath his ear. Harry breaks into a sob, then, his eyes pinching closed and diamond tears falling.

“Please don’t be nice to me if you’re not—”

“I want you to take a breath, darling, and then I want you to look at my phone,” Louis says, and Harry gives him a funny face.

“What are you doing? This isn’t…I don’t—”

“This is the last photo of us before we become liars.”

Louis slightly turns and Harry follows, the shutter of his cellphone camera clicking quietly.

“What? Louis, what do you—”

Louis leans in, pressing his lips to Harry’s. “Because,” he says, pressing another kiss in, “we told those girls that,” another kiss, “we’ve never kissed,” A smile blooms across Harry’s face, a beautiful and delicate thing, giggling against Louis’ mouth. “And now if I get asked again, I’m gonna be a liar if I say no.”

“We should—” Harry gasps when Louis shifts his focus to nibble at his jaw. “talk. We should talk.”

“My hotel is in Brooklyn.”

“Too far. Do you want to go to mine? Maybe we can put on a film?”

“I’m not going to be a victim of your Netflix and chill scheme, Harold. I’m not that kind of man.”

Harry pinches Louis’ shoulder and laughs, nuzzling into his neck. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

He spins on his heels slightly and this time, he leads the way back towards the stairs. He jumps when Louis reaches for him, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. Harry smiles softly, his nose crinkling. Louis’ mind flashes back to a hot summer day. To iced coffee, pretzels, and snow cones.

“I thought Louis Tomlinson didn’t hold hands,” Harry teases, his thoughts evidently in the same place, and he squeaks when Louis tugs him closer.

He can’t help but grin at the memory of Harry’s blush and the snow cone dribbling down his chin. “Well…” Louis’ gaze turns a bit more serious, his stare flickering between Harry’s eyes and his pink lips. He can’t stay that way for long, though, when he’s got such a lovely boy in front of him. A toothy grin breaks through, and Louis squeezes Harry’s hand once. “Maybe I’m falling, too.”