Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Christmas Eve

+ LOUIS +

"No," Louis moans as he drops onto the sofa in his grandparents' lounge, where his sisters are in their Christmas pajamas, watching YouTube on the big telly. "Please, can't we watch anyone else? It's me birthday, and I'm properly hungover."

He'd only meant to grab a pint with a few childhood friends the night before. But he's hardly ever back in Doncaster these days, and as it's his birthday, his mates started calling their mates, and before he knew it, Louis was in the middle of an impromptu secondary school reunion at the pub, complete with wives and babies, and christ, what a difference his life is to theirs.

"Happy birthday, Lou. You sound like a right old man already," Lottie, ever the second eldest, teases, shoving a cushion into his side. There's a dull ache behind his eyes, and the jostling causes a mild wave of nausea to wash over him. "It's twenty minutes," she chides. "Reckon you'll survive."

Louis glances back at the screen to figure out what his least favorite YouTuber, beauty and fashion influencer extraordinaire Harry Styles, is doing this week.

On the screen, Harry is sat at a vanity wearing a fuzzy lilac-colored robe, and the surface in front of him is strewn with a mess of products that put Louis' sisters' own collections to shame. It's a bit out of character for Harry to be bare-faced and looking as disorganized and sleep-rumpled as Louis feels. Maybe that's why it takes a minute for Louis to register what Harry is saying about easy holiday party makeup, but once he does, he squawks: "He's going to put on makeup for twenty bloody minutes?!"

"Boys can wear make-up too!" Daisy pipes up from the other end of the sofa.

"I'm not saying they can't, Dais," Louis defends, closing his eyes against the jolt of pain behind them from his own outburst. "I'm only saying it's hard enough to listen to him drone on when he's like, out vlogging and doing things. Listening to him ramble about fake eyelashes and shite will put me back to sleep."

"You don't have to listen then; just look at how pretty he is," Lottie shushes him.

"Ugh, the prettiest," Daisy laments.

Louis can't disagree with that. Everyone knows the lad is objectively stunning—an appealing mix of feminine and masculine qualities and a face so pretty it's borderline offensive. It's the sort of face, especially now, with its crown of curls pushed back by a soft white headband, that Louis reckons Michelangelo himself would've been pleased to craft among the Ignudi on the Sistine ceiling.

"That's the problem, though, innit," Louis finds himself arguing like he does every time his sisters are watching Harry. "I'm not saying he's not gorgeous. But it's like, wasted on 'im. All style and no substance."

He smirks to himself at the unintended pun. Unsurprisingly, it flies right past his sisters' notice.

"Oi, that's not fair," Lottie jumps to eagerly defend Harry even though they'd had this exact same conversation a dozen times.

"All right then, how would you describe him?" Louis says with a sweeping "after you" gesture towards Lottie.

He'll never say he doesn't encourage the endless debate. There's just something about the man that rubs him the wrong way, and he can't help trying to work out what it is.

"Well, if you ever listened to him, then you'd know he's smart," Lottie lectures. "And an incredibly savvy businessperson. He's spent near on ten years growing the channel from absolutely nothing, and now look at him. Always at fashion week. A Gucci ambassador. He went to the Met Gala last year and is about to launch a hair care brand. He's fucking goals. Plus, he's always on about queer activism and the books he's reading. It's not just about clothes, Lou." She crosses her arms with a huff.

"No, right, sometimes it's about his hair, too, obviously," Louis drawls. The barb was just too tempting, whether this was Lottie's hero or not.

"Oh my god, his hair is like an actual Disney princess. It deserves its own YouTube channel," Daisy sighs. "Lot's right, though, Lou. You know people can like clothes and pretty things and not be vapid. Besides, he's basically, like, a gender icon."

"Please. I want his gender so bad," Phoebe mutters from her place sprawled on the floor.

"All right, all right. If you lot say so, I believe ya." Louis holds up his hands in defeat. He does not believe them, but he's already bored of the argument.

"Fine. Then stop being a dickhead," Lottie shoves the cushion the rest of the way onto his lap, "and listen to Harry contour."

Louis does as he's told—or rather, he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his trackies and sets about ignoring Harry's rambling monotone. That's easy enough, considering Liam has just texted him.

dj dipshit: hbd m8! Call me pls when u can?

dj dipshit: ok was trying to be chill on yr bday but it's work related 😕 so soon pls tx!!

Louis sighs the long-suffering sigh of someone who's been at his best friend's beck and call for the better part of a decade. He had insisted that Liam please not take any gigs—or at least leave Louis out of them—so that he could spend his holidays at home and in peace for the first time in years. He's even planning on a quiet New Year's Eve—just him, his baby siblings, and the telly.

But, for the moment, calling Liam back means stepping away from the screen where Harry Styles is currently doing a bang-up job (sarcastic) of applying winged eyeliner and giggling like a schoolgirl, so there is that.

"Lou! Happy birthday!" Liam picks up before Louis even makes it into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Yeah, all right, mate, you take a job then?" It's Louis' birthday (and Christmas Eve); he's allowed to skip the pleasantries.

"Erm."

He can hear Liam's sheepish blush through the phone as he puts it on speaker and tosses it on the counter.

"Well, it's a very good job?" Liam ventures.

"I figured it might be," Louis snickers, rifling through the cabinets for his favorite mug. "Out with it."

"You remember Shawn? I worked with him back when I was bartending in Soho?"

"Tall, gay, curly Canadian?"

Liam chuckles. "Yeah, that's him. Well, we lost touch when he moved to LA, but he messaged me on Insta a few months back and—"

"Payno!" Louis feigns a shocked gasp. Not that he'd blame Liam—if Louis recalls correctly, Shawn isn't hard on the eyes, a bit boring and skinny, perhaps…

"No! Not like that," Liam defends. "You know he's not my type. And anyway, he's engaged. His fiancé is some hotshot entertainment lawyer—always has this blowout New Year's Eve party. And he asked me to do a set at it."

Louis finishes settling his tea bag into the mug he's retrieved. It's oversized and stamped with "I'm not interested in being polite or heterosexual" in a tacky font that he's less fond of than the sentiment. His mum had given it to him shortly after he'd first come out, telling him that "only one of these things about you do I sometimes wish would change." It had moved around with him for a while, but at some point, he'd left it behind because it was nice to have a piece of her to visit when he came back.

He pours the hot water over the tea in silence. Just to let Liam sweat.

"Lou?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Well…"

"I know what you're about to ask, but I'm going to need you to say it there, dear."

Liam sighs—quite loudly for someone about to ask a favor, in Louis' opinion.

"Will you please come back early for this gig with me?"

"Well…"

"It's a massive deal—phones are restricted, but Shawn said he can swing allowing me to share on social as long as we're discreet."

"'We,' you say?"

"I haven't told you what they're paying, Tommo."

"I'm listening." Louis cradles his warm mug in both hands, blowing on it before taking a long, slow sip of tea.

Five minutes later, he's changing out of the t-shirt he's spilled tea all over and rebooking his flight home to New York.

+HARRY+

Harry takes a big swig out of the oversized glass of red wine that's precariously balanced next to him on the sofa at his mum's house in Cheshire. It's Christmas Eve, he's in his coziest pajamas, his last video of the year has just gone up, and the only thing left to do before a well-deserved two-week vacation on this very sofa is to read the comments.

Well, skim them, really.

He'll pop in a few "thank you's" and "all the loves" to the positive ones and ignore the more harmless haters and trolls while upvoting and thanking the fans who rise to his defense. He'll also tip himself a dollar out of his ad earnings for every particularly hateful or trans- or homophobic one he has to endure before blocking and deleting.

Those dollars usually go to spa treatments or jewelry or… other nice things for himself.

It's a self-care ritual that he and his therapist invented years ago, and, most importantly, it works.

He takes a deep breath, preparing to dive in when all three devices in his vicinity—laptop, phone, and watch—start flashing and vibrating with a call simultaneously.

Nialler, the screens say.

Harry blows out the breath. Despite the holiday, he knows this isn't a social call, so he might as well take it during work time, he supposes.

"Niall." He answers flatly.

"Harry!" The vaguely Irish accent on the other end of the line is incredibly jovial for someone whose calls Harry has been dodging for weeks, ever since Niall sprung his harebrained scheme on him during what was supposed to be an innocent brunch date.

"I know why you're calling, Ni," Harry sighs. "Bit rude on Christmas, though, innit?"

"I know you ya know, H. I also knew you'd pick up because it is Christmas." He sounds smug. "What I don't know is why ya won't think about it?"

"You know that too. We've been over this." Harry grumbles. He pulls his hood up over his messy, unwashed hair and sinks back into the cushions, wanting nothing more than to finish with the comments and melt into the safety of sofa-based anonymity until the new year.

“Over it, schmover it,” Niall tuts. "They're bullshit excuses."

"Excuse me," Harry sits up straight again, "but not wanting my channel to be defined by another relationship is not bullshit."

"Pfft. Your channel survived one breakup; it'll survive another. But whether your bank balance will survive the Pleasing launch is another story."

Harry slumps back down. That is the one thing he can't argue with.

It's not like he hasn't considered becoming Niall's friend's fake boyfriend for the money.

"He's a good guy, H." Niall takes his silence as a sales opportunity. "I wouldn't be suggesting any of this if he wasn't. He's a good guy who's being accused of queerbaiting by people who don't know the meaning of the word despite being as much of a walking holographic rainbow as you are, thanks to that homophobic ass industry having his neck in a vice since he was eighteen.

"He's also one of the shyest, quietest, most private people I know, which I know you know makes for a really boring celebrity." Niall is growing more and more animated as he speaks. "And you should see the shitty list of fucking wankers they want to trap him with. I'm not going to name names, but if my assistant should accidentally email it over before getting fired, then…"

A smile creeps onto Harry's face. "You're not going to fire Jess, Niall. I believe you; I don't need to see the list."

"I'm just saying. This is about more than just your paycheck or Z's freedom. It's about sticking it to all those old motherfuckers."

"They're not the same people that screwed me over, babe," Harry corrects with a resigned sigh. It's true; they aren't. Plus, that was almost ten years ago, and Harry has moved well the fuck on.

"You know what I mean. The whole goddamn industry is corrupt, and—" Niall sounds like he's gearing up for another rant, but he interrupts himself with a deep breath. "Please just come back early and hang out with the guy? You wouldn't have to sign anything; the regular NDA will cover it. I'd still be busting your balls t'come to the party anyway; you know that."

Well, fuck.

There's a reason why Niall is a very highly paid lawyer, and it's the same reason why Harry has been dodging his calls.

He's impossible to say no to.

But Niall doesn't have to know that.

"Fine. I'll come on one condition," Harry concedes with all the graciousness of a child agreeing to eat their vegetables.

"Shoot."

"You send Frank to pick me up. I don't want to deal with getting an Uber on New Year's Eve."

"Wow, Styles, you really drive a hard bargain. I don't think I could possibly—" Niall taunts. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Christ, I'm surprised you didn't ask for the jet."

"You don't own a jet, Niall," Harry says flatly. They've had this debate before. "It's, like, a timeshare. You have a timeshare for a jet."

"You say potato—" Niall starts.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you Friday," Harry interrupts. "Happy Christmas!" He chirps and swipes to end the call.

"Gah," he bleats in frustration to the empty room before burying his nose in his wine glass.

So much for a two-week vacation.

Chapter Text

+ LIAM +

After his sister disconnects their Facetime call, Liam wearily jabs a bunch of buttons—the red ‘end call’ button, the Soundcloud app icon (to go back to listening to the rough cut of his mix for his gig tonight), and the down arrow on the treadmill.

As he slows his full-out run to a cooldown walk, he stares at the Hudson through the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of the row of cardio machines. From twenty-five stories up, he can see that the glassy river and the greenway alongside it are as deserted as his building’s gym. Even the West Side Highway has hardly any cars on it. That tracks. It’s thirty degrees Fahrenheit and ten in the morning on a Sunday—New Year’s Eve to boot.

Two degrees warmer, and Liam would be down there running on the concrete, the biting wind off the water only serving to spur him on, but he has a policy of drawing the line at freezing temps. He has some sense of self-preservation, after all—possibly because he’d first moved to Hell’s Kitchen during the winter of 2015 when the Hudson had literally frozen over.

That same sense of self-preservation is what had probably led him to turn up the treadmill while Ruth squealed so he could be convincingly out of breath and unable to contribute to the one-sided conversation.

Christ, she hadn’t even gushed like that when both his sisters called to announce Nicola’s engagement on Christmas Day.

And all over… Zayn.

But, Ruth had been making fun of Liam’s major crush on his boyhood idol for well over a decade now, so, of course, she couldn’t pass up any opportunity to bring it up… again.

In fact, only one other person will be worse about this than her, and a glance at his watch tells Liam that Louis’ plane will be landing at JFK any minute.

Figuring he might as well rip off the band-aid, he turns off the treadmill, hops off, and punches out a text.

Liam: Ruth jst called 2 tell me a rumour Zayn will b their 2nite 😂

Liam: ig their were pap pics of him in the city in the dm and they mentioned the party

Liam isn’t sure why he’s trying to play it cool with his best mate. Louis has already seen it all… literally. (Because, yeah, there was once a mortifying interrupted wank session he’ll never live down.)

But, in his defense, sixteen-year-old Liam was gone for Zayn the moment he heard his voice.

And added to that was the video accompanying said voice displaying Zayn’s doe eyes, impossibly long eyelashes, flawless skin, pouty lips, and adorably fluffy quiff of soft, dark hair, all while he crooned out the cheesy tune in a varsity jacket with the cuffs rolled up just enough to reveal a few little tattoos, and yeah, Liam didn’t stand a chance.

After spending the better part of a weekend locked in his room, erm... obsessing over the song and video, it was safe to say any lingering questions about his sexuality had been answered.

Zayn was Liam’s gay awakening, and everyone close to him knows it because trying to leave Zayn out of his coming-out story always feels like a betrayal somehow, like not giving credit where credit is due.

He pulls his shirt over his head and wipes his face on it, tossing it over the treadmill and wandering over to the rack of free weights in front of the gym’s mirrored wall. He lifts thirty pounds off it in a set of bicep curls that isn’t so much about exercise as it is critiquing his physique in the mirror in an attempt to distract himself from thinking too much.

Maybe it was Ruthie teasing him like he was seventeen again, or realizing that—fuck—it’s almost been ten years since he moved to HK, or the looming pressure of the biggest gig of his life in sixteen hours, or just the fact that it’s New Year’s Eve, but he can feel one of his shame spirals coming on…

The thing is, his boyhood crush has never entirely gone away. Almost no one knows it, but he still casually follows Zayn’s career. He’s watched the boy grow into a man alongside him; Zayn is still impossibly good-looking—but, more importantly, his voice has matured and his sound and lyrics have evolved into something distinctly him, not the manufactured bubblegum pop of his early days.

Because as beautiful as Zayn is, and as much as he’s featured in Liam’s fantasies over the years, it’s his music that Liam really cares about.

It’s his music that’s been a huge inspiration for Liam’s own music…his career, if you want to be generous and call it that. It’s Zayn’s career that’s inspired Liam to pursue his own, moving to the West Side to get his foot in the door at the clubs after he started DJ-ing in college, to build enough of a reputation for all-expenses-paid summers on Fire Island, and winters in Miami, and springs in Ibiza.

But even though he’s making a halfway decent living at it (the luxury apartment building gym he’s standing in is proof of that, even though he got in cheap and early on the building thanks to a promoter-turned-realtor-friend, but anyway…), and he’s grateful for that, he really is, but…

Well, because it’s New Year’s Eve, he'll allow himself to admit it… The truth is…

He’s nowhere near where he thought he’d be in life at thirty.

And he’s… nowhere close to where Zayn is.

Except tonight, he might be.

He stares himself down in the mirror, at the veins bulging in his arms and the faint rippling of his abs at the dumbbell floats up and down, and wonders if he’ll ever have his shit together enough to deserve to be.

His phone buzzes from where it’s still sitting on the treadmill, the rattle deafening in the empty room. Liam jolts but doesn’t drop the weight, only fumbles with it slightly as he sets it back into its place before grabbing his phone and thumbing open Louis’ reply with a sigh.

Boss (Louis’ self-appointed name in his contacts, the twat): God help us all if that’s the case 💦

Liam: Thx, m8. Always help full

Liam slings his discarded shirt over his shoulder, grabbing his water bottle and keys, one eye glancing around to ensure he hasn’t left anything behind and the other on the incoming reply as he heads towards the elevators.

Boss: I doubt it’s true. He’s far too famous for this sort of thing, innit? Plus he’s a recluse

Boss: Reminder - everything I know about Zayn is against my will

Liam: He has an album comin out this yr. Prolly shows his face more when he has things to promo

Boss: Still doesn’t seem like that kind of scene. No cameras and all. But if he is there, I’d advise you to avoid humping his leg?

Liam: 😑🖕🏼

Boss: But wear one of those white t-shirts - the kind that’s fighting for its life over your chest and arms. Just in case.

Liam’s unlocking the front door of his apartment when Louis begs off the conversation with one final message—

Boss: Gotta go - I see a goodfella with my name on a card in arrivals

Well, that was of no help, but at least he’s here, Liam thinks, stripping his shorts off as he walks down the hallway of his small one-bedroom and gets in the shower, turning it down as cold as he can stand.

You’re a professional with a job to do, and you aren’t going to let your fanboy bullshit distract you from the biggest gig of your life so far, he pep-talks himself as he quickly soaps himself up, letting the bracing cold shock some sense into him.

Zayn probably won’t even be there. And if he is, it’s unlikely Liam will even meet him because Zayn will probably have far more important people to concern himself with.

Other famous people. Like models that he can charm and parade in front of the paparazzi.

Liam shakes the shampoo from his hair under the shower spray and those thoughts away with it, reminding himself that he avoids rumors about Zayn for a reason, namely that they usually have something shitty to say about him.

Liam might not seek out tabloid gossip, but Zayn has become a mainstream enough celebrity that he’s heard plenty of things anyway, and according to them, Zayn's an out-of-control wanker, a diva, and a womanizer who is also pandering to the queer community, playing both sides...

Liam knows it’s stupid to assume he knows better about a man he’s never met, so he just does his best to drown out the noise and focus on his music, because it feels so much deeper than the shit the media has to say. To Liam, Zayn's lyrics show a man clearly at odds with the world and himself at times, a bit tortured and a lot lost. Someone struggling to be heard, to be understood, and accepted.

And, well, okay, Liam also has to admit that—whether it’s men or women—Zayn clearly likes to fuck.

Which, right, that’s the last thing Liam needs to be thinking about right now.

He steps out of the shower, wiping fog off of the mirror, and stares at his reflection again, announcing out loud to it: “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

+ LOUIS +

Louis sighs, pocketing his phone and resting his hood-covered forehead on the cool tinted glass of the SUV window. He’s exhausted enough without needing to talk Liam down from imaginary crises over running into reclusive celebrities who don’t go to parties.

And, alright, fine, he’s a bit grumpy and regretful that he’d booked the latest possible flight out of Manchester that would get him to the party on time.

The eight a.m. direct flight had looked good on paper, but in reality, it’d meant leaving his grandparents at three in the morning. Then, to add insult to injury, somehow, he hadn’t managed to sleep at all between the Uber from Doncaster to landing at JFK, and this was all why Liam usually booked their travel.

To be fair, the airport pickup is a nice touch on Liam’s friend’s part. A pleasant man (by New York standards) had been at the curb for him with a black Range Rover; he’d introduced himself as Frank, Shawn’s driver, and told him they were just waiting on another guest flying in for the party.

Louis’ eyes drift shut as he sleepily watches people pour out of the international terminal. Surely, it isn’t that impolite to the stranger joining him if he falls asleep after an eight-hour flight… because, yeah, he definitely enjoys dozing on heated seats more than jolting himself awake every ten seconds so that he won’t miss his stop on the subway.

He no sooner has that thought than the door he’s leaning against is yanked open. He bolts upright to prevent himself from falling out, only to find himself pinned down by a lapful of a black wool coat and brown curls.

(And… are those white trousers? On an airplane?!)

“Oops!” The person who’s sat on him exclaims, jumping back out of the car.

“Um, hi?” Louis starts to unbuckle his seat belt to slide across the tan leather bench, but he’s met with a protest.

“No, no, don’t move! I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I’ll go around,” the gravelly voice continues apologizing even as its owner gently shuts Louis’ door.

That was odd. Maybe he’s just been spending too much time with his sisters lately, but that voice sounded an awful lot like…

Is it?

Louis sits up with a start, twisting around as much as he can in the tangle of his seat belt to watch the figure walk around the car.

The hatch is open, and an absolute mountain of matching luggage surrounds the back of the SUV. The person pauses for a second to talk to Frank as he loads the bags. Louis can’t see that well, but something about the perfectly tousled brown ringlets and the slight slouch of shoulders makes him think it could be…

And then, the other door swings open, and the backseat is full of Harry Styles.

He is wearing cream-colored wide-legged trousers; Louis clocks that immediately—yet, the white leather brogues with their tiny tassels are somehow more enraging. So are the cream cable-knit socks, and—Louis’ eyes sweep up his figure—the gauzy black button-down, which is unbuttoned to the point of revealing a tangle of gold necklaces resting on a sparse patch of chest hair and a half-hidden tattoo.

(Louis deeply hates himself for knowing said tattoo is a swallow.)

Honestly, it’s not even noon. There’s no need to be dressed for a club. Or a red carpet.

Louis’ eyes continue their upward journey, and as soon as they meet Harry’s, he sticks out a hand (shimmery pale pink polish, gold rings) and breaks into a lopsided grin.

“Hi, ’m Harry! ‘M so sorry, Niall didn’t tell me I’d have company.”

“Louis,” Louis supplies cautiously, returning the handshake but mainly preoccupied with identifying what he’s done to deserve this. “Erm, sorry about that, mate—I’m a friend of a friend of Shawn’s. My best mate—Shawn’s friend—is DJing tonight.”

“Ahh,” Harry rumbles. “S’also why I’m here. I mean, not DJ-ing.” He scrunches his nose and giggles as if the thought is delightfully hilarious.

Louis swears he can taste bile.

“Just attending,” Harry goes on. “I can’t say no to those two. You’re going as well?”

“Erm, yeah. Helping out me mate.”

The last information Louis will be disclosing to YouTube creator Harry Styles is what he does for a living; thank you very much. He absolutely refuses to discuss anything remotely related to filmmaking with him. Not that he would call what Harry posts ‘films.’

Luckily, that’s the moment that Frank returns to the car, slamming the door and settling in with a sigh.

“Good to go?” he asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Harry looks to Louis, who nods politely. “Cheers, mate.”

“Sorry about all my stuff, Frank,” Harry leans forward as Frank starts the car and begins inching into the bumper-car-like traffic exiting the arrivals area.

Harry has the same exact big, dumb, expressive face in person as he does on screen, Louis can’t help but observe. He watches him shake his shoulder-length curls into his eyes and then push them back, noticing a faint blush on Harry’s cheeks before his face disappears between the seats.

Louis wonders if it’s for real or just makeup, like the obvious touch of mascara or hint of lip gloss.

He’s come across his fair share of ‘celebrities’, touring with Liam, and he thinks quite a lot about the ways that someone can appear one way on camera and be different in real life due to photographing and filming Liam. But Harry seems to be just as… ‘on’ and…well, whatever he is… in the flesh as he is on YouTube twice a week.

“I popped down to London for a few days and went a bit wild in the shops,” he’s saying cheerfully to Frank as Louis looks back out the window.

“No problem, kid. Nice visit?” Frank asks.

“The best,” Harry chirps. “Can’t beat my mum’s. How about you—how was your holiday? How’re the girls?”

Frank is more than happy to fill Harry in on how much his daughters enjoyed Christmas, and as they chat about topics that mean nothing to Louis, he lets his eyes close, and his head rest on the glass.

If Harry’s deep monotone is sedating on the telly, it’s downright tranquilizing in person.

His knee has also migrated sideways until it’s pressed into Louis’, and on an intellectual level, Louis thinks that’s awkward and unnecessary, and he should definitely move his leg, but its warmth is grounding in a way which, combined with Harry’s sticky treacle voice, is lulling him to sleep much more effectively than the airplane engines.

And nope.

That is not okay.

This is Harry Styles, a man that Louis, at his worst, loves to hate-watch and, at his best, forgets exists. No way is he going to drift peacefully off to sleep and credit Harry’s presence.

Instead, Louis groans and stretches himself back awake, shifting in his seat to pull his phone back out of the pocket of his joggers (and to move his knee away from Harry’s).

He reopens his chat with Liam:

Louis: Why am I sharing a car with Harry styles right now? I thought it was you who was in line for a restraining order today.

dj payne in my arse: Who?

Louis: Harry Styles. The annoying YouTuber. The one me sisters love.

dj payne in my arse: R u def in the right car?

Louis: Fucking hell, course I am, don’t be daft.

Louis: Says he’s a friend of Niall’s. Guess that’s Shawn’s man?

dj payne in my arse: Well if u kno that y r u texting me?

Louis: Bc I want to complain about breathing the same air as Harry styles, you fucking wanker.

dj payne in my arse: 🖕🏼🖕🏼🖕🏼

Louis: Whatever. I’m sleeping. See you later.

Louis clicks the screen of his phone back off and is about to close his eyes once more when he realizes that Harry has slid back in his seat and turned to him.

“You’re trying to sleep,” he observes, blinking at Louis owlishly. “I’m so sorry that I’ve just been carrying on.”

“S’all right, mate,” Louis reassures. Just because he hates the man doesn’t mean he won’t use his manners. “Just didn’t get any on the plane, and the jetlag might take me out before the party if I don’t."

“Oh, right, yeah, of course,” Harry nods, eyes wide and glistening like sliced limes. After a beat, he adds, “Sorry, I never really get jet lag,” with a sheepish shrug as though the possibility of dishonesty weighs more heavily on him than his inability to empathize.

Of course, he doesn’t get jet lag.

Louis mentally rolls his eyes as his phone buzzes in his hand. He looks down to see what Liam wants now.

It’s Lottie.

Lots: LOU U R WIRH HARRU STYLES?!?! WOTTTTT

Louis: Say hi to Liam for me

Louis snickers at his rebuttal, but Lottie’s texts keep flying in faster, his phone buzzing like Morse code.

Lots: LEWIS

Lots: I need a selfie plsssss

Lots: You NEED to befriend him But selfie first in case ur an ass.

Lots: If not for me do it for dais and pheebs

Lots: 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Louis: Jesus woman. He’s a YouTuber, not a bloody Spice Girl.

Lots: *three typing bubbles*

Louis finds himself biting back a grin as he waits for her to finish. The whole situation is bloody ridiculous, but while he’ll never admit it, his sisters entertain him far more than they annoy him. With a little goading, they get even more entertaining, so yeah, he isn’t having the worst time with this.

“Special someone?” Harry’s voice rumbles from his left.

“Hardly.” Louis snorts at Harry’s odd choice of words. “Sorry, it’s me sister. She found out who I was sharing a car with, and now she, uh… Well, all me sisters are big fans of yours. So she wants me to ask for a selfie with you.”

Now it’s Louis’ turn to feel a bit sheepish. It wasn’t until he’d opened his mouth that he realized it might be awkward to admit to recognizing Harry.

But, apparently, he needn’t worry about that because when he looks over, Harry is blushing profusely and doing a terrible job of wiggling his nose to hold back an enormous grin.

“Of course; it’s always nice to meet a fan,” he says, tucking his chin down to run a hand through his hair again. “Or, well, erm, the family member of a fan? Unless… are you?” He looks back up at Louis, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. Louis gets the distinct impression that if Harry were an animated woodland creature, he’d be pawing bashfully at the ground right now.

“Am I what?” Louis blinks at him.

What was the question? His phone has not yet stopped buzzing in his hand.

“A fan?”

“Oh! Nah, not really me thing, fashion.”

Ha! Louis crows to himself. What a polite, understated way to let the lad down without revealing how he really feels.

“Are you sure?” Harry nods pointedly at Louis’ black and white color-blocked hoodie.

“All right, mate,” Louis’ eyebrows raised involuntarily at that. “Didn’t expect you to be into Fred Perry.”

“You might be surprised by what I’m into.” Harry grins out of the side of his mouth, two dimples coming out to frame his ridiculous bunny teeth like pornographic parentheses.

Fucking hell.

Heat prickles up the back of Louis’ neck, and he quickly looks back down at his phone. “Alright,” he drawls. Sarcasm is always the best deflection.

He taps open his conversation with Lottie and types out a reply without bothering to read the rest of her messages.

Louis: Fine. On it.

“Tell me about your sisters?”

Louis looks up; whatever boldness had come over Harry a minute ago seems to have faded back into polite interest.

“Oh. Well, um, Lottie, that’s who’s texting, is the oldest after me. She’s seven years younger, so that puts her at…,” he quickly does the maths, “twenty-three this year. She’s a hairstylist and makeup artist, so you know, s’why she follows you. The older twins—both girls and also fans—are eighteen. Got another set of twins, even younger. Fraternal though—finally got a brother and one more sister.”

“Christ, how many is that?” Harry counts Louis’ list back on ringed fingers. Louis can only make out the details on the pinkie closest to him, a gold lion with a red stone in his jaws. “Six?” Harry concludes. “Your mother must be a saint.”

“She was, yeah. Well, might literally be one now, then, who knows.” He clears his throat. “Lot’s is in London now, and the little ones live with their dad, but the older twins live with me mum’s parents in Doncaster, where I grew up. S’where I was visiting.”

Harry catches on immediately. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. I, uh, lost my stepfather a few years ago to cancer, so, I mean… I know what it’s like.”

Louis knows that already.

The girls had made him watch a video where Harry was sat facing the camera and talking about it. He hadn’t had any makeup on, and a grey beanie had covered his ordinarily perfect hair. His bloodshot eyes had looked like oxidized copper.

It had been too close to their mum’s passing, and it made Louis feel things, and it was fucking Harry Styles, and he’d hated that, so he’d shut it off.

Harry didn’t know what it was like to lose the only parent you could count on when you were old enough to become your siblings’ guardian yourself.

But Louis couldn’t say any of that then, or now.

“Fuck cancer,” he says instead.

“Yeah.” Harry breathes out in reply. The intensity of the look in his eyes causes Louis to turn his head to the window.

He’s surprised to see that they’re already off the highway, navigating the streets of Bed-Stuy. He had sort of expected Harry to be dropped off first and himself spared the embarrassment of this whole posh car and driver and Harry Styles situation in front of his crap building.

But at least he doesn’t live in a warehouse in Bushwick like Harry probably does.

“Oh, we’re near mine already. Am I first, then?” he asks.

Frank’s eyes briefly meet his in the rearview mirror. “Yep, you’re Shawn’s guest. This pain in the ass is just a hanger-on.”

“Heyyyyy,” Harry gently thumps the back of Frank’s seat, but a smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Niall told me you’d only come to the party if you, quote, ‘didn’t have to get an Uber from the airport.’” Frank continues. “He spoils you, Styles.”

Louis snorts so hard it could be categorized as a guffaw before he can think better of it.

He’s been keeping on his best behavior, which is always a tricky thing for him, but if Frank is going to tease Harry, surely Louis can get away with a little bit of it, too. It doesn’t hurt that watching Harry squirm is distracting him from worrying about his shitty apartment building.

“Where do you live, mate?” Louis throws out. “A hipster like yourself, I’d have guessed Bushwick. Or Astoria? Or maybe you sold out and splurged on Williamsburg.”

Harry shakes his head ‘no,’ his face ducking down as he takes up gnawing on his thumbnail to stop himself from smiling or giving Louis an answer.

“All right then. So what, more posh? A nice loft in Tribeca? Or Soho? Dumbo? Or like, Chelsea. You an FIT kid or summat?”

Harry continues shaking his head at each suggestion. “The Tribeca loft is Niall.” He smiles behind the hand covering his mouth.

“Fucking hell,” Louis complains. He thought he would be better at this. “Quirkier? A garret in the West Village? A houseboat in Gowanus? The Dakota? Eloise’s suite at The Plaza?”

Harry laughs outright at that, a kind of bray that would fit in among lost sheep on a mountainside. He clamps his hand over his mouth as if taken aback by his own noise.

It’s a sound Louis hasn’t heard before despite the (far too many) episodes he’s seen of Harry’s show. He’d definitely have remembered it.

“A bloody walk-up on the Lower East Side?” Louis ventures again, trying and failing to stop a grin from climbing onto his own face at Harry’s lingering giggles.

“Should we make this, like—I’ll say, hotter or colder?” Harry suggests, wagging his eyebrows.

“All right, none of your cheek, lad.” Louis closes his eyes and crosses his arms, mentally scanning the subway map of New York that lives in his head.

Oh my god, of course.

The obvious answer hits him immediately.

How could he have overlooked it?

“Oh, I knew it, I bloody knew it.” He draws himself up to his full seated height before announcing triumphantly: “Greenpoint.”

“Inwood.” Harry shoots back with a giggle, looking far too smug about winning the impromptu game.

“Inwood?! Jesus, Styles. No one would’ve guessed that! Who lives there? That’s barely Manhattan.”

“I didn’t ask you to guess!” Harry protests. “You just, like, started to.”

“Very, very quirky, then.” Louis tries to scoff, but his traitorous cheek muscles won’t stop smiling.

“Guess so,” Harry’s laughter tapers off into something more muted. “Have you ever been?”

“To The Cloisters, once. But that’s as far north as I’ve gone.”

“You should come up and visit sometime. The Cloisters are just the beginning.” Harry smiles softly at him, and something about the light hitting the flecks of gold in his eyes causes the voice in Louis’ brain to start shouting about how much this man annoys him.

“Erm, yeah, I guess. Maybe when it’s not winter,” he offers weakly in response.

“Right, yeah,” Harry nods, and his smile dims with the movement, like a mask is slipping back into place.

Louis turns back towards the window. His usual bodega comes into view as they cross an intersection.

They’re a block from his building.

He clears his throat. “Well, Frank, thank you for the lift,” he intones solemnly. “It has been lovely, and I’m incredibly sorry that you have to drive this one to the North Pole next. I hope you’ll make it back to the city in time to celebrate the new year with your family.”

Frank chuckles, and Harry says “heyyyy” again, but when Louis peeks out of the corner of his eye, he’s smiling.

It’s not until a few moments later, when Louis is fumbling with his keys on the steps of his building, his roller bag and camera backpack waiting at his feet, that it hits him.

He didn't get a selfie for the girls.

Shit.

He wonders if he’ll see Harry at the party and if he cares enough to ask about it, and tries not to think about how the answer is almost definitely yes.

Chapter Text

+ LIAM +

Liam is nervously bouncing on his heels backstage at Marquee, swinging his arms and stretching them across his chest under the pretense of 'warming up,' when the thick black curtain separating him and the DJ booth is parted by Shawn's elbows, one after the other.

He's double-fisting champagne flutes, and his burgundy three-piece suit's waistcoat and dress shirt are already unbuttoned to his navel. "You ready? Mark says you're on in about ten," he announces.

Fuck yes, Liam is ready.

He hadn't planned to take any gigs over the holidays, had tried to make it a real vacation like Louis suggested, even though he wasn't going home to see his own family.

(He knows his paranoia about not living up to their expectations is his problem, not theirs, but he's thirty and single with a job they don't understand and aren't particularly impressed by, and the more years pass without anything changing, the harder it is to tell himself that they aren't disappointed in him.)

By the time Shawn had called, only a few days into his break, he was already crawling out of his skin with boredom.

Of course, the job offer had replaced the itch to get back to work with the intimidation of a looming A-list event, so Liam had spent his vacation trying to keep the anticipatory anxiety at bay by filling his days with extra workouts and nights with clubbing. (With Louis out of town, he'd gone out either by himself or with the kind of acquaintances that aren't quite mates but won't turn down someone to do shots with and, in the absence of better prospects, trade end-of-the-night bathroom blow jobs with.)

Those distractions helped, but nothing clears Liam's head like being on stage.

"I'm so ready." Liam's nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath that might betray his nerves. He grins up at Shawn. "Thank you again for this. Really. This is… it's huge, mate. I've always wanted to play here."

Shawn waves his gratitude away with a champagne flute. "It's a great space, huh? I don't know much about the dance music scene, but Niall refused to have this anywhere else, thanks to Heidi Klum's Halloween party. She might've also gotten him a discount on the rental fees. Anyway, please." He lifts the glass in a toast and offers the other one to Liam, his eyes and dimples crinkling with a genuine smile. "After tonight, I'm just excited to say I knew you first."

Liam and Shawn had been like family when they worked together behind a bar years ago, and they'd kept in touch after Shawn graduated culinary school and landed a dream gig as a sous chef at a Michelin-star restaurant on the Upper East Side while Liam bounced around bars and temp jobs, working towards the day when music was enough to sustain him. They finally drifted when Shawn moved to LA to open a sister restaurant as the head chef, but they still traded Instagram likes and occasional messages.

Now, Shawn was back in New York to open his own restaurant and plan a wedding.

It had been intimidating to see him so successful and happy, both personally and professionally. But the week before, he'd tagged along to one of Liam's gigs at a trendy new club in Chelsea, and after his set, they'd spent hours reminiscing over cheap slices of pizza at one of their old haunts. That's when Shawn had started gushing about how much Liam had grown into himself, tipsily insisting that he was a badass DJ, which was the kind of praise Liam wasn't used to from anyone but Louis or promoters paying lip service these days.

But it turned out Shawn's compliments weren't drunken lip service. His fiancée is a high-profile entertainment lawyer—a very gregarious one, apparently, known for extravagant New Year's Eve parties full of the who's who of…everything. Shawn secured Liam a well-paid slot DJing right before the headliner, and well…here he is, seconds before performing in front of that star-studded crowd.

"Thanks, but I'm good." Liam declines the offered toast, raising his palms in apology. "Nothing until after the set for me."

"Such a pro." Shawn snickers agreeably, his nose wrinkling from the bubbles as he takes a sip from each glass. "I have no such qualms." He snorts suddenly, shaking his head. "Oh jesus. Niall really is rubbing off on me."

"You're not the one performing; have at it," Liam laughs in return. "I just need to focus."

It isn't just his set that's keeping Liam from accepting the glass, but this isn't the time to bother his friend with that, not when he's just trying to have a good time on New Year's Eve.

"These people will be throwing money at you for their own events after this." A bit of champagne tips over the edge of the glass, spilling over Shawn's fingers, as he points at Liam with a goofy grin.

"That's the dream." Liam shrugs, just dissociated enough that everything Shawn is saying sounds like an utter fantasy. As ready as he is, what he does need is Louis' calm, confident presence to truly settle him down. "Hey, have you seen Louis at all? He went out for a smoke ages ago, and I haven't seen him since."

He doesn't want to be rude and change the subject, but he and Louis have a little pre-gig ritual. He's usually fine if Louis can't be there, but for a show of this magnitude, he kind of needs it…

"Haven't seen him, but I'll do a sweep and see if I catch him, eh? Need anything else in the meantime?" Shawn replies, licking champagne from his fingertips.

"I'm good—just ready to get out there, you know?" Liam rubs his hands together, ignoring the sweat on his palms.

"You're gonna kill it," Shawn encourages with a smile and a wave, stumbling a little as he backs out through the curtains. Liam's stomach swoops as he catches a glimpse of the crowd of impeccably dressed partygoers before the thick velour fabric sweeps closed again.

Honestly, where the fuck is Louis? Liam's mind's racing, so he starts pacing again, grabbing a fresh bottle of water from a case on a nearby table and chugging it.

The DJ booth is usually the one place he feels effortlessly confident, reassured by the crowd's energy, but something crackling in the air and in his bones feels different tonight…

+ LOUIS +

Louis swigs the last of his first allotted vodka Red Bull of the evening, and promptly converts the rocks glass into an ashtray.

Maybe that isn’t his classiest move, but neither is the service stairwell he’s hiding in to edit and post videos to Liam’s socials. The gray paint on the walls is caked on in about a hundred year’s worth of layers, and the shitty fluorescent lighting is enough to sallow even the most perfect skin. Both are a stark contrast to the sleek Manhattan club on the other side of the steel emergency exit door with its exposed brick, purple velvet sofas, LED light boxes, and beautiful people.

Quite frankly, Louis was surprised that a party this posh had even served him a vodka Red Bull, but the bartender had admitted he'd been making them on the sly for the host all evening. Louis figures he and this Niall bloke just might get along if he ever gets to meet 'im.

For the moment, though, he’s far too busy to socialize, squatting in the corner of the landing with his ancient MacBook Pro perched on his knees.

“Demanding and particular” is what Liam calls him (pot meet kettle, Louis usually replies), sometimes as a joke and other times as a compliment. Either way, it’s Louis’ perfectionism—alongside Liam’s talent—that’s gotten Liam to where he is. Event producers, clubs, and hotels love him because he makes them look good.

Or rather, Louis makes them look good.

It's about more than just mechanically sharing clips of Liam's set and a bit of behind-the-scenes for his 193k Instagram followers for Louis. It’s about using photos and videos to capture the vibe of the entire experience, to make people feel like they were there—to make them want to be there.

Louis' impeccable, artistic edits do that so well that he's routinely making extra cash licensing stock footage to the venues and event producers. So, more often than not, while Liam is keeping a party going, Louis is in a corner with noise-canceling headphones, dutifully sharing all the excitement he's missing out on with the internet.

Just another day at the office, he snorts to himself.

"All right?" A voice cuts in over the looping clip in his AirPod Maxs, and Louis jumps enough that his laptop almost topples onto the concrete floor.

He glances up long enough to see a burly security guard before looking back down at the screen and apologizing while saving his work. “Shit, sorry mate, I know I’m not supposed to be smoking in here, but the roof access is locked, and this was the best WiFi signal I could find.”

He closes the computer, setting it atop his backpack, and moves to put out his smoke, but when he looks up again, he realizes that it wasn’t the imposingly large man who spoke.

It was…someone who looks an awful lot like…

Zayn?

“You’re good,” Zayn says in response to Louis’ rushed excuses, a hint of a feline smirk gracing his perfect face.

It is Zayn.

Even if he hadn’t been forewarned this could happen (well, not this exactly, no one could’ve predicted this), Louis had roomed with Liam “The Future Mr. Malik-Payne” Payne for enough semesters to have memorized the pop star’s features down to the last tattoo, thanks to the poster that’d hung next to Liam’s bed.

So that’s what’s probably to blame, even many years later, for the man's mere presence to cause the resolutely anti-monarchist Louis Tomlinson to scramble awkwardly to his feet as though in front of royalty.

Zayn is dressed down, as it were, both for royalty and a New Year’s party—in just black trousers and a vest, though they probably cost more than Louis’ entire wardrobe. The outfit's simplicity pulls focus towards his features and many, many tattoos.

Fuck me; he is pretty, Louis thinks. He’s never faulted Liam for his fanboy crush; he doubts any human of any gender or sexuality could, but to see the guy from the wall in person after all this time is something else.

Many times over the years, so late at night it was actually the following day, Liam has drunkenly rambled descriptions of Zayn's 'angelic' face, and thanks to that, there probably isn't a complimentary word or phrase Louis hasn't heard in reference to this man.

But Liam is a DJ, not a poet, so he really didn’t do him justice.

An entire team of groomers should likely be given credit for his perfectly shaped quiff of ebony hair highlighted with a dark purple (which, yeah, all right, screams royalty), the flawless skin, and the stubble trimmed to the millimeter to highlight the wicked cut of cheekbones and sharp hinge of jaw line.

But there’s something else, obviously, the unnamable thing that makes him a star. It’s like an energy that radiates off of him, and it’s hard to tell if it’s arrogance or just wonder at being unleashed into a world to roam amongst lesser beings.

Louis isn’t even staring, he swears; that’s just how fast the impossible mixture of perfect features hit him, and… Shit, Liam will be so screwed if he sees him.

“Got an extra?” Zayn is saying when Louis manages to tune back in.

“What? Oh, right, ‘course.” Louis tugs a cigarette from the crumpled pack in the back pocket of his black jeans and hands it over.

Zayn takes it with a nod and then turns to the man, presumably his bodyguard, with another nod that causes him to duck back outside the doors.

“What are you working on?” He asks next, lighting the smoke, and Louis figures it’s high time to pick his jaw off the floor and force his brain to form words other than a silent chant of “Need Liam, need Liam, need Liam.”

“Oh! Erm, my mate is one of the DJs tonight, and I do his social media.”

“Can I see?”

“You say that like you don’t believe me, man,” Louis jokes as he bends to grab his laptop and open it back up. “I swear to god I’m not hiding in a stairwell to watch gay porn instead of enjoying the party—I haven't done that since uni.”

Shit.

Fuck. Shit.

Fuck.

Whyyyy?

“Christ, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Me brain-to-mouth filter is not the best—hence why I am out here, and Liam is the one in there,” Louis scrambles to apologize.

But for all his fear of offense, Zayn is… smiling. Louis doesn’t think he’s ever seen that flash of white teeth and eyes crinkled into slits in any of the photos or videos Liam has shown him.

So alright, Louis is still a bit embarrassed, yes, but also secretly proud that he’s accidentally managed to fish for possible confirmation of what Liam’s always suspected without being completely rude.

And credit to Liam’s gaydar because Zayn has not even blinked at the mention of Louis' preferred pornography.

So, at the very least, he’s probably not homophobic.

“You’re fine—but I’m definitely going to have to see what’s on the laptop now,” Zayn jokes instead, and yeah, all right, the man’s eyes are sparkling like whiskey over ice.

“Well, you’re going to be disappointed then—or not, I don’t know, and you don’t have to tell me,” Louis quips as he cues up the clip he’s been working on.

He turns the machine to Zayn. That friendly little grin is still plastered on his face, and Louis thinks he isn’t nearly as much of a big, scary celebrity as he had first seemed.

“This is fucking sick,” Zayn exclaims after watching a few seconds of Liam’s soundcheck and preshow warm-up routine, leaning in. “You did all this just now? That’s crazy, man. What’s your Insta?”

He pulls out his phone and looks at Louis expectantly, which is certainly not the response he was expecting.

“Erm, well, it’s not mine. It’s Liam’s. @djpayno.” He flips to the browser tab with Instagram to show it to Zayn.

"You should have your own," Zayn murmurs, rapidly scrolling on his own phone once he's found the correct profile. "Guessing this is Liam? Sick tattoos."

He angles the phone towards Louis. It shows a photo of Liam gripping his right forearm with his left hand, his head tilted to press his forehead to the hand. Typical Liam. He knows damn well that pose shows off the bulk of his tattooed bicep. Louis holds back an eye roll.

"That's him, yea." He sighs, wondering how long it will take for Zayn to come across more classic Liam thirst traps. There are certainly enough of them—similar poses with expressions ranging from giggling to smoldering, pouty good-night selfies taken from bed, and, of course, post-workout "progress pics." Honestly, Louis often considers limiting Liam's access to his own account, but he has to admit the photos aren't exactly hurting his brand or follower count.

Aaand it looks like Zayn has just found another such shot. He bites his lip while the side of his mouth curls into a smile before he mutters, almost to himself, "Really sick tattoos."

“Cheers, I’ll let him know you thought so,” Louis manages to get out. He’s reasonably sure that didn’t give away that he’s currently dying inside on Liam’s behalf.

“You make films at all? Longer form stuff?” Zayn asks abruptly, raising his cigarette to his lips and taking a long drag.

What is this? Louis wonders. A job interview? “Not really. Not since uni,” he hedges. “A couple of things when we’ve traveled—but just messing about for meself, really.”

“If you have a portfolio or something, can you write the link down for me? And your email?” Zayn asks around the cigarette as he opens his notes app and hands his phone over to Louis.

“Uh, yeah, sure, mate,” Louis replies slowly. He’s struggling to remember his own name at the moment, much less type out his contact info and Vimeo URL on an iPhone several generations newer and fancier than his own.

Zayn has clearly misinterpreted his tone because he starts to add, “Sorry, I’m not being weird, I swear, I was just wondering if you’d ever—”

But before he can finish the thought, the stairwell door opens onto Louis’ back with the force of a large body behind it.

"Fuck me, whoops," a deep voice chuckles. Louis quickly steps back, causing the door to fly open the rest of the way, bringing a tumbling mass of sequins, legs, and hair to join them in the stairwell.

It’s Harry Styles.

Of course it is.

It’s Harry Styles fully dressed up for a posh celebrity party, and if Louis thought Zayn had a darkly glamorous royal aura about him, then, well, Harry has just landed like Glinda the Good Witch in her pink bubble about to paint a black and white world Technicolor.

Or something.

Harry looks up from smoothing his pink sequinned trousers and rearranging the matching oversized blazer. His head swivels between Louis and Zayn like a proverbial deer in headlights watching a tennis match. His pink lips are slightly agape, and Louis hates more than anything that he somehow remembers that his go-to shade is a Mac one called Modesty.

(Peak irony.)

"Hello again," Louis replies pointedly, attempting to snap Harry out of whatever kind of stupor he's in.

“Nice to see you.” An enormous smile overtakes Harry’s face, and the reappearance of his dimples sends Louis reeling back to the backseat of the Range Rover like some kind of post-traumatic flashback.

(Of course, what he hadn’t seen earlier were the tattoos now visible on Harry's chest and stomach thanks to a white vest so sheer it barely has any business existing.)

“Um, Zayn, Niall needs us for that thing?” Harry ventures, and his brow furrows, but he doesn’t move his eyes from Louis. “The one we talked about earlier?”

They both turn to look at Zayn, whose face seems to have returned to the Sphinxian smirk from earlier.

"Oh, right, okay," Zayn replies, looking intently back at Harry.

Louis glances between them at the eye conversation that seems to be happening. Oddly enough, a few moments earlier, he was starting to feel a bit comfortable with Zayn. But Harry's arrival has filled the stairwell landing with an edgy vibe that Louis is looking forward to getting the fuck out of, pronto, thanks.

Not to mention, he doesn’t really enjoy being outnumbered by famous people. Hence, the appeal of his stairwell office in the first place.

"Well, it was very nice meeting you," he turns to Zayn, "I'll let you two—" He awkwardly waves his hand towards the door.

“Cheers,” Zayn replies, stepping towards Harry and the door. “Shit, I didn’t catch your name—“

“Louis.” “Louis.” Louis and Harry reply simultaneously.

Louis looks up at Harry and pulls a face that probably resembles a toddler’s before he can catch himself.

(Where the fuck had that come from?)

Zayn gently snorts in amusement at either the jinx, or Louis’ response. “Zayn,” he replies before dropping his smoke onto the concrete floor and grinding it out with the heel of a black and white patent leather loafer featuring the YSL logo. “Nice to meet you. I’ll be in touch.”

And then he’s slipping through the door as Harry holds it open, and they’re both gone in a cloud of what is probably outrageously expensive cologne.

Louis just stands there staring at the meaningless yellowed sign that reads “alarm will sound” on the back of the door for a full minute.

Zayn Malik would…“be in touch”?!

He’s barely begun to process those words before his phone alarm begins blaring to alert him that Liam’s set is starting.

Fuck.

He drops the butt of his cigarette onto the melting ice in his rocks glass and half-throws his stuff back in his bag before shouldering his way through the door behind them.

+ LIAM +

“You’re on in five.” The stage manager pokes his head backstage to send Liam a thumbs up; right behind him is Louis ducking through the drapes in a flurry, quickly delivering their usual silly elbow tap and fist bump.

“Sorry, sorry, mate! The craziest thing just happened.” He’s panting as if he’s run across the entire venue to get there. “Go get out there and kill it; I’ll tell you after.”

“Okay…” Liam replies. He’s curious but agrees he’d rather not get distracted.

He follows Louis back through the curtains to the side of the stage. The house music sounds uncannily louder on this side, like the stage curtains were muffling the decibel level far more than they logically could have.

Liam shakes his head, willing his senses to work despite his anxiety, rolling his head to crack his neck.

An eerie sense of calm floods through him as the butterflies settle, so he starts to climb the stairs up to the DJ booth. But before he can get past the bottom step, his body turns without his permission and grabs Louis’ arm before he can disappear off to wherever he’s going to go to film.

“I’m making a New Year’s resolution,” Liam announces.

He isn’t sure where the urgency to admit that has come from. He’s been considering it for a while now, and he already knows Louis will ultimately be supportive, even if Liam will inevitably suffer some initial teasing.

“You would.” Louis tosses his head back with a laugh, looking over Liam’s shoulder towards the crowd. “What’s it then, Payno?”

"No drinking," Liam shouts over the music and the murmuring crowd.

Louis' eyes widen before his features settle into a smirk that's focused entirely on Liam now. "That's… It's good." He pats Liam's cheek affectionately. "I like it."

Liam had been expecting Louis to openly mock him, so he’ll take Louis’ restraint as an opportunity to explain himself: “I just need to focus, you know? This gig is huge. And you know that whole thing, like, how you start the year is how the rest of it goes and all that?”

"That's a load of bullshit," Louis cackles, but his smile is genuine, and he's nodding his head encouragingly. "But I respect that you believe it. You have no idea."

Louis repeats their usual elbow tap and fist bump, buzzing with an infectious mood that has Liam wondering exactly what it is that Louis needs to tell him. Mostly, though, he’s just relieved and grateful for the gift of Louis’ constant moral support.

“You got this, Payno!” Louis shouts as the lights go down and the intro music fades away, and for the first time, Liam might just believe him.

“We can do shots before midnight!” he adds, slinging an arm around Liam’s neck and yelling directly into his ear before letting go and bounding off into the crowd.

Liam isn't so sure about that idea, but he jumps twice quickly in place, rolling his shoulders once again as the adrenaline takes hold, then races up the steps to take his place behind the board.

As always, his mind automatically goes blank as he gets to work, introducing himself and encouraging the crowd to reply with their own screams, one hand pressed to his headphones and the other waving through the air to hype up the mass of dancing, jumping, and sweating bodies.

It isn’t the biggest room he’s ever played, but it’s probably the most star-studded. Even from the little he’s seen and heard, he knows the guest list of Niall and Shawn’s friends reads like the poster of a three-day music festival. A handful of them have their own sets on the line-up, but Liam has done his best to remain clueless as to who the crowd might be comparing him to tonight.

For now, though, looking down from the stage, any and all celebrities are just white caps in an endless sea of people, bathed in technicolor strobes from the LED light boxes that line the walls and the ceiling, and completely hyped on his mix.

The last of his nerves quickly dissolves as he begins to get lost in the music, smiling to himself as he feigns working the turntables and CDJ, jumping up and down, and in circles, dancing on top of the catwalk along the front of the board whenever the moment permits.

Working off a pre-recorded set isn’t usually his first choice, but for a high-pressure gig like tonight that’s running on a strict timeline—all counting down to midnight when the giant screens will flip to a feed of Times Square several blocks away—he doesn’t mind so much.

It also makes for a killer light show.

Even mid-performance, he can't help but notice how well the lighting designer has managed to translate the eleventh-hour direction Louis had knocked up when they discovered during soundcheck that he was basically the only act that hadn't come prepared with his own designer and preplanned cues—"Ehhh, can you maybe make it look like a punk rock club? Like CB's back in the day? Lots of reds, maybe?"—into a swirling medley of perfectly timed lasers and patterns strobing across the light boxes.

It feels like performing inside a kaleidoscope.

His allotted hour is over in a blink; the only proof that time has passed is how sweaty and breathless Liam is as they come up to the last song. He steps back from the board, tugging up the hem of his white t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face before looking out over the audience.

He takes in the crush of gyrating bodies, arms waving as they drunkenly jump and sway to the slowing beat and fading music.

They’re enjoying themselves, and he helped do that.

That's when Liam's eyes land on a heavily tattooed man with dark hair that appears tinted with a deep purple as it falls over his eyes, who's watching from a secluded spot on a catwalk high above the crowd.

A catwalk that leads to the lighting booth and is only accessible from backstage.

There’s just no fucking way.

Except that Liam would know that face from all the way across a football pitch.

Blindfolded.

If he'd had anything at all to drink, he'd assume that he was hallucinating because, rumors aside, he truly did not think that Zayn goes to parties.

Zayn doesn’t leave his farm in Pennsylvania. Liam and Louis had established this earlier, leaving Liam convinced Zayn would not be there, no matter what The Daily Mail reported.

(And, alright, yes, Liam knows he knows far too much about this particular celebrity.)

Liam keeps staring; he can’t help but try to confirm that he isn’t seeing things.

And then the man’s eyes lock on Liam’s.

Fuck, it’s definitely him.

Just before the lights fade to black, he swears the man winks.

As quickly as the lights go down, the much brighter house lights come up, leaving Liam to fumble for his mic. "You guys have been amazing, and I'm so humbled to be here! Happy New Year, everybody!"

Before heading off-stage, he dares one last glimpse back to where the-man-he-swore-was-Zayn had stood, only to find no one there.

“You killed it, Payno!” Shawn wraps him in a crushing hug as soon as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

“Please,” Liam laughs, extracting himself from Shawn’s embrace before he sweats all over his Louis Vuitton suit. “You know this is huge for me. Like I keep saying, I’m the one thanking you!”

Shawn rolls his eyes fondly. “Go get cleaned up. Niall wants to say thank you, too.” He nudges Liam backstage. “He’d have come over himself, but he’s already found Louis and got him doing shots.”

"He seriously doesn't have to thank me, very much the other way around, but I'm excited to finally meet him. Give me, like, ten?" Liam replies, snagging a towel from a stack on a folding table behind the stage to drag over his face.

“He’s excited to meet you, too.” Shawn runs his hand through the sweaty curls falling in his eyes. “But shots are definitely involved. Consider yourself warned.”

“Cheers.” Liam laughs. Now that the post-show adrenaline rush has kicked in, a shot or two doesn’t sound like the worst send-off before he gives up alcohol for the year.

+++

Despite his best efforts to clean up with the glorified bar rag provided for him, sweat’s still pouring off Liam as he makes his way down the hall backstage, the high of performing falling away like the rivulets sliding down his back.

Maybe Zayn had been some sort of mirage? Like, Liam had so desperately wanted him to be there, terrifying as that thought was, that he’d simply conjured the image in his mind.

As soon as he passes through the dressing room door, he flicks on the fan near the vanity, tugging at the back of his shirt collar to rid himself of the material clinging to his sweat-soaked torso.

“This area is actually VIP only.” A voice drawls from across the room, syrupy and sweet.

Familiar.

Liam nearly jumps out of his skin, clutching his shirt to his bare chest.

Fuck.

He turns slowly, choking more than speaking: “I…I’m one of the performers?”

He's pretty sure this is the right room, the same one he'd been in earlier, that has his name included on the list on the door, although maybe he should've double-checked before coming in.

But all he can manage to do right now is take in the rich canvas of tattoos sprawled in front of him, so close and so… real.

He’s barely run his eyes over a quarter of them before the man speaks again.

“I’m just teasing, DJ Payno.” Zayn’s voice is as velvet as the sofa he’s seated on, slouching lazily with an ankle flung over his knee, a cocktail in one hand, and his phone in the other.

(Is that a video of Liam playing on the display?!)

"Nice to see the full show isn't a disappointment compared to the preview." Zayn distracts him from the thought, locking and pocketing the device. "Didn't think I'd get to see it in person so soon."

Liam realizes his hands have dropped involuntarily, and he quickly raises his shirt back up to cover his body. He’s so lightheaded he thinks he might float away.

"That was a compliment." Zayn's amber eyes glitter with the reflections of the bare bulbs surrounding the vanity mirror as he stands. He takes two steps closer to Liam, plucking the drenched shirt from his hands and tossing it onto the counter. "I'm Zayn."

He’s real.

He's a living, breathing, real person standing right in front of Liam.

He’s more beautiful than any videos or photos have ever conveyed, but his eyelashes are just as impossibly long as the pencil sketches Liam attempted over a decade ago. His eyes are the color of cinnamon melting into an apple cider, and his skin is smooth and clear with a perfectly trimmed dusting of facial hair.

He smells like the crisp Dolce and Gabbana cologne Liam knows he wears thanks to an interview in some fashion magazine; the same cologne Liam once collected dozens of samples of because he couldn't afford a full bottle.

“I know.” Liam finally chokes out an answer to Zayn’s introduction.

Shit. Could he be any more pathetic?

Who is he kidding, though? He can’t even play it cool with the guy who runs the bodega across the street; what hope is there of impressing the source of ninety-five percent of his wet dreams?

Liam’s sidetracked from berating himself by noticing, thanks to their current proximity, that the purple highlights in Zayn’s hair are real, not an effect of the lighting as he’d thought before.

Zayn still hasn’t said anything, Liam realizes, as a perfectly normal blink of those long, thick eyelashes makes time slow to a standstill until…

"You do? A fan, then?" Zayn sips his drink. "Or just…?"

“No, I’m a fan. Big fan. Huge.”

Not better, Payno. Fuck.

Zayn doesn’t seem bothered, though. Maybe he’s not even listening because he reaches out to deftly trace over the crest inked onto Liam’s shoulder. “Sicker up close.”

Liam’s arms erupt in goose flesh at the feather-light touch.

“Cold?” Zayn smiles crookedly.

Quite the opposite. Liam’s face is on fire.

But he certainly isn’t going to admit that.

“‘M fine.” Liam finally manages to reply, swallowing hard.

"So, are you really a fan, or do you just think that's what I want to hear?" Zayn arches a brow. Teasing.

“I’ve been a fan forever. More than a fan.” Good god, Payno—what does that even mean? "I mean, 'm just a huge fan, not a stalker or anything." He winces, dropping his chin to his chest but managing not to full-on smack himself.

Zayn takes it in stride, likely unbothered because he’s used to flustering people. Celebrity or not, he does look like that, after all.

So, instead of running away in terror from this potentially deranged pervert, he chooses to torture Liam further.

“Really? I didn’t hear any of my songs, though?” Zayn pouts at him over his drink, squinting in a way that makes his eyelashes somehow even more appealing.

Liam wants to count each individual lash like he did as a teenager, staring at the poster hung over his bed, but they're too thick to make that possible, especially in person.

Zayn smirks as if he's reading Liam's mind. The idea that he has supernatural powers to match his supernatural beauty doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility.

"I normally do!" Liam insists instead, and, fuck, he isn't sure if the blush rushing down his neck is more or less embarrassing than the shit that keeps coming out of his mouth. "It didn't fit the mood. I mean, there are a few things that could have, but I had most of the playlist set for newer things, and you haven't released anything in a while and…" It was better when Liam was speechless moments ago. "I should probably stop talking."

To his credit, Zayn simply chuckles, taking another step closer and running a hand through that silky black and purple hair.

"I'm glad to hear it. My audience is mostly eighteen to twenty-four-year-old females. Not that I have a problem with that, but it's always refreshing to meet someone…" Zayn's eyes sweep down to Liam's feet and back up to his face, "different."

“Thanks?” Liam wonders if he should be more concerned by the worry that he might pass out before this is over or that he might end up with a noticeable erection.

Zayn doesn’t seem to notice either of those imminent disasters as he runs a finger over the immaculately trimmed stubble on his jaw. “Think I’m a fan of yours, too. That was a great show you put on. And not just the flash of your abs.”

Suddenly, Liam's late-night rants to an audience of one (Louis) theorizing that Zayn probably isn't straight feel all too on the nose, and it would be a good idea to stop thinking about that now, before he actually does pass out because Liam has never felt more naked.

“Thank you, sir.”

Jesus fucking Christ, someone grab some gaffer tape and shut Liam's mouth with it.

Er, on second thought, that image doesn’t help either.

“Sir?” Zayn just about recoils, though his nose scrunches adorably. “How old do you think I am?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

Liam thankfully doesn’t blurt out that he knows Zayn is only seven months older than himself.

He crosses his arms over his bare chest, turning in on himself. "It's so stupid, but you're making me a bit nervous."

“I didn’t mean to.” Zayn’s face falls, and it’s the first time he’s seemed even remotely human since Liam first laid eyes on him from the stage.

“It’s not your fault,” Liam quickly reassures. “I’m genuinely a long-time fan; how could I ever be prepared for meeting you?”

“Well,” Zayn looks up at him, blinking. There was almost something sad behind those gorgeous doe eyes. “I’ve only been a fan of yours for the past hour, but don’t sell yourself short because I’m a bit flustered at meeting you.”

"What? Why?" Liam would think Zayn was making fun of him, but his expression conveys nothing but earnest sincerity. (How can someone with such strikingly sharp features look so impossibly …soft?)

Zayn exhales. “I mean it. You’re really something else, DJ Payno. On stage.”

“Liam.” Now that his head is clearing from the initial shock, he realizes he’d never properly introduced himself.

"I know," Zayn admits, biting his lip. "Louis showed me your Insta, and I've been watching your reels."

And just like that, Liam’s stomach bottoms out again.

He should’ve known Louis was somehow behind all of this; whether or not he intended for Liam to find himself alone and shirtless in an airless room with the star of his wank bank remains to be seen, but he just somehow manages these things, the unwitting agent of chaos that he is.

“You’ve what?!” Liam squeaks, clearing his throat. “Watched my reels?”

“Yeah, and I really am a fan. I admire your confidence. It’s not something that comes naturally to everyone. I’m shit with live performances.” All of Zayn’s bravado—and, if Liam dared assume, flirtation?!—fades away as he moves back to the couch, flopping down and looking more human by the minute. “I’m way too in my own head. And no amount of coaching and therapy has helped. Watching you tonight was inspiring.”

“Really?” Liam must have actually passed out and started dreaming.

“Your reels confirmed it. Though I will admit, Louis does a great job with them.” Zayn leans back, staring at the ceiling. “Makes you look good. Or even better, I should say.”

The position displays the tattoos Zayn has inked over his neck—all new since the erstwhile posters on Liam’s wall—and they are truly something to behold. Liam wants to study them up close and maybe start sketching again.

But right, yeah, Zayn's a real person, and he needs to keep talking to him.

"He likes to remind me as much," Liam rolls his eyes, finding that thinking about Louis is the perfect antidote to Zayn's attractiveness. He slides onto a folding chair in front of the vanity, finally grabbing a fresh t-shirt from his case to pull on. "The tosser."

“You two are really mates, then, yeah? Or just colleagues?” Zayn lulls his head to the side, eyes widening. “Or more than that?”

“No, no!” Liam waves his hands wildly in protest. “Mates. Brothers, really.”

“I always wanted a brother.” Zayn hums, closing his eyes with a small smile.

“I thought I did, too,” Liam snorts. “Then there’s the wet willies and constant tripping when your laces were tied together four times in one day because Big Bro was bored.”

Zayn laughs heartily at that, sitting up to fetch his cocktail off the end table. "You've been friends that long, huh? Must've been cute pranking each other in grammar school."

“Oh no, the shoelace incident was about a month ago.” Liam shrugs.

Zayn leans forward as he laughs heartily at that, eyes crinkled closed.

Liam doesn’t think it’s all that funny, but he’s not about to protest the privilege of making Zayn laugh—even at his own expense.

Zayn recovers quickly and smooths his hands over his obviously expensive trousers. “What’s it like, having someone follow you around? Filming your every move?”

“Well,” Liam looks to the ceiling as he considers, before looking back to Zayn, “are you asking what being filmed is like, or being followed and filmed by Louis? Because those are two different questions.”

Zayn’s amber eyes are sparkling with amusement and his gentle smile could rouse Liam from a glass-coffined forest coma. “Give me both answers then.”

Zayn pats the space on the couch beside him, and Liam cautiously crosses the room to sit beside him.

“Well, the cameras? You just get used to it, I guess. It’s not like you haven't been filmed before, yeah?”

Liam glances over and sees Zayn fiddling with a bracelet, staring at his hands. "Yeah, I have, but I'm still not the most comfortable with it. Especially onstage, live and all that."

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. I think you own the stage whenever you’re on it.”

Liam doesn’t know what else to say.

“Told you I’m a mess with it,” Zayn blows out a breath, still staring at his hands, his reply nearly a whisper. “If you’re a proper fan, then you must know I’ve never done a full tour. One-offs for late-night and award shows are different from full live shows. Easier to fake it for two songs, I guess,” Zayn sighs, but smiles shyly over at Liam. “But I want to get there. To tour.”

“I’d go to every show and cheer you on.” Liam blurts out before he can stop himself. “I’m so sorry, that sounded so creepy.” He slaps his hand over his mouth.

Zayn’s smirk returns as he wiggles his thick eyebrows, smiling with his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. “Maybe a little creepy, DJ Not-a-Stalker. Also sort of sweet, though.”

Liam can only scrunch his nose, too embarrassed to find the words to apologize, as he feels heat rushing to his cheeks again.

“So tell me, Leeyum.” Zayn scoots over until their thighs touch. “Cameras when it’s Louis? What’s the difference?”

“Oh right,” Liam swallows, the warm press of Zayn’s leg causing the earlier threat of an erection to… ‘rear its head,’ Louis’ voice in his inner monologue finishes the thought in the worst way possible.

Liam coughs. Acting normal is slowly killing him.

“Cameras take some getting used to, but then you don’t even realize they’re there, you know? None of that’s your focus or concern; the crowd and immersing yourself in the experience is.”

"Sure." Zayn pulls out a pack of cigarettes, slapping the top with his palm; neither the sound nor the reverberation of the movement against his thigh is helping Liam's situation much.

Then he remembers he's supposed to explain what it feels like to have Louis follow him around with his cameras. He's completely flaccid immediately.

Thank fuck.

"Louis is different because you never know he's there in the first place." Liam offers. "He's like…he's a perfectionist, the most professional a person could be when it comes to his work, even with me. When we started all this, I thought he would be much more critical of me. Only he's not at all, just with himself. He doesn't want me to ever not be myself, you know? He puts it all on himself to make it look good. If that makes sense?"

“It does.” Zayn peels the plastic wrap from his pack of cigarettes. “Makes perfect sense. You’re lucky to have that.”

"I know, but I'll never tell him that." Liam grins widely, knowing he probably looks like a dork, but he can't help it.

At least he isn’t shooting off in his jeans.

"The clock strikes twelve soon, DJ Payno," Zayn stands up, sounding more like the man Liam had first encountered in the small room. He tucks a cigarette behind his ear, replacing the pack and smoothing his dress pants, their white waistband drawing Liam's eye to his trim hips. "I'll leave you to clean up for whomever you're kissing."

Liam watches in silence (his mouth might be open, though) as Zayn crosses the room in a few strides and closes the door behind him with a nod and a wink.

Well.

If that was the first and last encounter he’ll ever have with Zayn, after all these years, he supposes it could’ve been much worse.

Granted, he’ll still never tell anyone about this.

Except Louis.

Fuck, he needs to go find Louis.

Chapter Text

+ HARRY +

The official contract is still sitting untouched on Niall’s kitchen island in Tribeca, but as Harry sits alone at an even bigger island in the deserted caterer’s kitchen in Chelsea, he can’t help but think it feels as good as signed.

He’d snuck away to edit and post a reel of the night, which includes a shot of him and Zayn goofing around while watching the concert. It’s just like they’d planned earlier that afternoon, and the likes and comments are already rolling in.

He shouldn’t be looking at them; he knows that. He knows better.

But. But.

Most are positive. Some are starstruck on Harry’s behalf, others have overused the overheated tongue-wagging emoticon to express how hot they look together. A few are confused or annoyed about why Harry is “hanging out with that queerbaiter,” a linguistic and sociological debate that he doesn’t want in his brain at two am on New Year’s Day. Still others have jumped in to defend him, and by extension, Zayn, saying they trust Harry’s judgment and that people shouldn’t assume that Zayn identifies as straight when he’s never said as much.

It’s all… a lot, and this is just the first post.

Harry takes off his blazer, drapes it on the counter, and moves to refill his glass from the open bottle of Veuve that one of the staff members had left him. He pauses, empty champagne flute dangling from one hand, before deciding fuck it, and filling up a coffee mug from a rack left out on the steel counter instead.

There’s still an escape hatch. This is just seeding—just market testing the public perception of Zayn dating a man, specifically Harry. What he’d posted could also be interpreted as platonic, tipsy friends messing about—it’s just a quick shot of him and Zayn hanging off each other and giggling.

But if—when—he signs on the dotted line, the stakes will be raised little by little. First, the video Niall took of Zayn kissing him on the cheek at “midnight” will see the light of day, and then the footage the paps are scheduled to take of them leaving together will follow it. The former will be an ‘organic’ leak—from a party that didn’t allow phones, Harry thinks with an eye roll—and the latter will be as ‘organic’ as pap photos ever are.

And then, the speculation will truly begin.

God, he shouldn’t be sitting and thinking about all of this, especially not during his last few hours of freedom. He should go back out into the fray where he’d left Niall doing shots with Shawn and Shawn’s friend, Liam, and… Louis.

Louis.

Okay, yeah, now that is what he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about.

He knows this—and yet, the entire afternoon, while Niall had been prattling on about logistics, Zayn had been staring moodily at the walls, and Shawn had been trying to crack jokes and refill tea, Harry had been thinking about a pair of sleepy blue eyes peering out from beneath messy fringe and an oversized black and white hood.

Harry had spent the entire flight from Manchester to JFK debating the massive pros and cons list of going ahead with everything, and yet the one thing that had not even vaguely crossed his mind was that he could “meet someone” this year and be unable to do a damn thing about it.

And then he’d walked out of the airport to Niall’s car at the curb and literally fell into the lap of… someone.

Someone who… looked like that. And sounded like that. And had made Harry laugh like that.

Not once in his life has Harry Edward Styles believed in love at first sight—and like, okay, he probably still doesn’t—but… fuck.

Even Frank had eyed him knowingly in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the curb of Louis’ building, holding his hands up and protesting, “I didn’t say nothin’,” when Harry had glared at him in response.

He just feels this inexplicable pull towards Louis that, against all his better, more logical judgment, is making him think about what he may be giving up by going ahead with this lunacy.

But right, yeah, Harry’s better logical judgment. The judgment that reminds him of the (presumably) good press and the (definitely) fat check that is exactly what he needs to pay off the mountain of debt that launching his first product line is accumulating.

That's where his head needs to be at, not on blue-eyed strangers who probably don’t feel a single thing towards him.

And it’s for that reason that Harry is glad his rumination is interrupted by the stainless steel kitchen door banging open.

But then the door swings back onto the person attempting to enter, and a previously faint Doncaster accent, now thickened by alcohol, proclaims, “Oi, fuck, whacked me nose!”

What had Harry just been on about regarding an inexplicable pull between him and Louis?

Louis comes into view from behind the door, rubbing his face, which Harry immediately scans for a bloody nose. He doesn’t appear to have one, but before Harry can ask if he’s okay, he’s already looking up and saying, “Oh, s’you again.”

Whether the slight slur is from the hand over his nose and mouth or the massive quantity of alcohol Harry had seen him downing with Niall earlier, Harry isn’t sure.

“It is me. And it’s you, too,” Harry echoes cautiously.

“What’re you doing holed up in here? Shouldn’t you be out there with the other beautiful people doing beautiful things?” Louis pauses, tentatively scrunching his nose and looking around the dimly lit kitchen.

“I had some work to do.” At Louis’ confused face, Harry adds: “Had some things to post on Insta.”

“See, you get it,” Louis scoffs. “You know what it’s like—never bloody stops. Always got to post something, never any time off. S’why Niall told me to go find more fooking Red Bull.”

He begins rummaging around the kitchen as he speaks, acting a bit like he owns the place. Harry wonders if he needs frozen peas for his nose.

It isn’t the first time Harry has made that observation that night—about Louis looking like he’s in charge, not the peas.

Earlier, Harry had been intrigued to discover that what Louis had said in the car about “helping out his mate” had meant filming and photographing Liam in action. He’s spent most of the night trying not to stare while Louis works—or bombard him with questions, especially after Zayn had described his aesthetic as “sick.”

There’s just something about the way Louis moves that’s impossible to look away from. He’s mesmerizing—graceful and powerful, like a panther prowling through a rainforest. (Do panthers even live in rainforests? Harry wonders. He really ought to pay more attention to what David Attenborough says, but he’s usually asleep within the first five minutes of anything BBC Earth.)

Anyway, now Harry is tipsy enough, here in the privacy of the kitchen, that he is just going to sit back and admire what Louis is like.

“Wait, though. I thought no phones were allowed?” Louis asks suddenly, jerking his head out of the fridge and banging it closed. “Guess you got special permission like me and Lima. Cause you’re all special-like,” he answers his own question, distractedly gesturing up and down at Harry on the last bit as he walks back towards the island.

“I’m special?” Harry asks, smiling patiently and biting back the desire to add, ‘‘ave you seen yourself?’ because this entire display is amazing, tipsy Louis is amazing, and Harry wants to see what will come next if he doesn't derail it. 

“Yeah! That’s the problem with you, Styles; I finally figured it out.” Louis stops what he’s doing to focus on his rant, standing in the middle of the large room, hands waving around, arcing delicately at the wrists. “It’s because you’re so fooking perfect that you annoy me so much. Like, me sisters aren’t wrong; you’re like… some kind of sparkly rainbow mermaid from Planet Perfect. But bloody hell, you do talk some shit sometimes.”

“Thank you. I think.” Harry thinks he should be offended, or at least mildly put off, by those remarks, but Louis is smiling at him as he speaks—a smile so genuine there are crinkles by the corners of his eyes. Harry does his best to search those eyes, trying to decipher whether there’s any malice behind them, but they look so soft and sparkly that it feels like he’s crawled inside some kind of electric blue snow globe of inside jokes.

But that might be the champagne talking.

“So you and Zayn are, like, a thing, then?” Louis abruptly changes the subject, crossing his arms.

Shit. Harry did not expect him to bring that up.

(The gesture itself is also far more intimidating than Harry would've expected, thanks to Louis’ biceps being bigger and more defined than Harry had realized, clad now in a black mesh knit polo shirt that’s even more distracting than the oversized Fred Perry hoodie had been earlier. Not into fashion, he says, Harry mentally snorts.)

Louis and Zayn aren’t friends that Harry knows of, but if Harry didn’t know better, he’d think he was about to get the ‘don’t hurt my friend’ lecture.

But what Louis says instead is: “Well, you look fucking fit together. Bloody hell. You have my blessing. Although Lima will be devastated.”

“I see. Well, thanks for that. That means a lot,” Harry replies as sincerely as he can manage while wondering what the capital of Peru has to do with anything.

“See, this is what I’m saying—fooking perfect, like…” Louis continues. “I’m… I’m not, like, totally on my game at the moment, but I think I’m taking the piss out of you, and yet you keep thanking me? You’re too nice for your own good, mate.”

He ambles around the island, leaning his hip against it when he arrives at the corner Harry is seated at, and the slight ungainliness of the movement makes Harry realize just how drunk Louis is.

God. Harry should be that drunk. It’s his life that’s about to be completely upended, after all.

“Yeah, you’re honestly not wrong about that,” he huffs, topping off his champagne before standing briefly to fill a mug with water from the sink filter for Louis.

“How do you mean?” Louis asks, climbing onto the stool next to Harry’s, resting his head in his hand at an angle that makes Harry wonder if he’s about to fall asleep. Something about it, though, about the way their knees knock together when Harry sits back down and Louis’ eyelashes graze his cheeks with each sleepy blink as he waits for Harry’s reply, makes the rest of the room—and the entire party beyond it—fall away.

It makes Harry feel safe.

And reckless.

“Louis, can I tell you a secret?”

“Feels a bit early days for that, mate, but sure I guess. What happens on New Year’s stays last year and all that.” Louis giggles, then briefly frowns at his mug of water.

“That’s… not a saying.”

“Oi, well, tell that to Niall, then.” Louis bumps Harry’s knee again with his own.

“Fair enough.” Harry grins because Louis is grinning, and he’s about to get lost in his eyes again when—

“Your secret?” Louis prompts.

“Oh! Right, well, so, the thing is…” Harry pauses to remind himself that anything he confesses right now will just be hearsay in the ears of an incredibly drunk man. “We’re not really together, Zayn and I.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you win him over, Styles,” Louis reassures in a surprisingly earnest tone before trailing off to mutter something that sounds like, “Styles. Right. How is that a real last name? This is what I’m saying.”

“What’s your last name, Louis?”

That’s probably a good thing to know if he’s going to force Harry to go the extra mile to spill his guts.

“Tomlinson.”

“Tomlinson,” Harry pretends to ponder, stroking his barely there stubble, stalling. Louis has given him an out, and he should take it, but… well, firstly, he’s all kinds of curious to see how Louis is on the receiving end of some banter. “Bit grander than I expected. Don’t know if it suits you yet.”

“Oi!”

Louis, with a surprising show of drunk reflexes, moves to kick him in the shin, hard, and there is Harry’s answer to that question.

That should’ve been enough to end the moment and shut Harry up, but he finds himself clamping his calves around Louis’ ankle instead, trapping his leg in place and continuing: “Well, Louis Tomlinson, you know how I said I had to post things for work?”

Louis nods, too distracted by the question to struggle against Harry’s hold.

“Right, so, uh, that was because I might be paid to be Zayn’s boyfriend for the next year. For PR reasons. So yeah, we’re not really together, but everyone is supposed to think we are.”

“You’re dating Zayn for a check?!” Louis squawks. His foot twitches between Harry’s.

“Technically.”

“Bloody hell, can I have your job?”

“Why? Do you have a crush on Zayn?” Harry means to laugh while saying that, but it comes out more like a sulk. Thankfully, Louis is too far gone to notice.

“No, that's Lima’s thing,” he quickly dismisses. “I just like money.” He cackles, throwing his head back. Harry is already so overwhelmed by the places their lower legs are pressed together, and the line of Louis’ jaw, and figuring out what Lima means that he almost doesn’t notice Louis wrap his other foot around their hooked ankles for balance, resting it on the rung of Harry’s stool.

“So do I, I guess,” Harry mumbles. “But, well, the thing is, if this works out, I won’t actually be single. But I won’t be with Zayn, either. So, like, technically, this is my last night of freedom for the next year.”

“Oh. Ohhhh. Oh wow, so no, like…? Not even—?” He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip from his mug in lieu of of figuring out how to actually end those sentences.

Harry shakes his head glumly. “Nope, it’s literally in the contract.”

Louis chokes on his water.

Harry watches him use the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, and god, when did knuckles become sexy?

When did droplets of spat-out water clinging to the sharp hairs of Louis’ scruff become something he wants to lick?

And is Harry’s tongue still inside his mouth, or has it fallen out?

He is being. So. Stupid. Harry knows this. But he’s tipsy and getting more so with every gulp, and Louis is downright smashed, and he just… doesn’t think it’s too much to ask to kiss this man before a year of celibacy.

Only if Louis wants to, of course.

And it doesn’t have to mean anything.

It’s just, well, this is probably the safest space Harry will find until next year. Only four people in the entire building have phones, two of which are Shawn and Niall, and the other two are sitting right here.

“Earth to Harold?!” Louis is saying, jerking their intertwined ankles to get his attention.

“Hey, we never took that selfie for your sisters,” Harry blurts out in response.

Louis makes an expression of disgust at that, causing a jolt of irrational terror to shoot through Harry at the thought that Louis can see straight through him. He isn’t being weird, he swears. He’s just… making a small move.

“Oh sure, remember now, when we’re off our faces,” Louis gripes. “Of course, you still look perfect; I’m the one with a broken nose.”

Ohhh. Right. Okay.

“I don’t think you have a broken nose; it didn’t even bleed,” Harry contends. He moves to stand, but Louis is quicker, reaching over to push Harry’s shoulder down so his bum stays on the stool.

“Keep your bloody giraffe legs to yourself. I’ll come there.”

He uses the foot hooked on Harry’s stool to scoot his own closer, swinging his arm around Harry’s shoulders. They stay like that for a moment while Louis fishes his phone out of his back pocket.

“You smell nice, Styles. Fucking Tom Ford.” Louis mutters as he holds the phone out and presses the camera button on the lock screen, which is a Christmas photo of his siblings.

“You know my cologne?” Harry turns to him, delighted. Now, this he can work with. “Are you sure you’re not a fan?”

“Course not,” Louis scoffs. “I can’t stand your channel. I just remember random things. It’s how me ADHD works.”

Harry doesn’t believe him.

“I don’t believe you.”

Louis takes the photo.

Harry catches a glimpse of himself staring at Louis with an awestruck look before it flashes off the screen.

“Shit, now we have to take this again,” Louis grumbles. “C’mon Harold, you’re the influencer.”

“S’just Harry,” he murmurs, raising his left hand in a peace sign and grinning broadly as he squeezes closer to Louis, half off his stool and onto Louis’. “See, you’re flustered. Like a proper fan,” he teases at the sight of Louis squirming next to him in the camera preview, leaning in even further to peer at the photo once it displays.

“I’m fucking pissed, lad,” Louis deflects, moving his arm from around Harry to type out a text to his sister, elbowing Harry in the process.

“I don’t get it,” Harry flops back onto his own stool with a heavy sigh. The room is spinning slightly, and his tongue feels heavy. If he had to guess, he’d say the champagne has kicked in. “You keep saying you don’t like me, but you’re always smiling when you do, and you’ve actually been nothing but lovely since we met? Is this like a chasing on the playground kind of thing?”

He’s probably pouting quite obviously now, but he can’t be arsed to care.

Fuck.

“It’s just… I like you, Louis. And I thought, well, fuck it, I thought we were flirting, and it’s my last night of freedom and… I just wouldn’t be opposed to a snog in the catering kitchen with a handsome stranger, is all.”

Okay, now that was a bit dramatic, and Louis is a stranger, and he probably shouldn’t be saying any of this and being so… Harry. Not when he has Zayn’s reputation to start considering, too.

After tomorrow, that is.

“I may also have had more champagne than I realized,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re probably straight, too. I’m so sorry.”

He looks down at his nails. They’ve chipped quite a bit since the morning.

He hasn’t… he knows he needs to double-check the contract and talk to Zayn and Niall about that. He’s kind of assumed there aren’t going to be any… restrictions on his appearance, that they knew what they were signing up for when they chose Harry—that Niall, of all people, knows better than to even consider—but he probably shouldn’t be taking that for granted.

After all, he’s been burned before.

Louis is being awfully quiet, he suddenly realizes, so Harry braves peeking up at him and finds the look on his face unreadable.

After a moment, he turns on his stool to face Harry; they’re close enough that he has to cage Harry’s knees between his own.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Styles. Harry,” he says, much softer than before. “It’s been a very strange twenty-four hours, and I have absolutely no filter, and probably some kind of weird parasocial relationship with you, because it’s been like, what, eight years of your videos?”

“Eight… years?” Harry gasps softly, feeling his jaw drop open. “But that’s like… the beginning.”

“Well, yeah, like I told you, Lottie is a huge fan. Watching you breaking into high fashion was a big deal for her. S’what made her feel like she could do it too, even if she didn’t go to Saint Martins.”

“Shit, Louis.” Harry looks down at his nails again and begins to peel the polish. He isn’t going to cry. Even if champagne does have a long history of making him an emotional drunk, he is a grown-up, and can get a hold of himself.

Then he thinks of something else.

“That’s, like, all the way back to Connor.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have to talk about that twat.” Louis gently nudges Harry’s knees with his own. He looks back up at Louis, not even trying to hide his amazement this time.

“Hey, you said it first, right? What was the phrase?” Louis makes air quotes around his next words. “You’re not going to go out with a dickhead, are you?” His impression of Harry’s voice is not very accurate, but Harry is going to let that slide in appreciation for this lovely stranger sticking up for him.

“But I— That answer wasn’t supposed to be about… We tried to keep things amicable in public...” Harry trails off, looking back down. He’s completely unable to believe that Louis has just quoted a several-year-old podcast interview to him.

Louis snorts softly. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re not as subtle as you think you are, Styles.”

Harry frowns. The worst parts of the breakup had been keeping things cordial when they were anything but, staying silent on so many truths behind it, when lawsuits and words like defamation were thrown around. He can’t fathom the idea that his followers might have seen through it all along. It makes him wonder what other truths they’ve seen that he thinks he's been keeping to himself.

“I’m not, by the way,” Louis adds.

“Not what? Subtle?” Harry asks.

“No, straight.”

“Oh. Ohh.” Harry's stomach swoops with something like hope, and before he can tell himself not to, Louis is already saying:

“And, yeah, alright then. Guess I wouldn’t be averse to a New Year’s snog with a pretty stranger, either.”

“Pretty?” Harry’s head snaps up. He thinks he might look awestruck again.

Louis grins out of the side of his mouth, sliding off his stool to stand in front of Harry. “You already know that you’re pretty, Harold. At least seven million YouTube people think that you are,” he tangles their fingers together, gently separating Harry’s hands so he’s forced to stop picking at his polish, “stunning.”

He leans down to whisper, his voice low and his breath hot against Harry’s hair. “Gorgeous.”

His nose trails down Harry’s hairline, his stubble against Harry’s cheek as raspy as his voice is in Harry’s ear. “Raphaelite beauty.”

A hand slips into Harry’s hair, cradling the back of his neck. “You don’t need me to tell you that.” Louis’ lips graze his cheek.

Harry’s eyes drift closed, lost in the press of Louis’ face against his own and the winding of Louis’ fingers through his curls. He’s so warm, and the contrast between the cigarette and vodka-tinged sweat leaving his pores and the thesaurus leaving his mouth is making Harry feel something he hasn’t felt in a very long time, namely an urge to lay him out on the generously sized island in a very public place and devour him.

So, of course, Harry has to ruin it.

“What’s a YouTube person?” he whispers because, apparently, his brain has become a Mylar balloon inflated by the helium of Louis’ compliments.

Louis’ hand tightens in his hair, and Harry can’t help the whine that escapes him as the gentle tug shoots straight to his groin.

“Do you want this kiss or not, Styles?” Louis growls softly.

His mouth is close, so close, so Harry tilts his chin up towards it, when—

“Ow, fuck! Me nose!”

Harry jolts back in alarm. He had completely forgotten about that, and it’s not like he slammed his face into Louis’, more like brushed, but still, there had been light nose-on-nose contact, and Harry really hopes that he hasn’t hurt him.

He slides off his stool to stand, taking Louis' face in his hands and examining it. His nose doesn’t look bruised or swollen. Maybe there is a bit of a flat squish on the top, but Harry is pretty sure it had been like that before. He likes it. It gives it character.

“It’s a good nose,” he says slowly, careful to avoid voicing any of that.

“You really are…” Louis begins. Harry raises his eyebrows, and Louis has the decency to look sheepish. “Quirky, Styles. I was going to say quirky.”

They smile at each other then, with Harry’s hands still cradling Louis’ jaw. He begins to gently guide their faces together again, when—

Louis pulls out of Harry’s hands, turns, and throws up in the industrial sink behind them.

Well, fuck.

Nevermind, then.

Harry never thought he’d be relieved at the sight (or smell, jesus) of a grown man vomiting up his body weight in vodka Red Bull, but… well, he is.

As badly as he wants to kiss Louis, he’s not so drunk that he can ignore the feeling that he wouldn’t have wanted to stop there, and something about that, about this just being a one-night-stand on his last night of freedom, feels...wrong.

Chapter Text

+LOUIS+

For the briefest of moments, the sunlight bleeding through his closed eyelids makes Louis think he’s woken up in his grandparents' guest bedroom in Donny, but then he stretches his legs out, and they hit the armrest of a sofa because, right, he’s on Liam’s couch in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Shit,” he groans, rubbing his eyes, which feel like they’re full of razor-sharp grains of sand.

What the fuck happened last night?

The last thing he can remember is standing in the caterer’s kitchen talking about god knows what with Harry Styles of all fucking people, which is followed by flashes of Liam dragging him out of there like they were being chased by wolves.

He gropes around the coffee table to see if his phone holds any information, narrowly avoiding knocking over a glass of water Liam must’ve left for him.

The group chat with his sisters has about a hundred messages, but before he can open them, he realizes that it wasn’t his phone buzzing that had woken him; it was someone actually knocking on Liam’s door.

Well, that’s odd.

There’s no way Liam could’ve felt up to going for a run and locked himself out, right?

Louis shuffles to the door with the grey speckled blanket from the couch clutched around his shoulders. Hopefully, this isn’t some kind of door-to-door burglary situation because he probably doesn’t look near menacing enough to scare them away.

A glance through the peephole, however, reveals that it’s Frank who's just managed to waltz upstairs unannounced in a doorman building.

The reality of facing an unfamiliar human makes Louis even more acutely aware of how hungover and disheveled he is. But, hey, the guy works for Niall, and he can’t possibly be in better shape, so Louis takes a deep breath and opens the door.

“Hey,” he greets Frank distractedly, half his brain still calculating the reason for the house call. “Shit, did I leave something at the venue?” he blurts out before the poor man can reply.

He looks around the hallway in a panic, his stomach lurching at the thought of something having happened to his bag of gear, but his eyes land on the bag in question sitting at his feet next to the door—thank god—just as Frank confirms, “Nah, not that I know of.”

He shrugs. “Niall wanted me to drop this off for you—said to give you thirty to look everything over, and then I can drive you to brunch. Think he might’ve left you a voicemail, too.”

He holds out a large brown envelope. “These are for you to sign if you’re coming to brunch.”

“Erm, okay.” Louis tentatively lets go of one end of his blanket to take the envelope. He runs his finger over the seal, wanting to open it immediately but unsure what the protocol is with this sort of thing. “Guess I’ll take a look and see…”

“You do that.” Frank lifts his hand, taking a step back from the doorway. “Be back in half an hour.”

“Right, thanks, Frank. And, uh, happy new year. Sorry for, uh…” he waves around to indicate his general lack of togetherness, “if you were knocking long.”

“All good. Happy New Year, bud.”

Louis shuts the door behind him, still baffled, and turns to see Liam poking his bleary-eyed face out of his bedroom.

“Was someone at the door?” he asks, shuffling into the kitchen shirtless. His abs aren't helping Louis' nausea.

“Uh, yeah. Niall and Shawn’s driver dropped this off for me.” Louis follows him to the kitchen island and dumps out what looks like an entire ream of paper onto the counter, spreading out the various binder-clipped packets.

“What the fuck?” Louis flips through the packets, marveling at the sheer volume of little plastic “sign here” sticky tabs.

“What is it?” Liam asks, rifling through his stupid wicker basket of K-cups.

“It’s a stack of NDAs. Ever heard of Drop Zed Music?” He looks up at Liam, who’s frozen with the little plastic pod hovering above the machine. Louis swears the lad looks even paler and queasier than he did a second ago.

“Um, yeah.” Liam coughs, starting the coffee. “That’s Zayn’s production company, I think. Um, it could be from Zayn?”

Louis narrows his eyes at him, but Liam is already scrolling through his phone, probably trying to Google the name of Zayn’s production company.

“There’s no chance you know what this is all about then? Because you spoke to him after I did.” He raises his hand, pointing at Liam without looking, still flipping through the contracts with his other hand when it hits him: “Bloody hell, we were hanging out with fucking Zayn, mate. I’m more than a little shocked you’re not dead. So don’t think we’re not coming back to that after I deal with whatever this is.”

Louis had gotten the gist of Liam’s run-in with Zayn from it being shouted into his ear after Liam’s set (probably responsible for half Louis’ headache, that); he’d had been too chuffed for the lad to crush his euphoria by sharing how cozy Zayn and Harry Styles had been.

Right, that. Shit.

Styles.

Louis still needs to remember what that had all been about.

Well. One thing at a time, he decides as he abandons the stack of contracts to go shower, he and his blanket cape brushing past Liam, who's pulling cereal out of the pantry and engrossed in his phone.

“Uhh, Lou,” Liam calls just as he reaches the hallway. It gives Louis the same sinking feeling as when Liam texted on his birthday.

“Speaking of Styles…I, uh, sorry, but I just… last night—”

“Spit it out, Payno, because, apparently, I have a brunch date with Niall Horan and six nondisclosure agreements in thirty minutes.” Louis leans against the bathroom door frame and sighs, letting a wave of nausea and a hangover hot flash wash over him.

Fuck, that fucking Niall bloke is going to make him drink mimosas, isn’t he?

“Harry, erm, posted a few clips of my set in his Insta Stories last night and tagged me. I wasn’t really paying attention because you weren’t feeling well, and I was pretty drunk too, but I just looked at my phone, and there were all these notifications and…” Liam’s face crumples up in distress, like rumpled sheets on a featherbed. (Sometimes Louis thinks that if Liam were a dog, he’d definitely be a basset hound, all worried wrinkles and sadness.)

Louis pulls the blanket up over his head, crossing his arms and wrapping it around his face so only his eyes are peeking out. If Liam is being this much of a baby, the news cannot be good.

“All right, DJ Payno, out with it. How many new followers did that get you?” Louis nods for him to just tell him already, but Liam continues to stand there looking sheepish. He glances down at his phone again, and his eyes widen enough for Louis to threaten: “Do I need to take the phone and look myself, Liam?!

“Fine! 15k!”

“What?!” Louis screeches.

“Fifteen thousand… oh no, wait… shit, no, s’more like seventeen and a half now.”

“Seventeen and a half thousand new followers for one lousy Stories tag?!” Louis thunders, yanking on the ends of the blanket in anger until he’s pulling it all the way over his head, completely upending his already mussed-up hair and throwing it in a heap on the ground in front of him.

“Oh my fucking god, Lee-yum,” he shouts, banging the bathroom door open dramatically. “Why am I even here then, hmm?! Why did I fly all the fucking way back here when Harry fucking Styles can at you with all the solutions to god’s problems? Do you think if he featured you in a TikTok next, you could be elected President of the United States?”

He slams the bathroom door shut just in time to ignore Liam babbling something about needing US citizenship for that.

The shower drowns out the rest of his muffled apologies.

+THE SUN+

Is the reclusive ZAYN stepping out or coming out?:
There’s no straight answer from this pair

The evasive and mysterious reigning king of pop, ZAYN, stepped out with boisterous and charismatic fashion and beauty influencer Harry Styles this New Year’s Eve…but the question remains if they’re just friends or something more.

A video published to Styles’ 524k follower-strong Instagram account shows the pair laughing and dancing along to a DJ set at an ultra-private, star-studded soirée moments before midnight in Manhattan.

Styles is very much out and proud, while rumors have been surrounding Zayn’s sexuality for years. Most recently, this has included an October op-ed in The New York Times detailing “evidence” of “queer signaling,” which the author gleaned from Zayn’s public life and work, promoting a backlash from his team and fanbase regarding the invasiveness of such high-profile scrutiny.

Initial speculation began not long after Zayn’s last relationship ended several years ago under strained circumstances—fueled by his female fling’s vague comments at the time—and have only grown stronger as he hasn’t publically dated anyone in the years since.

No other footage was captured of the singer and influencer together inside the annual camera-restricted affair, hosted by entertainment attorney Niall Horan (who represents Zayn). Still, insiders insist that the two were spotted kissing as the ball dropped, and paparazzi caught them leaving the party moments apart shortly after midnight, their cars headed in the same direction.

Those photos reveal that Zayn was impeccably dressed in sophisticated and subdued black and white, as if he could ever hope to blend in, least of which with flashy Styles, decked out in a pink sequined Gucci suit, on his arm.

Rumor also has it that new music is on the way from the pop icon, with the surprise release of a new single set to occur any day now. Zayn’s management has declined to comment on either topic.

+ZAYN+

“I see someone has been hard at work getting those rumors circulating,” Zayn proclaims in lieu of a greeting as he slides into the circular booth across from Niall. “Would giving you a slow clap be inappropriate, assuming you’re nursing a debilitating hangover?”

“What rumors?” Niall smirks, leaning back against the ancient red leather and popping an aspirin before sliding the bottle back across the table to his assistant.

Well, if his shit lawyer/friend is going to play it like that…

Zayn claps loudly and slowly three times in succession. “My sister sent me the link before I’d even gone to bed. The Sun? ‘Is the reclusive Zayn Malik coming out?’ Truly great work.”

“I’m not your publicist,” Niall answers with a middle finger, chugging from one of his many, many designer reusable water bottles.

(Niall swears he carries them everywhere to save the earth; Zayn’s pretty sure he has a latent phobia of choking. Either way, only Niall could make the kind of do-gooding behavior typically associated with broke college students and yoga moms look completely pretentious. Especially at a restaurant. Just use a glass like everybody else.)

“Need I remind you, I still haven’t agreed to this stunt?” Zayn sighs.

“Need I remind you,” Niall volleys back, “that I don’t think you have much choice. Despite not being your publicist, I’m happy to walk you through the general public’s perception of you again. Shall we?”

“Yeah, yeah, queer-baiting playing-both-sides man-slut diva.” Zayn angles himself so he can slide down lower in the massive booth, kicking his feet up onto the seat next to Niall. “Erratic, unpredictable, and fucking ‘mysterious.’”

“Look, it took a lot to convince even Harry that you aren’t those things without going so far as to share your anxiety issues—which is not my place.” Niall drums his fingers on the table. “So can you make this easy and not make me have to convince you the other way around? I know you didn’t sit through a four-hour meeting with him yesterday and play along last night just to say no today.”

Zayn decides to ignore how much it fucking sucks that his public image is apparently so watertight that even rainbows-for-brains Harry “treat people with kindness” Styles can’t see through it.

(But then again, Harry Styles doesn’t seem like the brightest crayon in the box.) (Or well, actually, he sort of does, but only under a very literal interpretation of that analogy.)

“But, he’s…a fucking YouTube influencer?” Zayn whines, picking at the painted designs on his black jeans. “What the fuck even is that?”

His ignorance is feigned. Zayn has done his research. He isn’t going to let himself be saddled with a fake boyfriend he hadn’t vetted himself, but Niall doesn’t need to know that.

“That is someone who has managed to garner massive amounts of public attention without the help of publicists, managers, tens of thousands dumped into promo—at least to start with—and Harry Styles happens to be a brilliant and very well-liked one…” Niall lectures, his lips drawing into the smug line they form when he knows he's said something good. “And forget about all that anyway—you don’t even want to know the names your managers were pushing. Twats, the lot of ‘em. I’m doing you a favor because Harry is a genuinely good guy, and I honestly think you two could be friends at the end of this. Maybe even more than that. I’d like grandchildren one day.”

“I have enough friends,” Zayn shrugs, pointedly ignoring Niall’s attempted matchmaking.

“Me, your bodyguard, your assistant, and your farm animals?” Niall continues smirking.

“That’s all the friends anyone needs,” Zayn mutters before insisting, “Jess is my friend, too!” He jerks his chin across the table at Niall’s assistant, who snorts without looking up from the iPad she’s typing on.

“Jess is an employee, and she thinks you’re an asshole,” Niall is outright laughing now, because he's the asshole.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Zayn laughs like it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Because it doesn’t. Jess is cool, but Zayn doesn’t need more friends, and he definitely doesn’t need Harry Styles as one of them.

He doubts quite a lot that he and Harry can even manage to be friends, but he supposes he can tolerate him. At least Harry doesn’t seem like the kind of person who hates animals. He’s basically a bipedal yellow Lab himself.

And, oh, speaking of Labs… a truly inspired bargaining chip occurs to him.

“Well…if you’re that concerned about my lack of friends…” Zayn rocks his feet side-to-side, gently nudging Niall in the thigh.

Niall shakes his head disapprovingly, shoving Zayn’s boots away from his buttermilk-colored pleated slacks. “Louis Tomlinson is literally on his way here right now. Jess already wrote up the proposal.”

Sick.

“Not that,” Zayn says, careful not to let his excitement over Louis show. He sits up, his boots hitting the floor in a series of clunks. “Liam Payne.”

“Shawn’s friend? The DJ?”

“You say that like you don’t remember doing a row of shots with him and Louis last night,” Zayn teases, a smile creeping across his face. “I want him to open the North American tour. That’s my negotiation as far as the whole…all of it.”

“No Liam Payne on tour, no Harry Styles romance?” Niall raises his eyebrows.

“Hell, no Liam Payne, no tour.”

“You really are a diva, aren’t ya?” Niall narrows his eyes.

Zayn flips his baseball cap onto the table and runs his hands through his hair. He’d toss it ironically if it weren’t still caked in product from the night before. “I just know when to take advantage of what little power I have in this corrupt garbage industry.”

“That’s gonna be a tough sell with the label, princess.” Niall shrugs before reaching over to flick Zayn’s arm. “And I hope it goes without saying that you can’t fuck him.”

“Make it happen,” Zayn waves his hand as regally as he can get away with without Niall unleashing actual violence, “and I’ll agree to the romance with the Labrador.”

“That so-called Labrador is going to help the world accept that you’re gay and that you’re not a brooding asshole that no one can stand to be around for more than ten minutes…even if you really are sometimes.” Niall swats at him again. “And honestly, if you’re calling him a Labrador, I’m not sure you got the full Liam Payne experience last night.”

“Oh, I know I didn’t, but I hope to.” Zayn wiggles his eyebrows, grinning.

“Z, what did I just say?” Niall buries his face in his hands.

Zayn smirks, secretly proud to be counteracting that aspirin he’d taken. “Get me Liam Payne, and I’ll do whatever you want.” He says with a bored shrug. He’s still doing an okay job of coming off as nonchalant about this, he reckons. “I’ll even sing at your wedding.

“I don’t want you to sing at my wedding,” Niall whines, not looking up.

“But Shawn does…and of course his mother…”

“Stop.”

Zayn knew that would get him; Niall is painfully embarrassed by his mother-in-law’s blatant crush.

He’s saved, however, by three Apple devices chiming simultaneously. Jess’ head pops up from what she’s been working on: “That’s Frank; he's just pulled up with Louis.”

“We’re friends, right, Jess?” Zayn pipes up before Niall can answer her. “You don’t think I’m an asshole?”

She quickly makes duck lips, considering it as she stands, clutching her iPad. “Can it be a little bit of both?”

Zayn can’t help but laugh as Niall shoves him so hard that he slides across the booth.

“Thanks, Jess.” Niall nods to dismiss her before turning back to Zayn. “Alright, I’m going to get you Louis Tomlinson, as if that wasn’t already some ploy to get at Liam, and I’ll see what I can do to convince your team that Liam Payne is the right fit for the tour. They already loved the idea of the “personal documentarian,” so maybe there’s something I can work with there. Anything else I can do for you, your highness?”

“Pellegrino? Twist of lemon?” Zayn laughs, gently punching a scowling Niall on the shoulder.

+LOUIS+

Twenty-five minutes after Frank's appearance, Louis is showered, dressed, off the hook from handling Liam’s IG moderation for at least the next three days, and sucking down a Red Bull in the backseat of his (well, Niall’s) car.

As they speed down the deserted West Side Highway, he wracks his brain for what this meeting could possibly be about.

His best guess is that it has something to do with Harry and Zayn’s alleged “relationship,” which, despite the so-called privacy of Niall and Shawn’s little bash, is apparently being obsessively speculated about online and in the press.

Louis' sisters’ meltdown in their group chat takes the credit (blame?) for alerting him to that breaking news. They haven’t stopped screaming about Harry and Zayn—Zarry, they keep calling it—including sending links to tabloid articles and some kind of fan account on IG, but Louis is not fucking clicking any of that shit.

The headlines are all he needs to get the gist of the rumors, thanks. He's not surprised in the slightest by them, considering he wasn’t the only one who saw Zayn and Harry hanging all over each other on the VIP balcony during Liam’s set. 

He just hopes that his being one of the few people allowed a camera in the party isn’t also somehow to blame.

(He also hopes this meeting isn't going to take too long because tending to Liam’s broken heart is clearly next on the agenda. At least now Louis doesn’t have to be the one to tell him. “Great news, Payno! The love of your life is just as queer as you always thought! Bad news! Not hours after you finally met him, he’s officially dating another man!”)

The girls also mentioned something about the selfies with Harry that Louis sent the night before, but now there are far too many messages to scroll through to see what they meant, and he’s frankly too terrified of what else he might find to open his camera roll.

So, yeah, instead, he’s sat trying to piece together from memory what he said the night before to Zayn in the stairwell and to Harry in the kitchen. He thinks he might’ve even talked about Zayn with Harry, but his memories are foggy at best and missing at worst.

Niall’s voicemail was of no help, either: “Heya mate, sorry to bug ya after the late night last night, but we have a quick favor to ask ya, and it’s time-sensitive. I’m sending Frank to pick you up; he should be on his way in fifteen. Any questions, give my assistant a call at 917-555-3491. See ya soon, buddy!”

The assistant was useless, too, deftly sidestepping his questions and telling him she’d let Niall know to expect him at the restaurant soon. A real professional at evasion, and that's coming from Louis, who’s spent most of his so-called career dealing with club promoters.

She isn’t much more forthcoming when she meets him at the curb in front of Balthazar either.

“Hi! Louis?” She collects the envelope of completed NDAs from him. “I’m Jess. If you want to follow me, Niall has a booth in the back.”

With a brief nod to the host stand, Jess leads Louis through the maze of tables until they reach a large booth in a tucked away corner, where Niall is seated in the center with a continental landmass of breakfast plates and drinks spread out in front of him.

Louis remembers liking Niall—plus he’d met him while he was still sober enough to be professional, and then it had been Niall himself who had been responsible for ruining that—so he doesn’t know why he’s this nervous to see him again.

It’s probably the NDAs.

Or…. Zayn?

Zayn is sitting on the edge of the booth across from Niall, dressed down in a pair of jeans—albeit ones covered in white paint splatters and illustrations—and a black v-neck sweatshirt, with a baseball cap with the NASA logo pulled down low over his face, yet still unmistakably recognizable with his tattoos curling over his hands and up his neck.

“Loueh!” Niall bellows, raising a champagne glass at him. “Zaynie, c’mere.” He gestures for Zayn to scoot over. “Louis, sit!” Zayn moves closer to Niall with a reluctant sigh so there’s enough space for Louis on the opposite side of the booth.

As he hesitantly eases in, Louis watches Jess pack up her things from the other end, balancing a plate of French toast on a laptop and the envelope he’d handed her outside. “I’ll be at the bar,” she announces before sliding yet another legal envelope toward Niall with a nod.

“Sorry, I, uh, got started without you two,” Niall begins once she’s gone, gesturing sheepishly to the crowded table. “Hair of the dog?” he asks, lifting a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket outside the booth. “We’re celebrating.”

“What’s the occasion?” Louis asks with a noncommittal shrug, wiggling out of his parka. That feels like a safe response. If Niall wants to pour him a glass—which he does, of course, immediately—that’s on him. Louis will avoid being rude and simply pretend to sip it. “Or just welcoming the new year in general?”

Niall looks over at Zayn, who jerks his chin affirmatively.

“The occasion in question,” Niall proclaims, slinging an arm over Zayn’s shoulders and tucking him into his side (how Zayn feels about that level of physical affection seems up for debate), is that “the reclusive Zayn Malik is coming out.”

Louis processes that Niall is quoting The Sun headline in a microsecond—but even if he hadn't, he definitely would be able to discern Niall's meaning just by the look on his face.

Louis isn’t a religious man (an, ahem, side effect of being queer). But, in that moment, he actually considers that maybe he should start believing in a higher power, just to have something to thank for the fact that he’d chosen to pretend to sip his champagne and, therefore, hadn’t ended up spitting it all over the table.

Because it’s one thing to suspect something like that about an A-list celebrity you’ve only just met—and quite another entirely to have it announced to you.

This must be what the NDAs are for, Louis supposes.

“Congrats, mate,” is what he manages to respond, nodding at Zayn. He hopes that sounded chill, because, honestly, shit, that is actually a big fucking deal, and probably terrifying. If Louis is having this many thoughts and feelings and questions zipping through him at the idea, he can only imagine what Zayn must be dealing with.

“Thanks, man.” Zayn nods back at him, dipping his chin to hide the faint—and maybe slightly bashful—smile flickering over his face.

The two of them sit there smiling at Louis—Niall beaming like a proud parent and Zayn looking slightly embarrassed—until Louis can’t help but feel cornered enough to blurt out, “Erm, I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, but I’m not entirely sure what that has to do with me.”

Just, please don’t let it be my photos that outed him or summat. Louis sends up a silent prayer to his newly found higher power.

“Oh! Yes!” Niall exclaims. “We have a proposition for you!”

Okay, and also, please don’t let them ask me to be Zayn’s PR boyfriend.

Which, what? That was an incredibly bizarre thought to have. Louis fights the urge to visibly shake his head at it, chalking it up to how incredibly bizarre all of this has been.

“We’d like to offer you a job!” Niall finishes.

Ohh, now, that made more sense.

Unless…

“Uhh, wait, like, as a photographer?” Louis asks, still irrationally terrified that the job is being Zayn’s fake boyfriend. His mouth has possibly fallen open, but he’s finding it difficult to do anything about that at the moment.

“Exactly!” Niall gestures with his champagne glass, then continues cheerfully. “Not just that though—video, social media management—think, like, 'tour documentarian.'” He throws air quotes around the phrase, and Louis wonders if that's actually his choice of words or if it came from someone else. “Zaynie might even be interested in making an actual behind-the-scenes documentary, depending on how some things work out.”

Louis’ eyes flick to Zayn, who simply nods, Sphinxian.

Man, it must be nice not to have to do your own negotiating, Louis thinks.

“We’re basically asking you to do what you already do for Lee—”

“Liam,” Zayn corrects with an eye roll before Louis can even clock the mistake.

“—right, so just like you’re doing now, only for Zayn. For the upcoming album release and tour—the whole enchilada.”

“Erm.”

These two would simply need to hold because Louis Tomlinson can not come to the phone right now.

He knows there are, like… questions that he should be asking, but also, fuck, shouldn’t they be asking him questions? Isn’t that what job interviews usually entail?

Louis hasn’t had many of those.

“Erm,” he begins again. “I don’t know if… uh, well, when is this meant to start?”

“Now,” Niall announces, and Louis, for half a second, looks around, panic-stricken that he’d left his camera behind until he realizes that now is not the "now" Niall means.

Oblivious to Louis’ panic, Niall passes the envelope Jess handed him across the table to Louis. “The contract runs for a year from today—Jan one to Jan one. Covers the lead-up to the album launch and all international tour obligations following it. There may be occasional, ahm… private occasions necessary as well. Those would be decided on a case-by-case basis, with two weeks’ notice, with any additional expenses and per diems covered, of course, but included in the annual salary. It’s all in here. We need an answer as soon as humanly possible but understand you’ll want to read it over. Would twenty-four hours suffice?”

“Uhh.” Louis reaches out to take the envelope, although he isn’t aware of being in charge of moving his hand—he watches like it’s a device outside of his own body, like an elephant’s trunk reaching out for a clump of grass.

“Loueh?”

Zayn’s soft voice jerks his attention to the left of where he’s holding the envelope suspended midair over the table.

“Let’s grab a smoke before we eat, yeah?”

Niall opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but Zayn shoots him a look before sliding across the booth toward Louis, so he has no choice but to get out.

He drops the contract back onto the table, shrugging back into his coat and following Zayn further into the restaurant through a swinging door and a short maze of hallways and doorways until another door deposits them out the back entrance onto Crosby Street.

It’s fucking freezing, despite the sky being a cloudless cornflower blue. Typical January in New York bullshit, Louis thinks, but he has to appreciate the shock of it jolting him out of the daze Niall’s speech had caused.

Zayn hops up onto the railing of the green scaffolding running the length of the building, sitting with his back to the cobblestone street. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his black bomber jacket and holds one out for Louis, who takes it and lets him light it before he lights his own.

If Louis had brought his camera—if he were taking this job—he’d shoot him exactly like this. The sun is too high in the sky for it to ordinarily be useful, but the way the scaffolding is holding it off causes a beam of light to fall across Zayn’s face, casting his eyes in shadow while his lashes stand out against his cheeks like a curtain of thick fringe and yeah, it would be an interesting shot.

But also, it’s Zayn. Making him look good is easy money.

Sorry, Lima.

After a few inhales, Zayn finally speaks.

“Sorry ‘bout Niall, mate. He’s doing his lawyer thing. He means well—for me, at least.” He laughs, which sounds more like a cough, and rubs a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Listen, I’d love to have you do all this, man, but I know a year is a long time, and I don’t know anything about your life—other than what I’ve seen on DJ Payno’s Insta,” he teases, the smile turning more genuine.

“Why, uh, why me?” Louis asks.

He hadn’t meant to say that.

He’d meant to use the opening to say something about Liam, about how they’d been doing what they did since they were kids, and while it’s an honor to be asked, he can’t just…leave Liam for Zayn.

Except, well fuck, it’s Zayn. Liam himself will probably force Louis to leave him for Zayn, and what the fuck is even happening?!

Right, yeah, so he meant to say something about Liam, but his curiosity got the better of him because he just needed to know, well, why.

“Well, for one, your work is really fucking good,” Zayn is replying. “I love what you do for Liam. S’like, you can tell there’s artistry and thought behind it. S’way more than just throwing quick and random shit up on TikTok. But it also doesn’t look like those posh Insta clones, either—you know what I mean, like influencers and shit?”

“Fuck, thanks, mate. That’s seriously like… I don’t know, it’s not ever about me art, right? It’s about getting the job done for Liam and his clients. So no one’s ever taken the time to say something like that before.”

“Yeah, think I know what you mean. Don’t mean to be the rich fuck complaining, but I’ve felt the same way myself.” Zayn sighs. “The music industry is not… well, it’s not where you go to make art. I’ll leave that there. But uhh, now that I’ve buttered you up, I’ll also admit that… Finding out that you and Liam are both queer and out was a big factor, too. Don’t tell HR,” he snickers. “But, uh, yeah. This whole process has been a long time in the making, and there are a lot of moving parts, so it’s important that the people I’ll be working closest with get it. Like, at least on some level.”

“Oh.” Louis didn’t know how to take that.

Being gay isn’t usually a selling point.

Okay, sure, there have been plenty of scenes he and Liam have worked in over the years where it is a selling point. It’s just that, in terms of breaking out of those circles and onto mainstream stages, into working with an A-list performer, it can be… wait, oh… right.

“Right, well, speaking of Liam….” Louis begins.

Zayn cuts him off. “I’m working on getting him to open for me. For the North American leg, at least. As a start.”

“What?!” Louis squawks, choking on a mouthful of smoke that's reentered when it should’ve exited his throat.

Zayn giggles as in straight-up-eyes-squinting-into-slits giggles at Louis’ flapping.

“S’not finalized, but I’ll make it happen.” He’s serious again. “So, like, if that’s your hesitation, theoretically, he and I will both be in the same place at the same time for a good chunk of the year. And yeah, I don’t know if you’ll want to bring on extra help because it might be too much to handle as one person, but that’s cool if you do.”

“Hire extra help? What the fuck are you paying me?” Louis suddenly wonders.

“Enough,” Zayn smirks, dropping the butt of his smoke onto the pavement and sliding off the railing to land a boot on it. “Let’s go back in, yeah? It’s fucking freezing, and Niall’s buying—so order literally anything, yeah? I’ll make sure he lays off until tomorrow. But, uh, yeah, I hope you’ll say yes. Should be cool. Fun or whatever.” He shrugs, brushing past Louis to wrench the green steel door open again.

Louis can’t help but wonder if that was just Zayn Malik’s way of begging.

+HARRY+

“Oh my god, this is going to be like another full-time job.”

Harry might be hyperventilating.

He didn’t mean to; he’d meant to have a plain-old normal first-Tuesday-of-January planning meeting, but then he’d opened up the shared Google calendar that Zayn’s assistant had added him to, and, well, he’d gotten overwhelmed.

He nudges the laptop closer to Sarah, who’s sitting next to him, crosses his arms on the dining table, and buries his face in them.

His brain wants to run wild with worst-case scenarios about how there is literally no way he’ll be able to keep up with all these obligations for Zayn and keep running his channel and launch the product line that’s already in production—and accruing debt—but he tries to just… breathe instead.

“H. Relax,” Sarah, ever the Virgoan voice of reason, murmurs, pulling the laptop the rest of the way over to her. “We can work with this. The first thing will be to go down to a once-a-week posting schedule. We were already mostly decided on that for this year anyway. And we’ll be posting more on social, what with all the… Zayn content, anyway.”

Harry can hear keys start to clack as she no doubt shares the calendar with her own account and starts drafting a plan.

Sarah knows.

Of course, she does. Harry had put his foot down, insisting that his team needed to know at the very least. (He’ll leave dealing with how he feels about his mum and sister not knowing the truth for another day when he isn’t already hyperventilating.)

It had felt like a cold shower of imposter syndrome calling the two people currently squeezed into his tiny living room and typing away on their laptops “his team,” even if it was only to Niall and Zayn. Harry does his best to fool the world—up to and including Niall—that he has his shit together, mostly so he won’t get kicked out of the elite fashion influencer club he’s somehow found himself a member of, but that really, really, could not be farther from the truth.

And Sarah and Mitch are the only people who know that.

So, yeah, they’d spent New Year’s Day signing every NDA under the sun so that they could at least know that the real reason Harry is about to do all this dumb shit is to pay their salaries, not because he thinks ditching his responsibilities for a cute boy is a fan-freaking-tastic idea in the middle of the craziest work year of his life.

He peeks up at the thought, opening his mouth to apologize yet again for dragging them into this circus and promise them his firstborn (which, nevermind, stupid idea, they’ll definitely be having a kid before him). But before he can speak, his eyes meet Mitch’s across the room. Mitch tilts his head, jerks his chin, and lifts up his arm, and before Harry knows it, his feet are carrying him to the sofa to curl up into his side in the smallest ball he can make of his too-long limbs.

Mitch squeezes him closer and quietly asks if watching the edit of this week’s vlog would be a good distraction or a bad one.

Harry looks back up at Sarah.

“If you feel up to watching it now, watch it,” Sarah gently encourages. “We’ll take this all one week at a time, H. The point of today was to plan Q1’s content calendar, and this is the content calendar.” She nods toward the calendar on her screen. “It’s just like how we always plan—mapping out fashion weeks, and festivals, and press trips. It’s not an extra job; it is the job, you know? Think of Zayn as like… the biggest sponsorship we’ve ever done.”

Harry laughs at that, though it comes out sounding like a cat choking on a hairball.

Sarah isn’t wrong, though, and Harry finds himself yet again thanking whatever forces for good in the universe have brought them together.

He’d hired Sarah not long after he and Connor broke up. Connor had obviously taken half of the manpower of Harry’s channel (himself) with him, and Harry quickly realized there was no way he could do it all alone. Sarah had been recommended as a producer and then Mitch as an editor not too long after, and pretty quickly, they’d gone from freelancers to Harry’s full-time employees. Then they’d started dating each other, and now they were engaged, and somehow Harry had gone from having extra help making videos and fielding emails to having a second set of parents who cared about his baby (aka his channel) as much as he did.

He nods for Mitch to press play, his chin nudging Mitch’s rib cage.

Wordlessly, Mitch hits the button and maximizes the window so the video takes up the entire sixteen-inch laptop screen.

The vlog in question covers Christmas Eve to New Year’s Eve, and while Harry tries to keep his videos as authentic and true-to-life as possible, filming that week was a particularly trying test of balancing that with maintaining his privacy and his need to take a real vacation—plus obviously not revealing anything about the pending negotiations with Zayn.

They watch the first couple minutes of Christmas at home with his family—a quick montage of low-key holiday activities like baking cookies, trimming the tree, and going for long walks because his mum and extended family aren’t quite as keen on the internet spotlight, followed by shopping in London with his sister Gemma, who doesn’t mind being a supporting character on his channel.

And then Harry’s stomach bottoms out.

After a few frames of sleepy past-Harry trundling through the airport and flashing a peace sign on the plane, Frank appears, greeting him at JFK. And even though the Range Rover’s windows are tinted, present-day Harry knows who’s seated on the other side of them.

And he had been doing such a good job of not thinking about him.

As quickly as those shots come, they’re over, replaced by flashes of the car heading over the Brooklyn Bridge and rushing up the FDR drive, followed by Harry arriving home to his apartment and dealing with unboxing some things that had arrived while he was gone.

The little of Niall and Shawn’s party that he’s allowed to show should be next, so he finds himself croaking out, “I, uh, need to take a break.”

He peels himself away from Mitch’s side, grabs the giant North Face puffer he likes to hide in while walking around the city, and slips out the sliding door into the garden.

The tiny back garden is Harry’s pride and joy, the backdrop to most of his OOTD content, and why he’ll never give up this apartment if he can help it. Even when it’s January and freezing, if he’s feeling shitty, at least he can go outside and touch grass and assume the bracing air has the same health benefits as an ice bath.

He sits down on the curb between the small back terrace and the grass and jams his hands in his jacket pockets, too cold to do any literal touching of grass.

Most days, Harry tries his best not to be a diva, but Mitch and Sarah have long since grown accustomed to the moments where he simply cannot deal with watching himself back on a screen anymore.

They’ll assume this is one of them.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the door slides open, and Sarah emerges bundled in Mitch’s Canada Goose parka.

She plunks down onto the step next to him and wraps her arms around her knees.

“Do you want the pep talk now, or do you want me to hold on to it?” she asked.

“Now’s fine,” Harry grumbles. He isn’t upset about what she thinks he’s upset about, but maybe her pep talk will help anyway.

“Okay, well, I’ve obviously been doing nothing but trying to wrap my head around this for the past forty-eight hours—and we’ll come back to how I wish you would’ve just told me because you shouldn’t have to make decisions like this alone another time.” She elbows him lightly. Harry opens and closes his mouth without saying anything because, yeah, that can be an argument for another day.

“I think what’s gonna be key to your sanity here,” Sarah continues, “is remembering how this connects to the core of the channel’s mission. You’re a voice for quirky, queer kids from small towns going on to live big, beautiful lives—and so is Zayn, in a lot of ways. So this project can be about helping someone who hasn’t been able to be out and supported in his authentic self finally get to be—as much as he can be in today's world. It’s the same mission that underpins everything you do, so yeah, you’re just getting to bring that to a larger audience.”

She closes her eyes and tilts her face up to the sky as if she’s trying to soak up as much midday warmth as possible from the January sun.

“I mean, I was sort of joking about the sponsorship thing, but when you think about it, this is maybe one of the most aligned collabs you’ve ever done, you know? And it’s fucked up and reductive when artists’ appeal and success are reduced to their personal lives, and I know you two don’t want to be doing this, but in terms of working within and subverting the existing structures, it’s like… this could actually be a really good thing. For representation and visibility. Reaching the general public—not the hopeless cases, but the politely clueless ones. Plus legitimizing being an influencer in mainstream pop culture. I know the…ah, delivery system… isn’t ideal, but this really is exactly the kind of profile-raising project you want, H.”

She, of course, isn’t wrong—those are all points Harry himself had considered on the long, long flight back to New York.

They’re all part of why he’d ultimately said yes.

And now that he has, he’s exhausted and terrified and trying not to think about a pair of blue eyes he's told way too many drunken secrets to, but the ink on the contract is already dry, so it’s pointless to brood about it.

“Hey, so was I way off-base?” Sarah nudges his side again. “Because it’s kind of freezing out here…”

“You were not. You never are,” Harry concedes. “Wanna order from The Hudson for lunch?”

“Obviously,” Sarah agrees, standing up and backing up to the door. “We have a new year and a hot new boyfriend to celebrate.”

Harry snorts.

If only she knew what—who—he’s really thinking about, and if only he did.

“Okaaay, well, if that’s not exciting enough,” Sarah counters, misinterpreting his petulance. “We also have your music video debut to celebrate.”

“My what?!” Harry screeches, but the door is already sliding shut with a muffled thump.

It’s not quite soundproof enough to muffle her mischievous cackle.

He turns his back to the door again, looking over the frozen grass and watching the humid puffs of his breath in the cold air for a few seconds.

Great. He’s hyperventilating again.

Chapter Text

+ZAYN+

Zayn is of the opinion that, while going into the city for pap walks and meetings is always a drag, schlepping to a warehouse in Red Hook to shoot a music video is a bridge—namely, the Brooklyn Bridge—too far.

(And, apparently, after a mere couple of hours in the presence of Harry Styles, he has already picked up his horrifying habit of making puns. That alone is enough of a side effect to make Zayn want to light their contract on fire.)

Despite being of that opinion, he knows he shouldn’t complain (even mentally), considering he’s sprawled across the backseat of the Escalade messing around on his phone, not responsible for navigating traffic the morning after a minor snowstorm.

That honor goes to Paddy, his longtime bodyguard, sometime driver, and one of the most important people in Zayn’s life, given that he’s been there from the very beginning of his career.

“I hate shooting music videos,” Zayn hums to no particular tune, before crooning loud enough to reach the front seat: “Brooklyn is the worst.”

“Please don’t, sir,” Paddy calls over his shoulder. “When you start, she starts, and her voice is not nearly as pleasant as yours.”

“Hey!” Taryn, his longtime assistant and the other constant in his life, protests from her spot in the middle row, her feet kicked up on the other seat across the way. “I am not that bad,” she sing-songs without looking up from her phone, her voice cracking and confirming Paddy’s point.

It's a game that Zayn and Taryn have been annoying Paddy with for years, and the familiar banter calms Zayn’s pre-shoot nerves and reminds him that these two aren’t just his employees; they’re his friends.

Regardless of Niall’s unsolicited opinion, Zayn doesn’t need more friends.

There was once a time when he’d have arrived at a shoot like this with a gaggle of managers, stylists, and glam team, and he isn’t proud of that. He knows that was his safety blanket then, as a kid, who had the money for it, and was young and dumb and did what was expected of him, and needed to hide his insecurity and anxiety behind a bunch of superficial bullshit.

But he’s glad to be past that now, to the point where the mere thought of it feels ridiculous, proud that his confidence in himself and his art is secure enough that he no longer needs or wants an entourage following him around.

“Whatever. You guys are just intimidated that I’m the whole package,” Taryn huffs and tosses her long, dark red hair over her shoulder. “Zee, do you want to look at the shot list again before I tell Louis that it’s been finalized?”

“Can’t be bothered,” Zayn lies, knowing Taryn knows full well he already poured over the list late last night, making changes and adding notes to the shared document.

She doesn’t comment, and he doesn’t look up from scrolling through DJ Payno’s IG profile—purely for professional reasons, not because he’s infatuated with the man, of course.

Zayn pulls up his favorite reel—one of Liam confidently performing in front of a sizable crowd in Ibiza—for the millionth time. Admittedly, Liam’s open button-down fluttering in the ocean breeze is a draw, but it’s the way the performance has been filmed that’s entranced Zayn since he’d watched the first few seconds in the stairwell on New Year’s Eve.

The video is simple, but elegantly shot and edited by Louis. Zayn can’t quite believe how slowly he must have moved to get certain footage, and how quickly he must’ve raced around to capture the rest. He seems to be everywhere all at once, a real one-man crew, and the more Zayn sees, the more he knows his style is exactly what he wants for his documentary.

He might even want it for his music videos because he’s been growing frustrated with how each one is more elaborate than the last, and all of it has become fucking exhausting.

He can’t get ahead of himself, though.

The director for today’s shoot, the lead single off his upcoming album, has already been hired, and the concept has been in the works for months.

The video is meant to be about Zayn’s character carrying out an art heist during a raging house party, and while Zayn isn’t over the moon about the professional groping on the docket in today’s party scene, he is reasonably excited about shooting the heist portion over the coming days.

“We’re here.” Paddy pulls up in a loading zone right in front of the entrance to the red brick building. He cuts the engine, immediately pushing the driver’s seat back, reclining, and taking out the thick book of crosswords Zayn had given him for Christmas.

“Are either of you going to help me with her Highness’ bags?” Taryn rolls her eyes.

“Isn’t that what I pay you for?” Zayn teases, sliding past her out of the car, tightening the sherpa collar of his jacket around his neck, and lighting a cigarette.

“Paddy?” She inquires, grunting as she hops out.

“I believe in equal rights,” Paddy calls from his cozy spot in the warm vehicle.

“That’s what I meant, too.” Zayn smiles crookedly around a drag. “Equal rights.”

“That makes no sense, and you’re both idiots,” Taryn declares, opening the back hatch and loading herself up with the various duffels and totes containing his PlayStation, his stash box, a carton of cigarettes, change of clothes, and dog and cat food, should he come across any strays.

She doesn’t bother to protest further, just flips Zayn off and sticks her tongue out as he laughs and scans the street for said strays. He should probably have Taryn put food out somewhere anyway. If he so much as sees a cat in this weather, he’s probably going to try to get into the Escalade.

For all their teasing—in both directions—Taryn is the one person (alongside Paddy) who doesn’t take shit from him just because he’s ‘ZAYN,’ and who, somehow, even more miraculously, understands, tolerates, and encourages him—all of those allegedly normal interpersonal things that generally baffle him.

He can’t say as much for the director he’ll be working with today. They’ve met in a handful of meetings over the past few months, and while the guy seems like a small upgrade from the tossers he worked with in the early days of his career, that isn’t saying much, and Zayn’s already sensed plenty of resistance to his creative input.

Today’s shoot will clearly be a litmus test of whether or not the guy will respect his vision and opinions.

Call him cynical, but he already anticipates being asked to make out with a woman before lunch.

Maybe he should make a bet on that with Taryn, who’s hiking the bags higher on her shoulders, blowing a strand of hair from her face.

“Ready?” she asks.

Zayn flicks his cigarette into a filthy patch of snow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

+LOUIS+

Louis hears Harry Styles before he sees him.

It’s his first official assignment as Zayn’s photographer, mainly because Liam, to no one’s surprise, had all but signed the contract for him.

So now he’s organizing his gear on a table outside the soundstage’s hair and makeup room while he waits for Zayn’s arrival. According to Taryn, Louis’ new best friend (if the constant texting is anything to go by), that should be any minute now.

He’s trying to focus on finalizing the lenses he wants to use and making sure both of his camera bodies have memory cards, backup memory cards, and full batteries, but every time the door swings open (which is nonstop as extras file in and out), the din on the other side coalesces into actual voices, and he registers a distinct rumble underneath the excited chatter.

The gnawing pit in his stomach identifies the voice before his brain eventually catches up—and, well, Louis will continue to blame his sisters for his ability to pick Harry Styles’ stupid baritone out of a crowd because it’s their fault he’s been subjected to something like eight years of it, after all.

Once his final equipment decisions are made, he’s clicking lenses onto bodies when someone props the door open. He can finally make out that it is Styles, and he’s brushing off thank you’s from everyone for what sounds like a suitcase-worth of free beauty shit he’s brought the cast and crew out of his “sample closet.”

Inwood, huh? Louis’ eye roll is automatic. Apparently, there are castles with walk-in closets for rent up there.

Shit.

Louis jams a few spare batteries into a pocket of his black cargo pants.

God fucking dammit.

He shoves his 50mm lens in another pocket with a cynical shrug, then starts stuffing everything he doesn’t need back into his cases.

Of course, Louis—stupid, stupid, Louis—hadn’t considered the Harry Styles factor when he’d signed his life away to Zayn for the next three hundred and sixty days.

Of fucking course, that little wrench in the works was nowhere in the hundreds of pages of contracts he’d ultimately signed, and mentioned precisely never during the subsequent hours of talking through the upcoming year with Zayn and Taryn.

At no point was there ever so much as a whisper of a mention that Louis’ work life would now include being faced with Zayn’s alleged new boyfriend at every turn.

But, of course, it hadn’t come up, probably for any number of reasons, including that Zayn isn’t officially out yet, or that Louis’ sudden involvement in his life is work and Harry’s—whatever it is—is, well, personal.

But still, Louis should’ve fucking figured.

Harry hasn’t yet posted a video in the new year, not since the one Louis watched with his sisters on Christmas Eve—his birthday, rather—something Louis knows because the girls have continued to follow Harry’s every move even closer than usual. They’ve informed Louis that Harry has announced that he’ll be posting less this year but has “exciting things” coming up.

Maybe Louis should’ve paid more attention to their messages about all the stupid rumors instead of leaving the group chat and starting a new one titled “Tommo talks to his sisters about anything other than celebrity gossip.”

It’s fine.

(Tell that to how Louis is aggressively jabbing the pin into his belt’s leather hole while buckling his camera holster around his hips.)

Seriously, though, Louis can get along with the guy. This gig is the opportunity of a lifetime, and it’s worth far more to him than the inconvenience of being mildly irritated by the constant presence of his least favorite YouTuber. Consummate professionalism will just have to be Louis’ middle name for the next twelve months.

It is fine. He can do this. He has to.

He’s just started to take off his henley because it’s too hot, and he isn’t even running around under the studio lights yet, when he hears that same enraging rumble mutter, “oh fuck,” on the other side of the black fabric that’s halfway over his head.

Louis finishes pulling the shirt off, tossing it onto his bag, and adjusting his (also black) t-shirt under his camera belt as he steps out of the path of the doorway.

“Sorry, Styles.” He jerks his chin apologetically without looking up from the camera he’s grabbing. “Didn’t mean to be in your way.”

There. Look at Louis go. Already polite, professional—downright humble even.

Hell, he can probably even handle making eye contact while apologizing.

He glances up, intending to send Harry another perfunctory nod before clipping his camera into place. He immediately regrets that decision, freezes, and then spins back around to face his bag.

His heart is pounding, and, despite being boiling a second ago, he now feels like he’s been doused in ice water.

But at least he hasn’t dropped the five thousand dollar Nikon Z9 on the floor. He would never have forgiven himself if he had to sink the second half of his first paycheck into replacing a brand new camera just because Harry Styles is shirtless—that’s wasteful, even if he is being paid more money than he’s ever seen in his life.

Because, right, yeah, Harry Styles is shirtless.

Well, technically, he’s not shirtless; he’s wearing a cropped blue leather vest with rhinestones and fringe like he’s turned up to a video shoot for the Village People, not Zayn.

But, yeah, Harry Styles is essentially shirtless and oiled up, skin glowing under what is probably a spray tan because it’s January third in New York City, and Louis knows firsthand that he hasn’t spent the holidays anywhere tropical.

With his back turned, Louis manages to get the Nikon onto his belt while mentally scolding himself for being so affected by the sight of a topless man—one he’s seen plenty of times before, no less, because Harry has a habit of traipsing around in his vlogs half-naked, and so Louis already knows all about the tattoos, knows precisely what flora and fauna make up the inked menagerie and what body parts they live on and everything.

And he has absolutely never cared before.

It’s probably just been too long since he’s last hooked up with someone—it was all the way back…when was it? That tall guy at the pool party in Miami. Art Basel. The beginning of December.

Okay, so theoretically, not that long of a dry spell then.

But who’s counting?

Anyway, this is probably just something to do with how Louis is used to seeing Harry on a screen, and now he’s here and all, like… real and human. There was actual body heat radiating from that bare torso. If Louis touched it, he’d probably be all… warm. That’s so weird.

“Happy, uh, happy new year. Again,” a low voice mumbles behind him.

Fuck.

Harry is absolutely still standing there.

And, well, Louis is no longer sure if any of this counts as polite or professional.

Shit.

He turns to face him and manages to get his intended nod out. “Happy New Year.”

Luckily, the rest of the extras have already headed upstairs to the set because Harry is blocking the doorway with his brow deeply furrowed and his lip gripped between his thumb and forefinger.

Sure, Louis had been off on a mental tangent and vaguely ignoring him; perhaps he could’ve been a tad more welcoming to his new acquaintance, but Harry hadn’t actually heard any of that, so there’s really no reason for him to be glaring like that.

“What are you—? Listen, do you, uh, think we could talk?” Harry finally asks, so softly that Louis finds himself holding his breath and taking a step closer to hear him. It looks like it’s physically painful for Harry to get words out.

“About what?” Louis asks, but his brain is already frantically scanning back over New Year’s Eve, which is still only flashes and fragments in his mind.

He’s been assuming nothing too egregious happened if Niall and Zayn deemed him fit to hire—and if it had, well, it’d been goddamn Niall and his iron liver dispersing the drinks anyway.

Goddamnit, Louis hates drinking that much.

Despite—or because of—working at parties and clubs every weekend and half the week, he has strict guidelines regarding exactly what his limits are (two vodka Redbulls, one shot, one beer) because he hates the loss of control, the not remembering, and the guilt that accompanies any more than that the next day.

Plus, someone usually has to keep an eye on Liam.

But New Year’s Eve…. well, he had been in the kitchen with Harry. Maybe Louis had insulted him, had told Harry all the things he thinks about his channel and where it’s going wrong, and what he should do to fix it, and how much Louis hates Sony cameras, and thinks Harry is such a sell-out for being a simp for Sony, and….

Louis had thrown up in the sink.

He can feel the color drain from his face.

Shiiiit.

“I threw up,” he announces to Harry. “Shit, I’m so, so, sorry—I wasn’t… I didn’t, like, ruin anything of yours, did I? Like shoes, or, uh, that sparkly pink suit?”

Louis thinks he might be making the face that Liam hates, the one that’s wide-eyed and pouting, which Liam swears is Louis’ fault when he can’t resist it, but, well, Louis never means to make it, he just feels bad sometimes, and of course that shows on his face?!

Harry, for his part, looks taken aback, which, good, maybe a sincere apology will be enough to override any asshole behavior that accidentally slipped out of Louis’ mouth the other night.

Alongside the vomit.

“No, uh, it’s fine… you were fine…” Harry stammers. “It was all contained to the sink. Like a real pro.”

“Oh, thank god.” Louis lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Was doing my best to stay professional.” He giggles at Harry’s word choice being so spot on. “But, uh, when the client plies you with shots, it can be a bit of a fine line, you know what I mean?”

Oh, well done, lad; way to throw Niall under the bus as professionally as possible.

“Listen, mate,” Louis continues, figuring it’s better to butter Harry up as much as he can now that it’s confirmed Louis had acted like a drunken knob, verbally or otherwise. “I don’t much remember what we chatted about, but I know I sent those selfies to me sisters, and they were absolutely buzzing to hear how lovely and kind you are, so I just wanted to thank you for taking the time. It really meant a lot to them—and to me as well, on their behalf.”

He notices that, standing face to face like this, Harry isn’t quite as tall as Louis has always assumed he was. He only has a couple of inches on Louis, but that doesn’t mean Louis won’t use them to his advantage.

So he smiles up through his lashes expectantly and waits. Maybe Harry’s whole “treat people with kindness” motto isn’t quite so stupid after all.

The only problem is that the crease between Harry’s eyebrows hasn’t budged. If anything, it’s gotten deeper, and that’s causing Louis to second-guess the entire approach as a little ball of churning arises in his stomach and labels itself: “What the fuck? I am trying, Styles, what more do you want from me?” and “God, life was much easier when I didn’t know this bloody bloke.”

“Right. Um, you’re welcome,” Harry finally gets out. “It’s just that, uh…”

And then he rolls his eyes.

He. Rolls. His. Fucking. Eyes.

And, suddenly, all Louis can see is red, which is really going to make photography difficult, but he supposes it’s a better color palette than the creamy beige of Harry’s tattooed chest, and, oh yay, Zayn has arrived.

Zayn has finally shown up and is gliding towards them like a panther with a head of newly bleached blond hair while Taryn trails behind him carrying several bags.

“Loueh,” Zayn purrs, holding out his hand for a fist bump, which Louis quickly returns. “Nice to see you.”

He then turns to Harry, and the purr gets breathier. “Hi, babes. You look… camera-ready.” His tattooed hand drifts onto Harry’s exposed love handle like a petal falling from a rose as he leans over to kiss Harry’s cheek. But then Harry turns his head so Zayn’s mouth lands somewhere around his nose, and his face wrinkles up even more than it had when glaring at Louis; Zayn’s expression echoes it, and they both laugh breathily.

Well.

Louis knows better than to always believe what tabloids say, and alright, they didn’t exactly stick their tongues down each other’s throat in a professional setting, but this does seem to confirm the rumors.

He turns away from that awkwardness to say hello to Taryn, offering to take some of her bags, which is incredibly magnanimous of him because he’s already weighed down with cameras, but she brushes him off and nods towards the private dressing room that’s next to the communal hair and makeup room.

“If you’re almost ready, let’s chat while Z’s in hair and makeup?” she suggests. “We mostly want to leave you to do your thing, but we also have that shot list I sent. Just want to make sure we’re all on the same page for your first day and whatnot.”

“Yeah, yeah, not a problem,” Louis nods. “Just got to get my gimbal set up, and I’ll be good to go.” He glances back towards the doorway and notices that Harry has already disappeared, and Zayn is settling into a chair in his dressing room.

Right, well, Louis has done his best. Polite. Professional. Whatever. Time to get to work.

+ZAYN+

Zayn strips down to his boxers and snuggles into his robe before pulling himself onto the makeup chair, taking a deep breath, and closing his eyes.

It probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the eager beaver had arrived early and was already greased up and allergic to robes.

Zayn knows the casting call asked all the actors in the party scene to wear club wear, and Harry got the same notes, but while Zayn has never regretted relinquishing control over extras’ wardrobes, Harry’s ridiculous fringed, bedazzled (were those lollipops?!) leather vest is giving him anxiety because Harry is not just an extra, he’s Zayn’s future “boyfriend.”

He should have known Harry would miss the mark on what would suit Zayn’s significant other, but maybe it was on Zayn that he’d missed the mark with no guidance beyond what everyone else had received.

Zayn decides to text his longtime stylist, Caroline, with the quick question of whether she’d be willing to…nudge Harry in the right direction for future public appearances.

As he types out the message, he has to mentally roll his eyes at Harry’s obvious spray tan, too.

It wasn’t inappropriately dark or anything, but Zayn will never get over how his own skin tone is consistently lightened in Photoshop to the point of looking sickly, whereas being bronze and sun-kissed is encouraged for those who’re naturally light-skinned.

Industry double standards and the headaches they cause him aside, the last thing Zayn needed to see this early in the morning was his soon-to-be-public “boyfriend” running around like a greased pig with its tits on full display.

And, yeah, maybe that was a bit harsh, but people must know that Zayn’s choice of partner would be…subtler than that?

Then again, they don’t know that.

Because the public hasn’t a clue about his taste in men.

It’s not that Zayn has a problem with Harry’s style (derp! god, the puns write themselves), even if it’s light years from his own.

But Harry’s personality…well, Zayn’s already thought about procuring a spray bottle to mist in Harry’s face whenever the overeagerness becomes too much to bear. Admittedly, he seems nice enough, if awkward at times. He’s just always putting in so much effort, always performing for an audience of no one, and Zayn has a hunch his natural charm would shine through better if Harry would just… chill.

He takes another deep breath, reminding himself that Harry is new to all of this, and it’s an uncomfortable and awkward situation for even the most seasoned public figures. Their predicament is going to require a lot of fucking patience—and maybe even a little coaching, because shit like that cheek-turned-nose-kiss trainwreck of a greeting will not do them any favors in the long run.

“Hiiiiii Zeeeee!” Chloe, his usual New York-based make-up artist, squeals as she scurries into the room and wraps her arms around his shoulders in a hug. Zayn doesn’t even get a chance to return her greeting before she continues: “Oh good, you’ve got your hair done already, so that’s not an issue. Obviously, Silvio is donezo, and I honestly don’t think they even hired a hairstylist for this shoot or at least no one I’ve met yet.”

She heaves her kit onto the counter and starts pulling brushes and jars out as she rambles. “That blonde looks perfect, though, so it hardly matters! Which is good because we’re all running a bit behind. I mean, I tried not to keep you waiting, but one of the extras brought in some product samples, and half of us were, like, totally distracted and obsessed.”

Chloe might be utterly incapable of pausing for a breath once she started speaking, but there is one thing about her that Zayn adores, something that’s nigh on impossible to find in a makeup artist: she’s blissfully ignorant and uninterested in any and all gossip.

That was the other reason for scaling back his entourage: one of them had been leaking information to the press, something that took Niall (fulfilling his lifelong dream of being Columbo), a PI, and his publicist working together to plant false stories to suss out. The Silvio that Chloe had referred to—Zayn’s hair stylist for nearly a decade—had been the guilty party.

The whole situation still triggers him if he thinks too long about it, and it’s not relevant now anyway, so Zayn focuses on Chloe’s chatter: “Someone brought samples? Why?”

He hardly cares, but it’s a weird gesture for an extra on a video set.

“Do you know Harry Styles?” Chloe asks alongside the first brush of primer on his face. “I mean, you must if he’s here, right? He can’t be just a regular old extra. Anyway, they were samples from the line he’s working on, and they look amazing. I’ve been following him for years. He’s such a massive inspiration. Wait, did you say you know him?”

Ha. Of course, Chloe hadn’t heard the rumors, she was in her own world like that—again, exactly why Zayn kept her around.

“Featured extra.” A voice interrupts. “He’s been a very pleasant guest so far.”

“Good to hear, Gessner.” Zayn does his best to sound polite, but he’s internally cringing as the video’s director invites himself into the tiny room, accidentally knocking into Zayn’s chair while Chloe is in the middle of applying foundation. Chloe quickly shuts up, turning her attention to the growing mess of compacts and palettes on the vanity. “How’s everything looking?”

“Just waiting for our star, but I don’t think there’s a man or woman alive that wouldn’t wait all day for you.” He leans against the vanity counter, crossing his legs at the ankles and rubbing his embarrassingly over-groomed goatee.

And there’s precisely the kind of shit Zayn can’t stand, people thinking he needs his ass kissed. Granted, this man might be being sarcastic, which Zayn honestly would mind much less.

(Nothing, however, will forgive his silk button-down and the contrast-stitched, studded jeans it’s tucked into.)

“Sure.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

Gessner smirks back.

Alright then, he might not be so bad, despite looking like he was close friends with Ashton Kutcher in the mid-aughts.

But then the guy pulls out a stack of photos.

Nevermind, Zayn can already guess where this is headed.

“I’ve been taking a closer look at our extras today. I know you’d like input, so I wanted to show you the five I’d like to feature you interacting with.” He hands the prints over. “And I’ve also got a stack of a few that we can outright dismiss. Keep the shots tight, and we won’t need them all to make the crowd appear bigger.”

“Problems with the budget?” Zayn mutters, knowing full well there’s never an issue with his video’s budgets.

He starts flipping through the pile, and isn’t the least bit surprised to find that the first five headshots are blondes. The next four are brunettes, and oh look, the last one is a redhead. All women, ninety percent white women.

And what a surprise, the ones Gessner is suggesting they dismiss are all men, mostly POC.

It’s disappointing, yet not shocking, that people—and not just people, but the director of his own video—are still this oblivious.

“You do remember that the point of getting my input is that the focus of this promo cycle is conveying things about myself that I haven’t before?” Zayn tries his best to keep still, narrowly holding back an eye roll as Chloe carefully applies thick, dark liner to his lower lids.

“Isn’t featuring your boyfriend enough for all that?” Gessner chuckles, clearly unaware or simply okay with how intolerant he’s coming off, his true colors lighting the sky as boldly as the rainbows that probably make him cringe.

“He’s just a friend.”

Zayn holds back a laugh over how Chloe is either not listening or just not connecting the dots as she blithely holds up a pair of blue contacts. (Those are Zayn’s idea. For aesthetics, not because he has any desire whatsoever to emulate whiteness.)

“I can put them in myself, babe,” Zayn smiles at her. “I’m not completely helpless.”

He slides off the chair and leans closer to the vanity mirror to pop them in. “Speaking of Harry, is he positioned away from the others as requested?”

Zayn might not be wild about the guy, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to shield him from blatant gossip and awkward questions. Granted, Harry is a YouTuber, which means he’s seen the worst of the worst shit people have to say and has somehow managed to retain his sunny disposition. But Zayn has to protect himself and his image, as well, and there’s also the risk of Harry saying something stupid that could reflect poorly on him.

And if it comes across as Zayn being a jealous dickhead or a possessive diva, well, that probably isn’t the worst thing. That’s probably closer to the kind of boyfriend he’d actually be, rather than one proudly parading his man around like a prize hog.

Or greased piglet, as the case may be.

“He’s on a mark by himself but will still feature prominently. Very ‘featured,’ I’d say.” Gessner confirms.

“Perfect. We’re not cutting anyone yet, and let’s get the first shots walking through the crowd before we make any decisions on who I’ll be directly interacting with, yeah?” Zayn steps back from the mirror. “Now, where the fuck are my clothes?”

Alright, sometimes he’ll play the part of the demanding diva if only to get these assholes to listen.

“Rack’s right there.” Chloe points, her big blue eyes blinking. “It’s got everything you and Caroline discussed; she said you should pick the final look.”

Zayn is elated by the first thing he sees when he tugs the sheet off the rack—a black rubber vest covered in straps and buckles, which is meant to look like half a superhero’s costume. It’d taken a month for Zayn to personally design, and have made and fitted, and it’s what he’s most looking forward to about the entire video.

Of course, it’s meant for the heist scene they’ll be filming tomorrow, so when he steps behind the divider and drops his robe, he quickly pulls on a turtleneck and cargo pants instead, along with a pair of fingerless gloves that he probably won’t wear for every take.

“Ok, let’s do this then,” he announces once dressed. “We’ve only got one day.”

+HARRY+

Harry is lying across the oversized white velvet tufted ottoman he's been placed upon and is definitely not watching Louis Tomlinson work.

At least he’s trying not to, but his eyes really, really want to fixate on following him around the room—like the simple act of watching him might answer all of Harry’s questions.

(Okay, mainly just the one question: “What the actual fuck?!”)

It’s not like Harry has much going on in his role as “party guest number seventeen” or whatever to distract him, and the waiting between takes is even more monotonous than the actual shooting.

He tries to watch Zayn for a while instead; he walks through the crowd from the back of the room toward the front for at least a dozen takes while he, curiously, stops between each to strategically reposition the extras to his liking.

Harry figures it’s safe to watch the star of the show; everyone else is.

But after that part comes a shot where the director pulls aside a blonde woman in a short, slinky silver dress, instructing her to stand looking away from Zayn, who is meant to walk up to her, turn her chin towards him, and toy with her necklace seductively before disappearing back into the crowd.

And then the next set-up is similar, and by the time Zayn has gone through the same set of instructions with the third or fourth woman, it seems to Harry that the frustration emanating from him is palpable.

Maybe it’s because Harry knows what the point of himself being there is—and it’s not maintaining a facade of heterosexuality—or perhaps he just has some kind of homing beacon that flashes neon at the call of a fellow queer person masking distress, but he feels his eyebrows furrowing in sympathy.

And then he realizes that probably isn’t a good look.

Or maybe it is; maybe it’s a perfect jealous boyfriend look.

He once again (because, let’s face it, he couldn’t even say hello to the guy without turning it into an awkward mess) really, really doesn’t know doesn’t know how to act or what’s expected of him.

But what he does know is that while he’s watching Zayn, other folks are watching him.

Ordinarily, Harry would’ve preferred to pass the time by striking up a conversation with his fellow extras—in fact, he’d started the day off that way, and it had been absolutely lovely. The makeup artists, especially Chloe, had been total sweethearts, and the batch of folks he’d chatted with in the dressing room were so excited to work with one other.

But now, the mark he’s been placed on is set apart from the other actors, and more and more of them are sneaking glances at him and whispering amongst themselves, and he doubts that it’s about the free samples he brought in.

No, it’s more like he can practically see the rumors about him and Zayn traveling through the clusters standing around him. People love celebrity gossip, after all. And people who are extras in a music video with Zayn are probably familiar with gossip about Zayn, specifically. Hence, one of the reasons that this shoot is step two of the official “Zarry” seeding schedule.

Harry is meant to be just another body dancing with Zayn in the video, but “sources close to the singer” will say that he was here at Zayn’s invitation, and therefore, this will become one more activity to link them together as “friends.”

Not that the rumor mill hasn’t already kicked off. Clearly.

Harry doesn’t want to add to it, though. (Even if that’s technically his job right now.)

He tries to turn his attention to staring at his nails, but they have a fresh gel mani that he mustn’t pick at, so they aren’t very good at distracting him. The color selection, black with a gold shimmer, was his best attempt at matching Zayn’s heist aesthetic.

Harry might be looking at things through Sarah’s partnerships lens, but he sort of thought that being Zayn’s boyfriend would come with more of a brief. He figured he’d at least get a PDF of color palettes, favorite movies, and relevant adjectives like “urban” and “sophisticated.”

But, ironically, apparently, the point of Harry being hired through a mutual friend was so this showmance will be more lowkey, and less drowning-in-corporate lingo-official, than what is typical.

Still, the perfectionist in Harry would really like a shared pop star boyfriend Pinterest board.

Speaking of Pinterest, if he could just have his freaking phone on him, then at least he could get some real work done.

But, as it is, all he can do is think about work, which isn’t super helpful considering all his thoughts keep looping back to how close it is to fashion week, how much he has to do beforehand, and what a waste of a day this is. (It’s just really, really hard to compute that this is work, and to equate the astronomical monthly figure he’s being paid with his usual day rates.) Regardless, he does his best to mentally make packing lists and solve the debate of whether he should get a hotel room for NYFW—as it’s always a toss-up between the inflated nightly rates and the insane surge pricing of constant Ubers downtown and back.

See, you’re doing a bang-up job not thinking about Louis, Harry reassures himself while fidgeting with a loose button on the ottoman. That must’ve been a whole ten minutes.

Louis, who Harry really, really wasn’t supposed to see—ever again—after his friend had turned up and whisked him out of the kitchen on New Year’s Eve.

That assumption, depressing as it was, coupled with being spectacularly drunk, was Harry’s only excuse for the stupidity of blatantly disregarding at least three NDAs—two of his own and the one he should have collected from Louis before spilling his guts.

His unfortunate confessions in the face of neglected NDAs are definitely why Harry’s stomach had just about fallen out of his ass that morning when he’d walked out of the dressing room smack into Louis—and not the flash of Louis’ happy trail.

(And certainly not because a part of him that he’s trying to ignore is not-so-secretly thrilled about this development.)

And yes, a more sober, rational Harry should’ve figured this could happen. They run in the same social circle, after all. Harry’s best friend is Niall; Louis’ friend is friends with Shawn. So, like… Harry should’ve been prepared to run into Louis at another party, or Niall and Shawn’s five-hundred-guest-strong wedding in the fall, or something.

But not as Zayn’s photographer, jesus. There’s no way he could’ve seen that coming.

Except, alright, in hindsight, with the amount of gushing Zayn did over Louis’ talent at the party, Harry probably could’ve seen that coming, too, if he hadn’t been so distracted by his own all-consuming pity party.

So yeah, he only has himself to blame for the mess he’s found himself in.

(And alcohol. Thank god for dry January.)

At any rate, Louis is here now, and Harry will just have to deal with that.

Louis is here, but, as shocking as that is, it seems he doesn’t remember any of their encounter anyway. Harry doesn’t think Louis was faking that. The look on his face was too… genuine. Too genuinely shocked. Too sincerely apologetic.

Harry should be relieved, thrilled, over the moon about that, but instead…

Well, he’s pretty fucking irritated.

All week, he’d been teetering on the brink of a panic attack over his fuck up simply because he’d been lonely and tipsy, and Louis had eyes.

Blue ones.

And, after all that, Louis can’t even be bothered to remember… anything?

Harry knows that’s not how blackouts work (god knows he’s been there himself once or twice), but he can’t help feeling this… searing embarrassment that their run-in in the kitchen had meant… something to him, and nothing to Louis.

And so, once again, as usual, Harry is sitting by himself feeling too much, thinking too much, and trying too hard.

+LOUIS+

Zayn looks miserable.

But maybe he always does; Louis has only known him for five days.

Louis, for his part, is dying for a smoke. He’s hovering on the edge of the set, which has been built and dressed to turn the enormous soundstage into the club-like ballroom of a mansion, watching Zayn going over something with the director.

It would probably be fine if he took a break. He already has loads of usable shots, but something about it being the first day makes him anxious about missing something.

It is strange, this being paid to watch and photograph someone’s every move.

It’s different with Liam, he supposes, because that was born out of Louis and Liam being joined at the hip anyway. It’s different because, if this were with Liam, Louis would be a part of the conversation with the director, helping make sure everything was as Liam wanted—above board, on brand, and visually cohesive. So, yeah, there’s a big difference between always keeping an eye on his closest friend and taking photos for a stranger.

He genuinely wonders how Zayn’s bodyguard manages, how he isn’t always bored out of his mind. At least Louis’ brain can stay busy looking for compositions, constantly scanning the room for shots he doesn’t need to take.

Currently, the floor is filled with equally bored extras, draped across bits of furniture and murmuring small talk because they’re all wearing the sort of skimpy clubbing clothes that don’t have a place to hide a phone in.

Harry looks miserable, too, draped over an ottoman, and, well, yeah, that’s a different story because while Louis doesn’t really know him either, he does know that he’s usually radiating (overbearing) enthusiasm in his videos.

But maybe that’s just an act.

Or maybe his looking miserable is the result of sitting around watching his—alleged, Louis still can’t quite tell, or who knows, maybe they aren’t labeling it—boyfriend being felt up by a bunch of hot models.

Louis doesn’t know what that feels like, but he assumes if it were his boyfriend in that position, if he were in Harry’s position, he probably wouldn’t be thrilled about it, professional circumstances or not.

But yeah, no, he isn’t going to start empathizing with the guy, especially not after his cryptic greeting and rude eye roll, so Louis pulls his phone out of his back pocket and opens his texts.

Louis: Styles is here.

dj double-crosser: oh shit rly ?

Louis: Yeah, he’s IN the video. Fucking nepotism.

dj double-crosser: Well yk lou u prolly only got ur new job nc of nepoism

Louis: 🖕🖕🖕
Louis: You know that some people’s friends are actually nice to them and supportive? You, on the other hand, have to pay me to put up with you.

dj double-crosser: Yeah well if htats tru y wont u quit like i said u could

Louis: You know why payno. Because I don’t trust you out there in the big bad world alone. People will eat a care bear like you whole and vomit you out.

dj double-crosser: Speakin of styles n vomit…

Louis: OH YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKER
Louis: YOU KNEW AND DIDNT SAY ANYITHG?
Louis: I can’t remember shit, it hit me when he said something about new years and then i was fucking groveling bc i was afraid i vommed on my new boss’s alleged YOU KNOW WHAT

dj double-crosser: i dont know what?

Louis: ok, your silence on this issue had me figuring you were in some form of denial, but you have seen the tabloids, right?

dj double-crosser: I don’t read tabloids. They always lie, especially about zayn

Louis: I see. Well now is not the time or the place to unpack THAT, so forget I said anything.
Louis: Anyway - yk what he did? He ROLLED HIS GODDAMN EYES. The uptight wanker. Shit happens, Styles. Sorry I was the one who got roped into going shot for shot with Horan while you were hiding in the kitchen.

dj double-crosser: Wow that is kind of fucked up. I thot u remembered. When i got there idek it happened til u told me. Istg u didn’t like projectile all over him or nething

Louis: Great visual payno. Really helping my latent embarrassment.

dj double-crosser: Ykwim

Louis sighs and looks up from his phone. He swears he can feel Styles’ eyes on him, but that’s probably just lingering paranoia over talking about him. Louis certainly isn’t going to look over and check.

Instead, he looks back at where Zayn and the director are still whispering fervently, and, yeah, that could make for a decent good shot. Zayn still looks miserable but also sort of ‘serious artist,’ so Louis sneaks a couple of steps closer to where they’re sitting behind the monitor.

“I think we should do the dancing shot with her.” Gessner is pointing to a blonde woman in a silver dress on the screen. “Pull her aside, dance, then kiss her.”

“You keep pushing that one.” Zayn snorts, and it would take an idiot not to realize his body language is screaming ‘no.’

“She has a great look.” Gessner is apparently that idiot.

“I’m not kissing anyone in this video.” Zayn is muttering so quietly that Louis can barely make it out, but there’s no way Gessner can be missing it. “Certainly not a woman. Been there, done that, and it’s not what I want to be known for going forward.”

And, ahh, yeah, Louis can probably guess what’s going on there, not that it’s any of his business. Still, it’s hard to tamp down his opinions—even if they won’t be leaving his head. Building a queer musical artist’s brand has kind of been his job for almost a decade, after all. And it’s tempting, now that he’s thought about it, to want to offer some of that experience to Zayn rather than just showing up and documenting shit, which anyone could do.

For now, though, Louis snaps a few photos of the discussion, then quickly pans across the pair with his second camera for a five-second clip, taking care not to record any audio.

“And what do you want to be known for, Zayn?” Gessner has his arms crossed over his chest.

“As we’ve repeatedly discussed, this video is supposed to be different—a bridge, yeah? There’s a reason we have a mixed-gender cast here, and it would be stupid not to take advantage of it—”

“Care to elaborate on what you’re thinking?”

Louis has finished getting his shot and is about to step back to where he was when Zayn’s head snaps up to meet his eyes.

“I think I need a break,” he says to Gessner. “Smoke?” he asks Louis.

“Yeah, sure, mate,” Louis quickly agrees, only fifty percent afraid that he’s about to get chewed out for being too close to that conversation.

“Great.” Zayn hops off the chair. “Just need to check on Harry first.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Louis’ eyes drift over to Harry’s spot, only to find him already looking back at them.

+HARRY+

By the time the director announces a ten-minute break, Harry’s constructed a backstory for his role as “party guest on ottoman”: his character is horny (hence the outfit), high out of his mind, and in his own little world writhing to the music.

At least, that’s Harry's excuse for lying flat on his back and tracing the lighting rig with his eyes.

Somewhere between searching his fingernails and the studio lights for answers, Harry has realized that since Louis is working for Zayn now, he has signed an NDA, so even if Louis does remember, everything should technically be… fine.

Even so, Harry remains afraid it’ll all come back to bite him in the ass somehow because lying to a fandom is playing with fire (he knows; he’s done it), and anyway, it’s still killing him not to know what Louis does and doesn’t remember.

And he can’t flat-out ask because now he’s far too paranoid to risk saying something that might breach the NDA, and Louis probably won’t either, for the same reasons.

(Or, you know, because he actually did forget.)

So the whole thing is like… a Mexican NDA standoff.

Is that culturally insensitive?

Now Harry wishes he had his phone on him to Google if that phrase is no longer acceptable.

A Spider-Man meme of NDAs.

There, that’s better.

And from what Harry's heard, Zayn might even appreciate that joke, not that Harry will be sharing it with him.

Speaking of Zayn, he’s walking over to Harry as the rest of the cast disperses.

“Babes,” he calls as he approaches Harry’s ottoman, “we might use you next, so you should probably head down to hair and make-up for a touch-up.” He punctuates the sentence with a gentle poke at Harry’s shoulder as he stands over him. Harry would be envious of how easily pet names and casual touches come to him if it weren’t for knowing that while he may be Zayn’s first PR boyfriend, he’s far from Zayn’s first PR relationship.

“Erm, great, thanks, um…peach,” he tries as he stands, immediately regretting the expression it causes to flash over Zayn’s face before being replaced with a look of understanding and a curt nod. “Would you mind if I grab my phone and my robe out of your dressing room? I think I left them there earlier.”

The request doesn’t do much to make Zayn look less grumpy, but he agrees. Harry turns to follow him and almost runs directly into Louis, who reacts to the near collision with an abrupt sound that resembles a scoff.

“Easy, tiger.” Louis holds his hands up in a placating gesture like he might need to block Harry from stumbling wholesale into him.

Harry thinks he should probably be embarrassed by his clumsiness, but mostly he’s annoyed that even Louis can apparently bandy around pet names with ease, and it’s just him that sounds like a moron trying to call Zayn Malik ‘peach.’

Where had that even come from?

“Ready for that smoke?” Louis asks Zayn.

Probably his hair, Harry realizes, noticing how the bleach blond is tinged with the faintest hint of rose gold, buzzed short and fuzzy on the sides.

“Yeah, just need to run down to my dressing room,” Zayn replies.

It’s impressive, Harry decides, staring at the back of Zayn’s head as he follows the pair across the floor and downstairs to the dressing rooms. He’s more than a bit envious of how Zayn manages to pull the bold style off. He wishes he could be more adventurous with his own hair, but that isn’t easy when it’s the trademark of your entire brand and you’re about to launch a product line centered around it.

Really, he wishes he were more like both of them (at least, the charming Louis he met the other day), all effortlessly…cool, instead of a jittery bundle of limbs and enthusiasm. Something about the two of them just… fits, he thinks as he watches them jog down the stairs side by side, and not in a way that Harry feels he can slot into.

When they reach the dressing room, Zayn slips inside without a word, shutting the door behind him and leaving Harry standing across from Louis again.

Harry desperately wishes his phone was already in his hand and not on the other side of the door because while ignoring Louis to check his texts would be uncomfortable, ignoring Louis to stare at the boldly colored printed canvases on the wall behind him is downright painful.

“Nice tits, Harold,” Louis says after a moment of silence.

“What?!” Harry feels his eyebrows knit together as a hot flush runs from his face down to his chest at the inappropriate remark.

“Shit,” Louis yelps, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What did I—? Did I just say—? Tats. I meant tattoos. Ink. Your sleeve.” He gestures frantically at Harry’s naked torso.

“Oh, erm, thanks,” Harry forces himself to mumble, crossing his arms, his focus torn between Louis’ rambling and the sensations of panic flooding his body. He knows he’s barely dressed, but it’s not like he’s the only one, and he’d hardly expected someone to comment on it.

“Sorry, sorry. They’re just hard not to notice like that,” Louis continues. “Liam, me mate you met last weekend, he’s properly obsessed. Running out of room, he is. His have been published in a couple of tattoo magazines. Not like mine; these are pretty stupid. Just a bunch of random stuff.”

He twists his arm back and forth in front of him, and the little doodles blur into a jumble that Harry can’t quite make out.

“Oh,” he replies, and then there’s awkward silence again. Harry feels the pressure to fill it building up like a boiling kettle.

“Well, that’s slightly less unprofessional then,” is what comes out, as piercing as the proverbial kettle’s whistle to his ears.

Louis’ jaw works open and closed before he gets out, “Erm, yeah. Honest slip of the tongue, Harold.”

“S’just Harry.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry, love, just a habit of mine.” Louis has crossed his own arms by this point, and he takes a step back until his legs hit the bench running along the wall behind him. “Right, just did it again, huh?” He looks past Harry to the closed dressing room door as though he wishes as much as Harry does that Zayn would come back out now.

“I’d really you’d rather not,” Harry sniffs.

“Oh. Of course, sorry. Didn’t mean any offense by any of it.”

“S’fine.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound fine, so let me apologize, Styles. I mean, Harry.”

Harry can’t help the sigh that slips out, but he manages to keep his eyes on Louis instead of rolling them. Louis’ nostrils flare anyway, and, oh, thank god—Zayn chooses that moment to reemerge.

“Ready?” Zayn asks Louis as he presses Harry’s robe and phone into his hands, squeezing his bicep. Harry’s eyes dart to Louis for his response, and he catches Louis’ gaze tracking Zayn’s hand on his arm.

He wonders, yet again, what Louis knows or… remembers, rather.

“More than,” Louis chirps at Zayn. “Think I’m past due for a fix; ‘m getting grumpy.” He jerks his chin towards Harry as they turn away. “Sorry, Harry.”

Chapter Text

+ZAYN+

Zayn and Louis head back upstairs in silence, although Zayn’s certainly curious about what caused the two sets of saucer-wide eyes staring at him when he exited his dressing room to find Harry and Louis flanking the doorway.

He probably should’ve let Harry follow him in, but he needed a minute alone to shake off the cringiness of being called ‘peach,’ of all bloody things—not to mention how the awkward declaration was followed up by being recruited to fetch his robe (oh, so he did have one) and phone.

Zayn wonders plenty about what kind of boyfriend he would be if he had the actual opportunity, but the “go fetch” guy hadn’t occurred to him before.

He figures it was fine. It didn’t put him out, and it did make him look chivalrous. It must be killing Harry to not have his phone to toy with between takes, but that’s been Zayn’s policy on video shoots for years—he learned early on that no NDA in the world will prevent some people from trying to take sneaky photos and leak spoilers.

He’d waived the phone ban for Louis, of course, figuring Niall’s already trusted him once, and the man is literally contracted to take his photo anyway. And it seems Zayn wasn’t wrong to do so, as Louis has been fully concentrated on his job, the picture of professionalism.

(Unlike Gessner, who’s toeing the disgusting line of not technically doing anything inappropriate but clearly trying to flirt with some of the extras. If Zayn could, he’d just replace the guy with Louis here and now, but alas…things are never quite that simple.)

Zayn’s also honestly shocked by how Harry’s been sitting quietly on his mark and not drawing attention to himself—but at the same time, he’s been so subdued that Zayn wonders for the millionth time if he has thick enough skin for what’s to come. Anonymous internet trolls you can block aren’t the same as yelling paparazzi and judgemental tabloids and being stopped on the street.

He’s considering calling Niall to discuss it—that and the Gessner thing—but knows he needs a smoke more than anything else first.

As they reach the door to the street, Zayn tilts his chin to direct Louis towards a loading ramp with a railing that they can lean against and stay out of the way of the crew coming in and out.

Louis looks a bit nervous as he lights his cigarette in silence, and Zayn hates, yet again, how he has that effect on people.

Part of his insistence on Louis for this project—admiration for his obvious talent aside—was how down-to-earth and unintimidated he’d seemed when they first met. The star-struck shock Zayn sees on most faces faded quickly once he asked Louis about his work, and he seemed fairly comfortable at brunch the next day, too, once their smoke together broke the ice.

Zayn’s disagreements with Gessner have him deeply curious as to what Louis would do in the man’s place. He’s about ready to trust that the metric ton of NDAs Louis has signed are enough reassurance to let him in on the disputes between the director and himself.

Fuck it.

“What do you think of the video?” Zayn asks around his cigarette, cupping his hands and turning his back to the cold breeze to light up.

“Dunno.” Louis begins pacing along the snow piled on the curb. “Haven’t been paying all that much attention—been focused on the shot list and my own job ‘n all that, you know what I mean?”

“You haven’t noticed anything? Nothing you’d care to comment on?” Zayn goads, amused to see that Louis is clearly holding back his opinions, if the clenched line of his jaw is anything to go by.

“Nope.” Louis’ nose twitches like he’s swallowing a tirade. “Nothing.”

He must be as stubborn as Zayn, which Zayn respects enormously.

Well, given that Zayn’s technically in the position of power here, he figures he ought to throw Louis a bone: “Alright. So, from our first meetings about it, I told ‘im I wanted it to be a mixed-gender and multiracial cast. If someone was to be featured as a love interest or summat—a bit out of place in a heist, but that’s the industry—I said it should be a man. He agreed then, yeah? But he’s been fighting me on it since I arrived this morning. Should’ve known to cast someone officially before it got this far.”

Louis shrugs, taking another drag.

“No thoughts?” Zayn narrows his eyes. “None?”

Louis shakes his head, pursing his lips to blow out a cloud of smoke. His cheeks are red, but perhaps that’s just from the cold.

Zayn waits.

If these smoke breaks are to become a regular thing, he hopes they’ll be a bit more productive once Louis gets to know Zayn better. He has a hunch that he could use some of the opinions hiding behind his eyes. He figures it won’t take too long to crack him; he has a feeling that if he just keeps at asking Louis’ opinion, eventually he’ll stop biting his tongue.

Just as Zayn flicks his cigarette away and turns toward the door, Louis clears his throat.

Zayn turns back to him and raises his eyebrows.

“Just grab whoever you want for the next take, yeah?” Louis shivers—he's only wearing a black t-shirt—and rubs his hands together. “Who are they going to fire? The actual pop star or the wannabe brother from Entourage who’s playing at directing just to flirt with some models?”

Zayn doesn’t bother to answer but smirks back at Louis, whose blue eyes are glittering like they’d like nothing more than to fuck with the guy.

“It doesn’t get more heterosexual than a grown man wearing a leather cuff, you know what I mean?” he adds, lips pressed together in a sly grin.

A laugh slips out of Zayn before he can stop it, so he tilts his chin in a nod and ducks back inside.

+++

When Zayn gets back on set, he sees that Harry is back on his mark in his robe, blatantly sulking like someone pissed in his glitter.

Most of the other extras are in robes as well, prattling on about whatever it is they’re talking about, probably the samples Harry brought in. They all seem much more at ease than they’ve been under Gessner’s direction and Zayn’s problems with it all day.

He’s lost count of the number of videos and commercials he’s filmed over the years, but one constant is that extras tend to shy away from him—probably assuming he actually is the asshole he’s rumored to be, and his natural shyness goes a long way towards preventing him from disproving that.

Harry, on the other hand, likely wanted nothing more than to talk to them, not even necessarily for the attention, but because he’s the sort of friendly type that genuinely enjoys connecting with people. But, instead, he’s been isolated from them and treated like a prop at Zayn’s request—even if he hadn’t intended for it to be that way.

Great, and now Zayn’s feeling guilty, and wants to do something to rekindle the sparkly Harry he’s seen on screen, even if he personally finds it a bit much.

And, selfishly, it occurs to him that if the people buy that he’s landed the kindest person on Earth as his partner, they might just start believing Zayn himself isn’t so bad.

(Not that he’ll ever admit to Niall that he was right about that.)

+HARRY+

“Break’s over, robes off!” the director, Gessner, calls out, sending everyone in a flurry to return to their places. “Next shot is the dancing scene with Zayn!”

Harry doesn’t like to think poorly of people, but the guy gives him the creeps, full stop.

Like, he’d probably take Louis awkwardly ogling his tattoos all day over interacting with Gessner for five minutes. But maybe that’s just because the entire day has raised Harry’s stress level to the point where handing his robe and phone to a nearby PA leaves him, someone who isn’t often bothered by casual nudity, feeling naked.

At this point in the shoot, Zayn’s character has made his way over to Harry’s part of the crowd, and since Zayn had mentioned before the break that they might finally be using Harry, he braces himself to interact with the guy. Gessner, however, grabs the blonde woman in the silver dress again and guides her to the center of the frame near Harry’s ottoman.

“Places, everybody!” The AD calls out.

Zayn makes his way to his mark just behind the blonde, so Harry resumes sprawling on his ottoman, feigning what he hopes is the look of a party guest who’s so cool and mysterious that he’s bored out of his mind.

“Rolling!”

“Nothing personal, babe,” Harry hears Zayn whisper to the blonde, “but step away when they call action, alright? Just to the left.”

“And action!” Gessner calls out before Harry can figure out what Zayn’s about to do.

The blonde does as Zayn asked, quietly stepping out of the way as he strides past her, stopping abruptly in front of Harry, grabbing his hand, and quickly, forcefully, pulling him up to stand.

As their chests collide, Zayn tilts his chin up towards Harry and smiles crookedly. He’s so close that Harry can see that he has a freckle over his right eyebrow.

Harry isn't sure if the camera is positioned to pick up on his shock, but he is positive that he no longer looks even vaguely cool, mysterious, or bored.

“Cut!” Gessner shouts from somewhere behind them. Harry turns to see that his face is now bright red, his pencil-thin dark goatee cutting through the color like a moldy crack in a tomato. Harry quietly sinks back down on his ottoman as the director charges forward.

“What are you doing?” He hisses at Zayn, inches away from his face. The clusters of cast and crew standing around them are pretending not to listen to varying degrees of success.

“The dancing scene,” Zayn answers casually, winking over Gessner’s shoulder at Harry.

“This is not what we discussed,” Gessner accuses through gritted teeth.

Harry decides to play this like the other extras and look anywhere but the pair. He catches Taryn giggling beside Louis out of the corner of his eye; her poorly concealed laughter automatically makes him self-conscious, like being teleported back to being talked about in Year 9.

We’re all on the same side here, he reminds himself. Even if he feels singled out and exposed by whatever this fight is about, he knows Zayn’s a professional and must be doing what’s best for the video, not something that’s meant to humiliate Harry. He looks back to Zayn, and sees he’s also caught Taryn and Louis’ smug faces.

They seem to embolden him.

“It’s what we discussed in every single meeting before today.” Zayn squares his shoulders and stares Gessner dead in the eye. “Besides, Harry is supposed to be featured and hasn’t been so far.”

Gessner’s eyes narrow. His silence sucks the air out of the studio as close to a hundred people stand there and pretend they’re not waiting for his answer.

“Alright. Let’s go again,” he relents with no further protest.

Zayn nods, ignoring the speculative murmurs of the extras around him as he returns to his starting place. He glances back at Harry, shoots him a small smile, and raises his eyebrows in a question. Harry supposes Zayn wants to repeat the same action as before, so he nods in agreement.

The next take is about as awkward as every other interaction of theirs has been today; after pulling Harry to stand, Zayn spins him in place and nearly sends him toppling to the floor.

Apparently, Zayn is just as dreadful a dancer as Harry.

After Gessner calls cut to sit and frown at the playback of their first two attempts, Zayn perches next to Harry on the ottoman.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mutters. “I didn’t think I’d have to dance.”

“I don’t remember us being complete shit at this the other night?” Zayn murmurs back. “It’s a party; we’ll just pretend we’re drunk, yeah?

“Alright,” Harry agrees. “S’pretty much what I’ve been pretending all day.” He allows himself a small chuckle at that, silently praying that he and Zayn can just relax around each other and get this done.

Amazingly, Zayn laughs in response before resting his hand on Harry’s shoulder to push himself up to stand. He quickly pulls it back after the oil Chloe had used on Harry ends up on his palm. One step forward, two steps back, Harry thinks as he watches Zayn’s nose wrinkle while he hastily wipes his hand on his cargo pants.

“Worse comes to worse, maybe your character is just a shit dancer?” Zayn adds. “I’m supposed to be a fucking jewel thief, not a dancer, either, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. I’ll be alright.” Harry smiles reassuringly, or tries to at least.

He’s not lying, even if it feels like he is. He knows how to do this. He’s technically a trained actor, after all.

“Places, let’s go again,” he hears Gessner yell. He looks on the brink of turning into a cartoon character with steam coming out of his ears.

They set up to start over, the camera starts rolling, Gessner shouts “action” and as Harry watches Zayn slink towards him, the voice in his head chants “pretend, pretend, pretend” and “just figure out what it would be like to be attracted to him…”

It shouldn’t be so hard to fake—Zayn is gorgeous and his big, blue eyes are boring into Harry like he might actually not hate him.

Fucking hell, his blue eyes.

And just like that Harry remembers what—who—he’d been thinking about when he and Zayn were dancing on New Year’s Eve.

And it would be just as easy to pretend that’s who he’s dancing with now.

They’re even dressed alike; Louis looks like he could play a role in the video himself; all the black with pockets and belts that make him look like he could step in as Zayn’s partner in crime at any moment.

So as Zayn hauls Harry off the ottoman, Harry stares into his eyes and pretends they belong to someone else—

Someone he’s been watching all day, clocking his movements like postcards of destinations he shouldn’t be collecting—the flash of golden skin of his waist as he pulled his shirt over his head, the arc of his wrists as he adjusted his t-shirt under the obscene leather camera holster resting on his hips, the dark feathery line of his eyelashes as he pouted apologetically at Harry, the easy way he remembered exactly what Harry had been wearing the other night, the lines creasing around his eyes as he thanked Harry for the selfies that Harry’s dying to see.

So yeah, maybe if Harry can just… keep thinking about Louis, about what he would do if he were actually dancing with him, just two strangers with none of this mess between them, he can just…

Suddenly, his lip is between his teeth and he knows he’s smirking at Zayn like he wants to eat him alive, and Gessner is yelling “Cut! Okay, yes, this could work. Let’s go again; don’t change a fucking thing.”

They reset, and Harry’s angry at Louis, too, so—fuck Gessner’s note—he puts that into his movements as well.

He’s angry at Louis for making him feel things, for not caring, for seeming like he does care, for trying to be nice when he has no business being nice, and for being so genuinely apologetic. He’s annoyed with Louis’ faux pas over his tattoos because it reminded him of Louis' compliments on New Year’s Eve, but had been too flippant and obviously accidental to mean anything but polite, if overly familiar, small talk. And he’s livid at himself for giving a fuck about any of this. And for being, undoubtedly, still attracted to the man.

So he pours all of it, all the messiness swirling around his head, into each take.

He and Zayn reset; they go again and again. Gessner’s DP moves the camera to get another angle, and they keep dancing for take after take.

There’s hardly a millimeter of space between them as they grind on each other over and over, the other extras are so close in, and the lights so hot that it’s no longer possible to tell what’s Chloe’s body oil and what’s actual sweat, but it’s not awkward because it’s not Zayn that Harry’s dancing with.

It’s the fantasy of a man he hasn’t been able to get out of his head.

All day, he’s felt out of place—

Not knowing how to act around Louis.

Or how to act around Zayn.

Or all the gossiping extras.

Or the director who keeps trying to pair Zayn with women.

But now that he's been given a clear direction of what to do and how to act, well, he can lose himself in that.

He doesn’t have to think or decide; now that the camera is on him, he can just be.

+ZAYN+

Zayn is nothing short of shocked by how well Harry has done by the time they wrap for the day, and even Gessner begrudgingly grits out, “You look good together. I’m impressed,” as he plays back several takes for Zayn.

He’s right; they do.

Harry had grown more confident with each take, pushing Zayn away playfully at times, then effortlessly switching between bashfully ducking his chin to his shoulder in one take and then aggressively pulling Zayn close to him with smoldering, flirtatious eyes in the next.

They look like… a real couple. And that’s all down to Harry’s acting.

“Thanks,” Zayn mutters, perpetually uncomfortable with deceiving people about their relationship, even someone he doesn’t respect at all by this point.

Deciding to escape before Gessner changes his mind, Zayn notices Louis packing up his things while chatting with Taryn, so he makes his way over.

“Thanks for the suggestion,” Zayn offers cryptically.

“Anytime,” Louis looks up with a smile, his eyes crinkling like a cat who’s pleased with itself.

“Smoke before you take off?” Zayn asks.

“Sure,” Louis laughs as he rearranges his camera equipment in various cases. “But any chance you can take out those ridiculous contacts first? I can’t take you seriously in them, mate.”

“Ha. Fair. Be right back.” Zayn clicks his tongue and heads for his dressing room.

He swings the door open, already pulling off his turtleneck, before he notices Harry sitting on the armchair in the corner, his head in his hands.

“You know,” Zayn starts, quickly shutting the door behind him, “you’re not supposed to be in here.”

Harry looks up; his eyes are red, and his cheeks splotchy.

“I mean,” Zayn continues softly—he hadn’t meant to be a dick, and he is not prepared to deal with Harry if he actually starts crying. “I suppose it’ll look good for our purposes if we’re, like, behind closed doors together?”

“Sorry,” Harry sniffs. “Today was just a lot. I needed a second.” He stands, not the least bit shy about shimmying out of his leather trousers and replacing them with a pair of shoddy gray joggers out of a pink canvas tote bag.

Zayn didn’t realize he even owned anything that…normal.

“If you don’t want to be in those shots, we can edit around it. Or I can request a reshoot,” he offers as he leans close to the mirror to remove his contacts, then chuck them in the bin.

“It’s not the video.” Harry stands next to him at the vanity, carefully covering cotton pads in makeup removal oil and wiping them over his heavily lined eyes. “It’s…fine.” He sighs heavily. “Never mind.”

“Okay?” Zayn is lost, and he’s also too exhausted from the day to play therapist for a drama queen who’s probably regretting giving out samples and not getting social media tags for his efforts.

He slips behind the changing screen, leaving Harry to pull on his matching hoodie and look defeated in silence.

“Hey, Zee?!” Taryn’s voice reverberates through the door. “Louis is helping with the bags. He’s more of a gentleman than you or Paddy!”

“Yeah, I like him,” he calls, stepping back out now that he’s in his own cozy tracksuit.

Harry is still standing there, tightly gripping his tote over his shoulder. “So what is he, like, your photographer?”

“Louis?” Zayn’s confused. Hadn’t they talked about this? Niall must have told Harry at the least. “Yeah, he’s contracted to document my press and tour over the next year. I mean, don’t you film your whole life?”

“I just didn’t know… never mind.” Harry hunches in on himself, arms crossed over his stomach.

Zayn is rapidly nearing actual irritation and desperately needs that cigarette, but he takes pity on Harry. “I really enjoyed the scene with you. You did great. It’s going to make this video what I wanted it to be, you know what I mean?”

Harry perks up a bit at that. “Thanks. Sorry, I, uh, wasn’t prepared to have such a big role.”

“It still might get cut,” Zayn teases.

Harry’s face falls into a pout. He looks like a frog about to slip off its lily pad to a tragic death.

“I’m joking. Don’t worry,” Zayn assures him, heading for the door with his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Besides, I bet Louis got plenty of footage he’d gladly hand over if you want to use it for your own purposes.”

Harry’s face drains of color as he pauses and looks back at Zayn with wide eyes.

“That’s what you want, right?” Zayn clears his throat. “Something for your channel?”

“I don’t think I need anything from him, thanks.” Harry bristles before quickly shuffling out of the door.

Zayn wonders what that reaction was about because he thought he was helping.

But he isn’t exactly about to chase Harry down to inquire, and he doesn’t have the chance anyway because Taryn appears, her tablet in hand.

“Seems like you two are getting along?”

“I thought so,” Zayn shrugs, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he watches Harry light up while he says goodbye to Chloe and a few extras standing around in sweats similar to his.

“Good,” she clicks her tongue. “Because it’s officially confirmed that he’s coming to your birthday party. More canoodling rumors to come.” If Zayn thinks for a moment that she’s enjoying this, he’s quickly corrected by her sympathetic grimace. “He’s nice, though, yeah?”

Zayn shoots her a look but doesn’t bother to answer. Great, now he’s freshly annoyed that he won’t be able to enjoy his birthday without having to fake attraction to a human piñata who’s teetering on the brink of cracking up and spilling his deranged smiles and shimmery confetti over the ground.

But Zayn doesn’t have a choice and he knows it.

He scans the green room for Louis, needing that smoke pretty urgently.

Oh boy, somehow his new friend has been cornered by the human unicorn, who is back to making that frog face.

If the blatant irritation etched across Louis’ face is any indication, Harry’s probably advising Louis on compositions and lighting like Louis isn’t the more professional of the two.

“Ready for that smoke?” Zayn interjects as he approaches them.

“You guys know that shit will kill you, right?” Harry scoffs then heads for the stairs in a huff without waiting for an answer.

“What is her problem?” Louis stares at Harry’s back with the intensity of a blazing inferno before turning back to Zayn, shaking his head. “Sorry, I know he’s your—”

“Friend.” Zayn will savor being able to say that as long as humanly possible. “Just a friend.”

“Right.” Louis heaves a backpack that’s got a tripod strapped to it over his shoulder, then grabs several more cases, stalking forward to push the door to the stairs open, holding it for Zayn.

Zayn once again considers how much he can get away with telling Louis because, in a lot of ways, it would be a lot easier just to trust the guy. But, on the other hand, the more people that know the truth, the harder it will be for Zayn to pretend, so he has to hold onto the secret, at least for now.

Once they’ve made it upstairs and outside, Zayn laughs to himself at the sight of Harry ducking into Niall’s driver’s car.

Louis drops his bags at his feet and stares at the car with narrowed eyes as he watches it turn the corner.

“Do you know him?” Zayn asks, lighting his smoke. If he recalls correctly, Louis and Harry had been talking when he’d first gotten there that morning. Maybe they’d met at Niall’s party.

“No,” Louis snorts, eyes focused on the flame at the tip of his cigarette. “Me sisters are fans of his. I am not. Again, no offense.”

“None taken,” Zayn chuckles, amused as he settles against the railing. “We’ve only just become friends; I know he’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Yeah?” The opening leads Louis to become more animated than Zayn has yet to see him. “He acts like rainbows and sunshine personified, but who the fuck believes anyone can be like that all day, every day? It’s just a bit much, you know what I mean?”

Louis is rambling like Chloe, which doesn’t seem like his usual personality.

Then again, Zayn doesn’t disagree with Louis’ assessment.

Louis is definitely Zayn’s sort of lad, unlike Harry.

And if he has to spend his birthday parading Harry around, it’d be nice to have a solid ally to escape to.

“You know,” Zayn takes a drag, “my birthday is coming up.”

“Ta,” Louis laughs.

“You should come to the party.” Zayn lightly shoves his shoulder. “S’at Niall’s place in Tribeca.”

“I don’t know, mate.” Louis shakes his head. “I don’t want to cross any lines.”

“Don’t you do all of this for your DJ Payno professionally? So far you’ve followed me around for a day in a professional capacity.” Zayn drops his cigarette into the snow. “Now I’m inviting you to come as my friend. No need for cameras.”

Louis’ expression goes blank, but he reaches into his jacket pocket to grip his phone as if there’s someone he wants to tell about Zayn’s invitation.

Just then, the Escalade pulls up along the curb, and Paddy hops out to open the door for Zayn.

Zayn heads over to the car, smirking back at Louis as he starts to duck in. “I’ll make sure you get the invite with a plus one. Bring a date. Or a friend.”

He can’t be sure that Louis knows he hopes that he’ll bring Liam along, but he also can’t say that outright, so he just lifts his hand in a wave before slamming the door behind him

Chapter Text

+LOUIS+

“Cheers, mate,” Louis calls to his Lyft driver as he slams the door, taking a good look at the cases piled on the sidewalk around him to make sure he has everything. As the car pulls away, he lights a cigarette and screenshots the ride receipt because he’s obviously going to write off the $80 round trips to the studio in Red Hook.

It’s only five pm and day three of following Zayn around, but he’s already dead on his feet and ready to curl up under a blanket to sleep for about fifteen hours. He’s practically craving his sofa (along with tacos from the place down the street) after spending two full days watching Zayn be suspended a hundred feet in the air while wondering how the fuck a special effects budget like that gets allotted to a three and half minute video about a song that has nothing to do with an art heist.

The first thing Louis does after he makes it inside his apartment and deposits his gear in a heap by the door is check the fridge.

Nothing but a pile of takeaway condiment packets.

Classy.

He glances around the tiny studio and realizes, as though it’s his first time seeing it, what an absolute state the place is in.

Between frantically packing to leave for Christmas and having his life become an improbable whirlwind since getting back, he’s only been home long enough to shower and sleep.

The day of his flight to the UK was spent debating staying an extra night because Liam had booked a last-minute gig. Louis had been tossing clothes around in a fervor while Liam insisted that an old friend—Shawn, as it turned out—was coming to the show and he would be a source of moral support even if he couldn’t exactly do Louis’ job. Ultimately, they’d agreed that the cost of changing the flight wasn’t worth it, and Louis rushed out to catch the train to JFK with whatever had landed in his carry-on—but not before he made Liam swear not to take on any other jobs in his absence, and well, look at what breaking that promise had led to.

At any rate, this is the first time Louis is home early enough to even take in the disaster he’d left behind, and, yeah, he should tidy up, but that sounds like a lot of work right now when all he wants is something to eat, a blanket to wrap up in, and probably to start the editing process because he has a feeling he could fall behind on all of this very, very quickly.

Technically, what he’s shot so far isn’t needed until after the video premieres, which isn’t for weeks. His edit of the behind-the-scenes making of the video won’t premiere until a week after that, but, of course, it needs to be submitted to Zayn and his team two weeks prior for approval. He should be fine on time because he has no events scheduled with Zayn until they head to LA for the Grammys, and that’s almost a month away.

But he’s going to have a whole new set of things to edit from that trip, so he definitely needs this video done before they go (and it’s three to five minutes for YouTube, not the shorter form he’s used to for social). Liam’s picked up several gigs before then, too, and, okay—second order of business after tidying is resurrecting some form of to-do list and calendar for the new year.

For now, though, what Louis needs is the sort of sofa-and-takeout normalcy that’s been obliterated in the blink of an eye with a signature on a contract like he’s the goddamn Little Mermaid.

For some reason, that thought causes the image of a certain someone to pop into his head (probably thanks to that year he dressed as Ariel for Halloween on his channel), and, shit, Louis still needs to ask Zayn and Taryn about Ariel’s outlandish request for some of Louis’ footage.

The YouTuber That-Shall-Not-Be-Named hadn’t been involved after the first day of shooting, which Louis was exceedingly grateful for, particularly since he’d been rudely cornered after they’d wrapped for the day with the aforementioned demand to share his files. The audacity. The entitlement. As though Louis would have whipped out his backup memory cards then and there, and handed them over just because Captain Influence and Zayn are dating. (‘Just friends,’ my arse, he thinks cynically.)

At any rate, as much as Louis wants to pretend that never happened, he does need to properly ask about it, so with an extremely put-out sigh that’s witnessed only by the hum of his empty refrigerator, he opens up his phone and taps out a quick, yet official, email to Taryn and Zayn:

Z and T: Been meaning to confirm— On the first day of shooting, Harry asked me to share some of my footage and stills with him for his channel. He said he had Zayn’s go-ahead, but I obviously want to double-check before sharing anything confidential. Thanks! L

After hitting send, he shuffles over to the sofa and collapses onto it, throwing an arm over his eyes. The silence of his apartment is deafening. He’s been around planes and parties and people and public transit so nonstop for the past week that his ears are ringing from the lack of noise.

His phone vibrates in his hand. Taryn’s replied almost immediately:

Sure, no problem. (Z’s exact response was, ‘ask me if I give a motherfuck?’ lmao. Sorry, we’re still stuck in traffic. Long day.)
You were right to ask first, of course! Send us the gallery to approve before sharing it (do you need Harry’s email?), and I’ll send H’s team the use agreement.
As you both already know, everything is under a moratorium until after the premiere.
T

Louis’ earlier sighing turns into grumbles that resemble ‘bloody, buggering, fuck, fuck, fuck’ as he heaves himself off the sofa and starts unzipping bags and grabbing his memory cards and laptop and extra hard drives. He jams cables into ports and cards into readers as he starts backing up the day’s shoot until he somehow finds himself with the catalog from the first day open in Lightroom, clicking through photos and clips where Harry can be seen lounging on that stupid ottoman in his stupid fringed vest, and dancing with Zayn, and just generally being present.

Louis should not be scrolling through this right now; he should be scrolling Grubhub to order tacos.

He flags the ones that are potentially relevant purple.

He’s absolutely not going to bother culling the ones where Harry is blinking or looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. He is definitely going to edit them, though, at least a preliminary batch edit to adjust the lighting and color correction.

God knows Harry will just put awful influencer filters over them anyway.

But at least they’ll be jpegs. There’s a limit to the damage he can do that way.

The absolute nerve of that entitled prick to ask for RAW files, Louis thinks for the millionth time. Fucking hell.

It’s blasphemy. Unforgivable. A cardinal photography sin.

Every time Louis remembers that those words actually left Harry’s mouth, he finds himself filled with the kind of apoplectic, blind rage that can only be represented by Madeline Kahn in Clue. At least that was one of the many gifs that he’d sent Liam about it on the car ride home that day.

Liam.

Alright, now, there’s an idea.

Louis clearly needs food and familiarity and to not fly off the handle, and there’s nothing more familiar than Liam. Besides, he does all his best work in Liam’s tidy apartment, and it’d probably be a good idea to get out of his own before his ADHD brain sends him scrubbing that one crack in the kitchen floor tile that he’s sure is full of black mold, which he can never get rid of entirely.

He texts:

Louis: Up for pints?

Shit. Louis needs to respect Liam’s plans for sobriety.

Louis: Erm, coffee. Decaf if we must.

Louis really does respect Liam’s resolution. He doesn’t necessarily think Liam has a problem, but it’s admirable all the same.

Plus, Liam tends to say and do dumb shit under the influence (don’t we all? his brain helpfully supplies), and if Zayn’s plans to have him come on tour work out, well, it would be for the best if Liam doesn’t fall into those habits under more pressure and attention.

Fuck. Louis needs to remember that he absolutely cannot mention Zayn’s plans to Liam yet.

dj downer: I’m kinda in the middel of sumthin. @ home. Nuthin u can’t com over 4.

Perfect.

Louis takes a deep breath and blows it out, defeated, as he glances around the messy room again. He’s thrown the actual garbage away this week, at least. He’ll deal with the rest later. Just like he’s been telling himself since the day he returned.

When Frank dropped him off.

After the car ride with Harry fucking Styles.

Right. Well. At this point, lying to—withholding from?—Liam about Zayn sounds like a welcome distraction from sitting here stewing about Harry.

Louis: I‘ll be there in an hour. nyc time.

dj downer: OKAY 👍🏻

+++

Louis is slumped on the hard orange seats of the subway with his parka hood over his head and his laptop, hard drives, and a massive duffel bag of laundry in tow before it occurs to him to wonder what his freshly sober friend is up to.

Liam’s just as ADHD and chaotic-brained as he is, but they both express those things in very different ways.

Louis could be walking into anything.

He supposes that it’s helpful that Liam is distracted with whatever it is he’s doing given that Louis can’t tell him about the video shoot… or much else, really.

It’s fine. Liam hasn’t even asked. And even if he wields the puppy dog eyes, Louis has an iron will.

Usually, Louis would just let himself into Liam’s apartment, but this time, he reconsiders and knocks first. The lad’s probably been wanking nonstop since New Year’s Eve. Plus, there’s been new, erm, material, what with the paparazzi Zayn's groaned about encountering outside his hotel the past few days.

Except…hadn’t Liam said something at some point about not reading the tabloids? Is he still entirely in the dark about the whole “Zarry” thing?

No sooner does Louis have that thought than Liam opens the door, looking as cheerful as a holiday claymation elf. He’s wearing an apron with a red and white picnic tablecloth pattern that is currently mostly hidden under a thick white layer of flour.

“Is someone in here?” Louis carefully peeks around the doorframe. “You having a playful romcom-style flour fight or summat?”

“What?” Liam asks, looking genuinely confused. He wipes his hand over his mouth and chin. The only good that does is leave a streak of flour on his cheek.

“Ah.” Louis decides it’s safe to proceed. “So you did this to yourself then.”

“Did what?”

Louis doesn’t bother to answer that as he glances around at the explosion of cookware and ingredients covering the surface area of Liam's small kitchen.

The scene is reminiscent of one of Harry’s holiday bake-along vlogs, which is incredibly unfortunate given that Louis came here specifically to avoid thinking about that pretentious arsehole.

“So what's all this, then?” He gestures at the mess with a flourish while settling onto a stool at the island.

“I’m making samosas,” Liam explains, his eyebrows knitting together as he leans down to peer into the oven window. “Or trying to. Five more minutes, I think.”

Louis doesn’t quite spin on his stool, but he does whip around to see if Liam has made any additions to the two-by-three-foot dry-erase board that’s adorned the far wall of the kitchen since he moved in several years ago. (Something about the building’s in-house gym really brought out his inner Virgo.)

Sure enough, the board that’s typically covered in weekly meal planning and fitness goals has quite a few new lines. This is precisely what Louis meant about their ADHD presenting in different ways. Shiny new areas of hyperfocus that he’ll quickly lose interest in is Liam’s m.o. to a T.

At least he doesn’t appear to have adopted a dog, thank god. Louis fears that one of these days, he’s just going to stop heeding Louis’ warnings that their lifestyle isn’t conducive to the care and attention that pets require.

Louis reads the board out loud: “‘Try new recipe, stencil (human figure), crossword puzzles?’ What is all this? I thought the resolution was to quit drinking, not train to be Martha Stewart’s cellmate?”

“Distractions?” Liam’s mouth curls down as he glances over at it. “I don’t know if that’s the right word.”

“Right, well,” Louis snorts. “Maybe we should get you a coloring book in place of the crosswords. There are loads of adult ones these days.”

“Yeah, probably.” Liam shrugs agreeably as he begins tidying up the countertops.

“Samosas are the new recipe for this week, then?” Louis starts to spin on the stool a bit now. “Anything to do with Zayn?”

He really hadn’t meant to bring him up first, but technically, the presence of samosas had done it for him.

(Was that racist? Shit.)

“Got the recipe from Shawn, actually. Why? What would that have to do with Zayn…?” Liam asks before suddenly going alert like he’s just heard a dog whistle. He sniffs the air, then immediately bends down and opens the oven.

“Do you not have a timer?!” Louis marvels. “How did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Liam shrugs as he pulls out the baking tray and sets it on a trivet in the one clear space on the island. “Side effect of working in music? Just have the timing in my head or summat.”

“Well, that’s weird.” Louis reaches for one of the misshapen pastries but quickly gets a whack on the hand.

“They need to cool.”

“Alright, dad,” he scoffs. “So, tackling South Asian snacks? And that’s nothing to do with Zayn?”

“I mean…” Liam won’t meet his eyes as he begins wiping down the counters, kitting up in rubber gloves first and all. “I think he’s said it’s his favorite, but that must’ve been a million years ago.”

“Ah-hah!” Louis crows triumphantly. “I knew it. These parasocial relationships aren’t healthy, mate. Me sisters and the YouTuber, you and Zayn. Now, there’s a distraction. The powers that be want us all wrapped up in celebrity and influencer culture so that we’ll temporarily forget about our mundane existence as unimportant cogs in the giant capitalist machine.”

”I was just craving samosas,” Liam pouts as he wipes his hands clean on a dish towel and pulls his phone out of the pocket of his joggers.

“Is that the ‘days since’ app?” Louis leans across the countertop and peers at Liam’s phone. “Don’t tell me you’ve already given in. It’s barely been a week.”

“No, no drinks or smokes.” Liam turns the screen towards Louis with a smirk. “New category I just added.”

“‘Days since Louis ranted about capitalism’? Oi, come off it, mate!” Louis swats Liam’s shoulder as hard as he can, but he’s giggling, too. “Gimme one of these.” He snags a samosa off the tray and bites down.

Liam waits, all quiet and cow-eyed, for his feedback.

“Fuck, this is good.”

“Not too much cumin?”

“No, tastes perfect. Minus five for presentation, though. I’m afraid you won’t be winning the technical challenge with these, mate.” Louis gestures at how the pastries have deflated even more since coming out of the oven.

“Yeah, making them in the oven isn’t ideal for maintaining the shape, but it’s not bad for a first attempt. I’m thinking I might try the air fryer next time.” Liam doesn’t bother eating one of his own as he finishes up cleaning the mess, balling up his apron to deposit in the hamper in his bathroom. “So, what’s up? How was the shoot? As much as you can say?”

“Can’t a man simply hang out with his best mate without being harassed for information that he cannot legally share due to being strictly bound by multiple NDAs?” Louis whines dramatically, waving his hands around to his invisible audience.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Liam chuckles as he begins placing the samosas carefully into a Tupperware, leaving two out on a plate for Louis. “How’s life otherwise, then?”

The man is unbreakable.

Louis will just have to try another tact. He pulls his laptop out of his backpack and opens it on the counter. Liam knows his password, but he enters it anyway, leaving everything open to curious eyes. “Need to start me laundry. Then a smoke. I’ll be back.”

“Alright.” Liam waves him off, seemingly unaware of the laptop, but Louis figures he won’t miss it after ten or fifteen minutes on his own.

After he quickly throws in a load of laundry (if Liam’s going to have a washer/dryer in his apartment, then Louis is going to abuse the privilege), he pulls on his parka and heads downstairs, unlocking his phone in the elevator to find a flurry of messages in the group chat with his sisters.

From what he can tell, @HarrysStyles has posted a vlog from his holidays.

So great, yeah, what was that? A fifteen-minute reprieve from anything to do with the lad? Louis thinks as he pushes through the revolving door while scrolling.

He can’t make heads or tails of the texts flying by, or why his sisters seemingly care more than usual, so he opens up his conversation with Lottie.

Louis: Alright, what’s all this about?

Lots: Louuuuu! You’re in the video! U r internet famous.

Louis: What?! Shouldn’t I have to agree to that?!

Lots: Lmao, calm your tits. I’m joking. You’re way in the background of that nye party for all of like, three frames

Louis: Alright.
Louis: Still, what happened to needing to sign a model release? A prominent sign saying my likeness is being recorded?

Lots: You shoot parties every weekend, when have you EVER gotten a model release?

Louis: TOUCHE. Shouldn’t you lot be in bed? Stop sending me links in the middle of the night.

Lots: It’s only just gone midnight here, how do you still not understand time zones?

Louis: Well, it’s a school nite!

Lots: I haven’t been in school in four years.

Louis: Whatever. At any rate, *I* should be in bed. Been working overtime lately and I’m too fucking knackered to give a rat’s arse about Harry Styles.
Louis: And speaking of my working overtime, I still need to do the maths, but expect an increase in your and the girls’ allowances this year.

Lots: Louuuuuuuuu. How many times do I need to tell you that I am a grown woman and you don’t need to send me money anymore?

Louis: Really? And living in London is a piece of piss, innit? That money’s not helping you eat less ramen?

Lots: …

Louis: Thought so. Just say thank you.

Lots: Thank u ♥️
Lots: And soz it took u meeting Harry Styles for us to see how cool u r

Louis: You know what, yes, I can see how mature you are, and I think I will reallocate your takeaway fund to Dais and Pheebs.

Lots: Sure you will. 🤡

+++

When he gets back upstairs and lets himself in, Louis sees that his laptop is still open on the kitchen counter, and a slideshow of holiday photos with his siblings is fading on and off the screen.

After ditching his parka and shoes again, he finds Liam bent over his coffee table with a sketchbook. “Did you really think I would fall for that?” Liam asks without looking up.

Louis slams the laptop shut, tucking it under his arm and grabbing the samosas from the counter before he stomps over to sit cross-legged on the sofa beside Liam. “Fine. You’re too noble for your own good.”

“You know that you can trust me, right?” Liam glances over at Louis, looking as pitiful as a puppy who’s been scolded. “If you need to talk, it’s always just between you and me, whatever it is.”

Louis knows Liam’s not actually offended and also that he would never do anything to jeopardize Louis’ opportunity, but the whole situation is confusing as shit just the same.

They’ve never had secrets from each other, and there are a million things Louis wants to tell Liam, but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. And while he knows those things would never leave these four walls—he also knows it’s a slippery slope. It’s better to keep it all close to the vest before he says the wrong thing to the wrong person, whatever and whoever that might be.

“I know that. And I don’t have anything I want to talk about, in particular,” Louis compromises, “but I hate having all this stuff I can’t show you. You’ve always been my first audience, you know what I mean?”

Liam carefully tucks away his pencils and sketchbook, but not before Louis notices that his outline of a crouching man doesn’t look half bad, even though it’s been close to ten years since he’s seen the inside of a life drawing class. Louis wonders if he used a reference photo.

“Alright, then I want to see,” Liam announces, so Louis opens his laptop back up and begins to click through the catalog he’d opened earlier from the first day of the shoot.

“Oh, is that Harry? Holy shit, he looks amazing.” Liam points to the screen, where there’s a photo of Harry laying across the ottoman with his back arched like a fucking Bernini sculpture in the throes of rapture. Instead of the rippling folds of white marble clothes, there’s just the waves of his curls and the faux-tanned hills and valleys of his mostly bare torso writhing to the unheard music. The depth of focus is shallow enough that, while Harry is crisp in the center of the frame, most of the room around him is blurred, like the viewer is experiencing tunnel vision.

Don’t tell Zayn—or god forbid, Harry—but it might be Louis’ favorite photo from the day.

He doesn’t even know why he took it.

Or why it feels so embarrassing for Liam to see it now.

His only excuse is that he saw something in it that he couldn’t help capturing.

“Yeah, well,” Louis scoffs, quickly clicking past it to land on a photo of Zayn whispering with the director. “He looks more amazing than he is.”

“Come on, is he really that bad?” Liam asks with a laugh.

Since Louis can’t talk about Zayn, Liam has already gotten the full rundown of Harry’s behavior instead. He wasn’t explicitly named in the NDAs, so Louis reckons it’s fine, although he sort of figures that Harry is maybe technically covered by the whole don’t leak secrets and talk shit about “Zayn and any related parties, including but not limited to employees, associates, and loved ones” clause.

That said, Harry’s eye-roll flashes through Louis’ mind for the millionth time, and just like that, he's unable to hold back another rant.

“Well. You do remember what he did when I tried to apologize about the whole stomach acrobatics on New Year’s Eve, don’t you?” Louis tears into another samosa.

Liam shrugs, schooling his amusement.

“He rolled his fucking eyes at me, mate.” Louis covers his mouth as crumbs fly out.

“Right, yeah, you told me about that.” Liam laughs, quickly pressing the back of his hand to his mouth like that’ll hide it. “Maybe he just felt like you didn’t need to apologize?” He offers.

“Or maybe he’s a fucking twat.” Louis counters. “Considering mere hours later, he strolled up to me, all ‘Erm, Lewis, right?’ ‘I can’t be bothered to remember your name, but I am going to kindly ask you to hand over your hard-earned work just because I said so.’”

The first bit Harry had actually said. The second bit Louis is paraphrasing.

Liam snorts because he’s the worst best friend in the history of existence. Louis continues, unfazed: “Fine, I’ll give him that forgetting my name isn’t that odd since he’d only met me a handful of times, whereas I knew of ‘im before. Still, there’s nothing like that to make you feel like the help, you know what I mean?”

Plus, something about the whole exchange had just sat weirdly with Louis. Like it was meant to be an insult, he thinks, remembering the look on Styles’ face, like there was a glimmer of spite and glee in his eyes.

“Do you think I offended him or summat? Did something to make him act purposely rude?” He asks out of the blue. Liam’s used to his non-sequiturs.

“Like with the nice tits comment?” Liam replies. His face is the bloody picture of innocence, not a clue that he’s just reminded Louis of something he’d already blocked out in order to carry on with his life and not drown in a perpetual whirlpool of awkward shame.

“Christ, Payno, you really do know how to remind a lad of all his worst moments.”

“That’s what I thought you meant!” Liam protests.

“I was thinking more like when I was drunk off me arse on New Year’s Eve, but yeah, that probably didn’t help, either, now that you mention it. Cheers.” Louis sighs heavily. “And I suppose it also didn’t help that my exact response to his request for RAW files was: ‘I don’t care if you’re Zayn’s mother or a government agency; I don’t give anyone RAW files. I stand by that one, though; he has a fucking death wish if he’s even asking. And, like, he thought I’d just hand things over because Zayn was supposedly the one who suggested it? I told ‘im ‘Sorry, but I don’t play go-between—Zayn’s who hired me. I need his express consent before I share anything with anybody.’ Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I assume I won’t have to see Styles again any time soon. Only… fuck.”

”What?”

“Well, I suppose I can tell you this because Zayn insisted it was personal, but he’s sending me an invite to his birthday party. Said it’s as a friend, not for work. I’m not sure how much I believe that, beyond the fact that he said it days ago, and I still haven’t gotten an invite. Though, I don’t know when his birthday is.”

“The twelfth,” Liam quickly supplies, tucking his chin bashfully, as though Louis doesn’t already know Liam knows every last factoid about the bloke.

“What did I say about the parasocial relationships, mate?” Louis teases, poking Liam’s thigh with his toes. “Well, that’s only a few days from now, so he probably didn’t mean it.”

“It could be day of invites. Keep it all top secret.” Liam counters. “Isn’t that what celebrities do?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Louis shrugs, pulling the sofa’s grey-speckled blanket over his shoulders as he nestles into the corner of the couch. “And even if he does invite me, is it really friendly? Would he actually want me there, or is it some kind of test to see if I’m desperate to turn up to mingle amongst the beautiful people? Or a test to see if I’d fit in with his fancy crowd, right? You and I both know I kill it in a suit, but do I really want to buy a new one? Just to impress a bunch of phony rich fucks?”

“Dunno.” Liam is studying the backs of his tattooed hands.

“Sorry, Payno.” Louis sits up. “I know he’s your fantasy shag, and I’m like…in his actual life now…”

And Harry Styles is the one shagging him.

Yet another reason for Harry to be on Louis’ shit list.

Shit, he wishes so badly that he could at least tell Liam about Zayn’s plans for him to open on tour. That Zayn even thought of Liam as a contender for the slot would probably be encouraging enough even if it doesn’t work out, but it’s just not Louis’ place to say anything…

”It’s fine.” Liam smiles, and it almost looks genuine. “I’m happy for you. I’m just sorry that you’re…I don't know. I’m not sure what the stress is about. Whether the invite really is a personal one?”

“Yeah. Anyway, if he gives me a plus one like he promised, you’re coming along.” Louis sends what he hopes looks like a genuine smile to Liam as he flops back on the couch. The questions rattling around his brain about what Zayn really meant by the invite haven’t quieted down.

“So you are going to go, then?” Liam teases, settling on the other end of the couch.

Before Louis can reply to his snark, both of their phones buzz simultaneously.

“Oh shit.” Louis feels his eyes go wide and dart around the apartment at the email notification, irrationally feeling like Zayn can somehow hear them, like he has eyes and ears everywhere. He’s not the CIA, Louis reassures himself. “I…I guess you are coming. Plus one, as promised.”

“I…” Liam’s eyes are even wider. “I didn’t get a plus one.”

“What?!” Louis shrieks in a way he probably hasn’t since he was thirteen and was cast as the lead in the school production of Grease.

Liam is visibly trembling as he turns his phone to Louis.

It’s the same invite: ‘January 12th, 8 pm, PHD Terrace at Dream Midtown, donations to Feeding Britain can be made in lieu of gifts,’ but no plus one.

“Well, fuck.” Louis leaps to his feet, frantically untangling himself from the blanket and tossing it back onto the sofa. “I guess I need to find a fucking date, and we need to go shopping.”

“You were literally just ranting about not caring about impressing these people?” Liam has gone entirely pale.

Louis can’t remember what his reasoning had been a moment ago, but he knows now that he’s not about to back down from what is clearly a challenge. “Well, we can’t let them win, now, can we?”

“Can’t let who win what?!” Liam cries.

“The fucking beautiful rich people, obviously!” Louis is half serious about that and half convinced that, if nothing else, he just has to get Liam to come along so Zayn will remember he exists and follow through on recruiting him as an opening act. And if Zayn decides to become obsessed with Liam and dump Harry in the process, well, that would also make Louis’ life a lot easier. More realistically, though, if Zayn also wants to be Louis’ friend, then that is what Zayn wants, and Louis isn’t mad about it.

“We need new suits for sure,” he says instead of any of that.

“I have a suit.” Liam bites his lip, looking very reluctant about what Louis thought was a straightforward suggestion.

“Oh my god, Payno,” Louis pulls him to his feet, staring into his eyes. “This is the personal birthday party of your childhood crush, a rich and famous millionaire. Even I know the suit you got for graduation from Century 21 a decade ago is unacceptable!”

Louis wouldn’t normally be keen on blowing money on clothes, let alone something he’ll probably wear exactly once—but thanks to the NYE party and his new contract, he’s already exceeded his projected income for the whole of Q1. He is more than willing to invest in this particular event.

“Okay, I need to go home and clean my entire apartment. And edit. We’re meeting at Bloomingdale’s at noon tomorrow. I’ll come pick up my laundry after.” Louis throws his laptop back into his bag and stalks over to the entryway to grab his parka off the floor. “Scratch that, we’ll meet at two.”

It’s been a long few days and he’s definitely going to be up until four am now. He needs his beauty rest.

“Soho or 59th Street?” Liam manages to ask even though he still looks shell-shocked.

“There are two Bloomingdale’s?!” Louis cries, frantically jamming his arms into his parka sleeves like an uncoordinated toddler. “I don’t know, you decide,” he yells as he slams the apartment door behind him.

Nothing like utter panic to spur him into a manic cycle of productivity. May as well ride the wave while it’s here.

+ZAYN+

Zayn is beyond grateful to wake up in his own quiet and spacious home after an exhausting and overstimulating weekend staying in a hotel in the city for the shoot. As he shuffles into the kitchen, he notices that his groin still aches from being suspended in the air for hours on end, so he’ll tack on that he’s also grateful for the loose-fitting overalls he’s wearing for his morning chores. But he supposes the lingering discomfort is a small price to pay for the dailies looking exactly as he’d envisioned. (He’s decidedly less grateful that the past two days have been the most action that particular region of his anatomy has seen in quite some time.)

The house is warm and cozy, but as he peers through the kitchen window that overlooks the back of the property, he can see that it’s misty and overcast outside. He doesn’t mind the dreary weather much because it also reminds him of home. Even pouring a cup of coffee from the Smeg coffee maker, which looks vintage but can be scheduled to wake up when he does, feels overly nostalgic because back home, it would have been tea.

Sometimes, he’s proud that he’s become so Americanized (his lingering accent aside) because it speaks to the life he’s built for himself here all on his own, and other times, it fills him with shame.

Zayn tries not to think about home that often—not because he doesn’t have fond memories of his childhood, but because thinking about home leads to thinking about how he should go back more often, and despite his guilt about that, there are a lot of reasons why he doesn’t.

He’s so lost in thought, staring out the window and sipping his coffee, that the sound of his toast popping up in the quiet kitchen sends a jolt of misplaced adrenaline through his veins.

Once he calms down and slathers the toast with butter (probably local and organic, thanks to Taryn because she cares about that sort of thing far more than Zayn does), he settles his elbows on the counter as he munches and opens up Liam Payne’s Instagram.

Again.

He immediately near chokes on his half-chewed toast because Liam just posted a new workout “progress” pic an hour ago; his bulging biceps and abs glistening with sweat take up the entire real estate of Zayn’s screen.

How the fuck is this man so timid in person? he wonders for the thousandth time.

He thinks half the reason he can’t seem to stop stalking the man is that he’s found himself determined to solve the paradox that is DJ “Instagram Thirst Trap” Payno versus Liam “blushing, stammering” Payne.

(And if Liam can pull off that kind of juxtaposition between the on-stage and off, maybe Zayn can too….)

For his own safety, he puts the phone down until he finishes eating, and that’s when he notices a white box sitting on a wooden stool near the hallway. He supposes Taryn must’ve put it there since he has no recollection of it arriving.

Zayn grabs it and places it on the kitchen island, eyeing it warily.

It’s just a plain white box with no addresses or mailing labels, as though a private courier had delivered it.

Back when Zayn lived in an overpriced penthouse in lower Manhattan, his entranceway was often stacked waist-high with similar boxes. Those were usually far more elaborate, though, with glossy cardboard and colors that had been carefully selected by brands desperately trying to differentiate themselves in their attempts to get anyone who was anyone to be seen in a tabloid wearing their product, or later, to post a thank you with an “unboxing” on their socials.

Zayn never really gave much of a shit about the contents of any of them, so he’d pass them along unopened to members of his team. (One exception, of course, was that after he’d worn the Mario Bros overalls he’s wearing now in an Instagram post, he’d gotten a gold coin from the producers of the Mario movie. Geek shit was always different. Those kinds of things he kept and treasured.)

Between social media influencers taking over the honors of receiving those kinds of PR packages and Zayn moving out to Pennsylvania, he hasn’t seen a box like this in years, which leaves him curious, so he finally grabs the butter knife he just used for his toast and cuts open the packing tape along the top of the box.

The packaging inside is also simple, not at all like a proper chic, deluxe marketing kit, just pink compostable bags scrawled with the name ‘Pleasing.’

Zayn has never heard of them.

He dumps the contents of one of the bags onto the kitchen island.

“What in the pastel puke is this?” He wonders aloud to himself, or maybe to the dogs, as their nails clacking on the wooden floors signal their arrival for breakfast.

Zayn crosses the kitchen to fill their bowls with food and water before wading through their happily wriggling bodies and wagging tails to return to the mysterious package.

He turns over the three bottles of Easter egg-colored pastel nail polish in his hands, then examines the two variations of a combo cheek and lip stain. It’s certainly nothing he would ever use himself.

As he reaches for the other bag, he sees an envelope with his name handwritten on it in a glitter gel pen worthy of his little sister’s early noughties pencil box.

He has to laugh at the attempted personalization as he tosses the envelope aside, unopened. Fucking hell, these brands are always trying to come up with new ways to rope you in, no matter who you are. Making interns handwrite notes to hypnotize you into posting about their shit product with a thousand hashtags.

He looks into the second bag, which has several skincare products: three dropper bottles with hair oil, body oil, and face/lip oil, alongside a card detailing the recommended applications, which also looks like it might’ve been genuinely handwritten.

(Zayn has had his eight-step routine of Balmain and Dior Homme products down for a decade now, thanks—and it’s one he will never reveal in a gimmicky promotional video for GQ, no matter how many times they ask.)

He’s still a bit curious as to where it all came from, but he also doesn’t want or need any of it, so he tosses everything back into the bags and leaves them aside for Taryn. Hell, maybe it was meant for her? The products seem unisex, and Zayn would never want to discourage her from her own entrepreneurial pursuits.

He figures he should probably ask her, or Niall, and his publicist if any of them have any idea who the fuck has the address of the farm to send this shit in the first place, though.

He needs to call Niall anyway, with something he is much more urgently curious about, so he decides he’ll do that after he delivers Dobby his daily dry and wet food mix. As usual, the Sphynx is currently curled up with his hairless, knobby back to Zayn at the top of his multi-level cat tree. He lifts and turns his head lazily at the smell of his food, his eyes squinting judgmentally as he watches Zayn also place a fresh bowl of water several feet away.

He then plops down on the bench in the mud room with his phone wedged between his chin and shoulder to pull on his Burberry rain boots.

“Your Royal Highness, to what do I owe such an early call?” Niall cackles at his own dumb joke.

Zayn ignores his idiocy as always.

“Did you send out the invites for my birthday yet?” Zayn pulls on his Prada goose-down puffer coat, pulling the mink-lined hood over his buzzed head.

“Obviously,” Niall huffs. “What kind of party planner would I be if they hadn’t been out well in advance?”

A ‘party planner,’ Zayn rolls his eyes. He knows damn well all the actual planning has been outsourced to professionals since the day Niall insisted on hosting the damn thing.

“With the links to Feeding Britain?” Zayn confirms as he steps onto the frosty grass in the backyard and blows a breath into his fists, wondering where the hell he’d left the gloves he’d sworn were in the pockets of his parka.

“Zed,” Niall tsks like an exasperated mother. “Of course, the charity is listed in place of gifts. Even I find it ludicrous for equally wealthy grown adults to bring presents to a thirty-year-old multi-millionaire’s birthday party.”

“Just checking!” Zayn insists as he remembers his next question. “Did you send Louis and Liam invites?”

“I sent all the invites. I’m a professional,” Niall insists, while Zayn holds back an audible laugh at his indignance. He takes pretending to be a party planner very seriously. “Harry, as well. Just…FY information,” Niall adds.

That is not news to Zayn. He’s made his peace with Harry’s appearance at the party, and he’d really rather not dwell on it.

“Ladies, there is enough for everyone!” Zayn scolds fondly as the chickens descend on him the second he steps into the heated coop with a bucket full of feed. They gently peck at the ground and the toes of his boots as he spreads their breakfast around.

“Are you calling me from your farm chores?” Niall inhales deeply on the other end of the line, like that’s a legitimate reason for him to be annoyed.

Zayn, on the other hand, does have a legitimate reason to be annoyed. “Please tell me you haven’t made this party a whole red carpet thing?”

He is asking a question he suspects he already knows the answer to.

“Well, now that you mention it, I do have something to tell you, so please don’t kill me.” Niall doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic.

“You know I would never harm a never-changing styled hair on your precious head, Neil.”

“Good to know, mate.” Niall sounds genuinely chuffed despite the insult to his hair.

“I can, after all, afford a highly trained hitman to do it for me,” Zayn adds with a click of his tongue.

“Rude,” Niall snorts. “Look, I know you wanted a small, intimate gathering at my home…”

”I didn’t want any party at all, actually,” Zayn corrects.

“But once you invited Liam and Louis, with a plus one no less…” Niall trails off, the insinuation already clear.

“I’m pretty sure Frank and Paddy have connections. They could probably get me a deal on the hit man…”

”You insisted on inviting them, so my hands are tied,” Niall sniffs. “Those additions have really ballooned the guest list beyond what our humble penthouse can accommodate for a dinner party, so I’ve been forced to book several spaces at The Dream Midtown.”

Yep, Zayn had called it. He’d known from the moment Niall texted him asking what charity he wanted on the invites. That’s not a thing for casual dinner parties. To be honest, Zayn’s surprised the invites weren’t engraved and hand-delivered, but Niall probably didn’t want to upstage his own upcoming wedding.

“Oh really? That’s definitely all my fault?” Zayn snorts, wishing Niall was here in front of him so he could throw a clump of literal chicken shit in his face.

“Exactly, I’m so glad you understand,” Niall prattles on with his act. “Jaime…er, I hired that florist you like. The one who did the white orchids. Super elegant.”

Zayn had commented on the orchids at one of Niall’s parties years ago, but only because an it-girl actress of the moment was hitting on him, and he didn’t know what else to say. Zayn doesn’t bother reminding Niall of that because he knows there are few options for deterring him from elaborate plans, and it’s not worth the energy.

Besides, he’s still more concerned with his initial reason for the call. “Have Louis and Liam RSVPed?”

Niall hums instead of answering, the clacking of his keyboard audible in the background. “Not yet. They might be a bit intimidated, though, ya know? I mean, Louis kept up with me shot for shot on New Year’s, but he wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion. Think he’s ready to face another?”

“Don’t be a snob,” Zayn chastises, nearly dropping his phone as he crouches to pet the chickens’ bobbing heads. “Louis was dressed just fine.”

Louis’ mesh top obviously wasn’t Dries Van Noten, but it could’ve passed. Besides, he’d been there to work, not to impress all the assholes Niall is always so annoyingly concerned with. That Louis bothered to dress up at all impressed Zayn more than everyone else clamoring for attention by flaunting their designer labels.

“You think that. You don’t pay much attention though, do ya?” Niall scoffs. “Do you really think he feels that way? Like he fits in?”

Zayn considers it. Louis doesn’t seem like he’s intimidated by much of anything, and he definitely shouldn’t be… hell, that’s a large part of why Zayn likes him.

He sends kisses into the air of the chicken coop before backing down the wooden ramp to head toward the stables.

“Am I allowed to hang up on you if you’re ignoring my questions in the interest of making smooching noises at live poultry?” Niall huffs.

Zayn ignores him. “Send Louis a credit to Givenchy. What do you think, five thousand?”

“Really?” Niall sounds genuinely shocked.

“What? Ten thousand?” he asks. It would be embarrassing to lowball it.

“I think five will do just fine,” Niall cackles. “If you’re actually serious.”

“Why not?” Zayn gripes as he slowly makes his way to the stables, his boots squelching in the mud that’s appeared from the frost melting away under the rising sun.

“It’s a bit excessive?” Niall clears his throat.

“It doesn’t cost me,” Zayn grunts, wrapping his hands behind his knee to literally pull his boot from where it’s gotten stuck in a deep spot, “anything.’

“I guess,” Niall laughs. “It’s your money.”

“No, it’s not,” Zayn grunts again as he falls backward onto his ass in the mud and begins to laugh hysterically.

”You okay?” Niall must detect something’s not right, but Zayn isn’t bothered since there’s no audience to witness his pratfall.

It’s moments like this where he actually feels most content, somehow, with no eyes or cameras on him so he’s free to embrace the silliness of life without relentless questions or judgment.

He settles into the spot on the ground and wraps his arms around his knees. It’s not worth struggling further until he finishes this call. “You’ve made it clear that the label has decided to bankroll this party as a promo opportunity. So this is the money they give out for free when I don’t even need it.”

“In that case, you want to pay for my suit, too? Shawn’s?”

“I didn’t even want this party to begin with, so spend your own money on whatever the hell you’re wearing to it, mate,” Zayn taunts. “Come in a diaper and a sash for all I care.”

”That was one time!” Niall insists. “I lost a bet! Wouldn’t you respect me less if I didn’t honor a bet?”

“Hm.” Zayn tilts his head up to where the sun is breaking through the clouds. “I don’t know why, but I think you and Louis are going to get on well.”

“Bitch,” Niall snickers. “We are already thick as thieves.”

“Sure you are.” Zayn sits up. “I gotta go.”

He’s not bothered much by the mud, but he doesn’t want to drop his primary phone in it.

”No!” Niall cries. “Have you picked an outfit yet?”

“I have a few ideas.”

Caroline had already sent him what she thought was the perfect suit for his ‘dirty thirty.’

He’d told her he liked it but that nothing that extravagant would be necessary for the occasion.

She’d replied with a line of crying laughing emojis, which reminded Zayn that he was mad to think Niall wouldn’t turn his thirtieth into an elaborate affair.

Always a bit psychic, that Caroline.

“Send them for approval?” Niall demands.

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Fine, I’ll just ask Caroline, then.”

Zayn rolls his eyes in silence. He really doesn’t want a fuss being made over his attire, much like how he didn’t want a giant party in his honor in the first place—a party that’s sure to be full of guests that he doesn’t give a shit about and that don’t give a shit about him in return.

Happy Birthday.

He can’t even blame Niall; it’s just the way his life is. Maybe if he’d pushed the album release date back, all the press wouldn’t be so urgent, and he could’ve enjoyed his birthday at home with his animals in relative peace.

It’s definitely too late for that now, but he has one last bargaining chip in his metaphorical back pocket—a way to keep Niall on his side that he’s been saving up for a while.

“Did you know there’s a Nando’s in Baltimore?” Zayn smiles, staring into the mud between his knees.

“Wha-at?” Niall’s squawk is a dead giveaway that Zayn’s on the right track.

“Paddy and I have been—”

“I have some paperwork to get done, and I’ll have Jess send Louis that Givenchy credit. What time are you picking me up?”

Zayn hadn’t expected his response to be that enthusiastic. While the party itself is probably a foregone conclusion, maybe there are other cards to play in his favor over dinner.

“Half one? Take a train or have Frank drop you off. We’ll meet in Philly.” Zayn assumes Niall will be annoyed by that but figures he won’t argue.

“A train? Thanks, but no, I reckon I can get a chopper to Doylestown,” he cackles bombastically.

“Well then, we’ll have that much more time together to teach you how to season chicken.” Zayn taunts sarcastically, biting his lip to keep from smiling. (While feeling irrationally grateful his own chickens are out of earshot from where he’s sitting halfway between the coup and the stables.)

“I seasoned the fucking chicken after! Will I ever hear the end of this?!” Niall bellows as Zayn ends the call, doubling over in laughter as he slips his phone into his pocket and begins the arduous task of getting back on his feet.

Chapter Text

+HARRY+

It’s just gone eleven am, and Harry’s sitting at his dining table about to take his first sip of coffee when his laptop chimes with an incoming email.

He’s gotten a late start to the day because he’d found himself out late the night before—his work-related social calendar might be light on parties in January, but it’s heavy on activities like the manifestation workshop he’d been lured to by a friend’s promise to introduce him to a buyer at Sephora. He’d traveled all the way down to the Seaport to squeeze into the packed loft of a friend of another friend who’d managed to book a GOOP guru to lead the group of several dozen creative professionals in a guided meditation to envision their ideal year ahead.

It was the sort of woo-woo thing he ordinarily would’ve enjoyed, but Harry’s meditation... Well, let’s just say his visioning ‘journey’ wasn’t exactly what he’d initially envisioned.

(Plus, the Sephora buyer never showed.)

Anyway, he knows checking email first thing is an express train to an unproductive day, but since it's his personal email that pinged (and almost everything stressful goes through the general mailbox that Sarah manages), he’s curious enough to look at it.

Which is a mistake.

The sender is Louis Tomlinson, and the subject line just says ‘gallery.’

Harry’s immediately overcome by the kind of tunnel vision where nothing outside of this email exists, and even though all his nerve endings are screaming for him to stand up, walk away, go outside, and touch grass, he can’t. He won’t be able to think about anything else even if he tries to.

So he opens it.

Better just to rip the band-aid off, right?

Harry and Sarah,
First off, Harry, I’d like to apologize for my hasty response to your request the other day. It caught me off guard, and I’m sure you can understand that my first responsibility is always to protect the privacy and wishes of my client.

That said, I’ve now received written consent to release the linked gallery of footage and photos featuring you from day one of the “lost in your body” shoot.

Sarah, Taryn will send over a licensing agreement soon if she hasn’t already.

Thanks for understanding the necessity of the formalities, and I hope the slight delay wasn’t too much trouble!

If you happen to need any of this in an alternate resolution or format (other than RAW files), just let me know, and please allow for a minimum turnaround of 3 business days, longer if I’m traveling.

All best !
Louis Tomlinson

And, nope, the band-aid should’ve stayed on.

Despite being alone in his apartment, with no one to witness his mortification, the words cause a hot rush of embarrassment to flood Harry’s veins as they drudge up memories of every encounter he’s had with Louis.

And he hasn’t even gotten to the gallery.

In any other situation involving receiving photos of himself, Harry would immediately click on the link out of sheer curiosity, if nothing else, but right now, he can’t bring himself to do anything other than sit and stare at it.

Sarah obviously has no such issues because Harry’s inbox quickly chimes with her response.

Thanks, Louis! I’ve only just glanced at these, but they are gorgeous. Wow. Obviously, nothing can be posted for quite a while, but if we ultimately use any of this, it will be with full credit.
Let me know if you have an account(s) you’d like us to link to - I couldn’t find yours when I checked.

Cheers,
Sarah

Harry is still sitting there transfixed by the blue underlined link like it’s the dancing flames of a campfire—mesmerizing and capable of burning him, when a second reply comes in.

Thanks Sarah ! That’s very kind of you to say.
No social accounts - you can just credit Tommo.
L

Visions of where Louis could be emailing from cross Harry’s mind—is he sitting at his own dining table in that building in Bed-Stuy? Or is he curled up on a sofa, sleep-rumpled like he’d been at the airport? Is he traveling somewhere now, with Zayn?

The images spur Harry to move, and before he knows it, he’s changed into his running clothes, thrown on his sneakers, windbreaker, gloves, and a beanie, and is loping down the stairs as a warm-up.

He makes it three-quarters of a mile south, winding past The Cloisters to the Hudson River Greenway, before it occurs to him to be relieved that Sarah and Mitch are working from home today, so he hadn’t had to sit there, trapped in his apartment, pretending to act perfectly normal about a perfectly normal email.

After their…conversation at the end of the shoot, Harry was pretty much expecting to never hear from Louis, not to receive a gallery just days later accompanied by an email that apologized to him.

Somehow, that makes everything feel ten times worse.

Harry is the one who owes Louis an apology.

He honestly hadn’t meant to walk over to him and act the way he did, but it was like a force (his inner toddler, if you want to get psychoanalytical) had welled up within him, and before he could stop himself, he was faux-innocently mispronouncing Louis’ name, and telling him that Zayn had promised Harry copies of the photos and clips.

Spurred on by Louis’ fake smile and clenched jaw, Harry took his tantrum a step further and asked for RAW files. That had set Louis off the way it would most photographers, and Harry had finally felt a smug sense of satisfaction that he’d managed to get under Louis' skin—even if it was far from the way he’d hoped to when they’d first run into each other that morning.

But in the end, it seems no matter what Harry throws at him, Louis just gives back professionalism.

And that is technically what you want, he thinks as he passes the dilapidated portico of Inspiration Point, ignoring the jaw-dropping views of the Hudson as his thoughts swirl around.

At least, that is what he’d tried to envision in his manifestation meditation: distantly polite, professional, drama-free relationships with both Louis and Zayn interspersed with him happily checking his rising bank balance—until his stupid, naive, people-pleaser of an imagination took over to craft idyllic scenes of supportive friendships that stopped just shy of singing kumbaya.

Regardless. Despite Harry being a shit visualizer, maybe the whole thing did work after all?

Maybe it is possible to act like the whole New Year’s Eve thing with Louis never happened, and he’s just some guy who works for Zayn.

Some guy that Harry happened to go a tiny bit divalicious on.

Or maybe Harry’s just starting to become a little unhinged from having no one to talk to about any of this.

He should probably try to move up his therapy appointment this week to a day that’s well in advance of Zayn’s party, although Harry’s been seeing Charleen for long enough that he can practically predict their entire conversation in his head.

He hadn’t even mentioned Louis in his session last week. He’d already written off their meeting as a weird little holiday blip and had chosen instead to ramble about how stressed he was about balancing work and the Zayn thing. (See, he was doing just fine until the guy showed up looking even more gorgeous than Harry remembered while covered in cameras, which, let’s be honest, is the equivalent of lingerie to Harry’s dick.)

But if he were to tell Charleen about Louis, he’s pretty sure she would suggest that he muster up the courage to clear the air.

Harry definitely wouldn’t like that suggestion.

He’d probably get all stroppy and cross his arms about it, and say something like, “Well, perhaps it’s better if he doesn’t remember. That would make it easier and less awkward in the long run.”

If he said that with enough confidence, he might start to believe it.

Charleen, however, would probably look skeptical, raising an eyebrow on her kind, rounded face.

“Okay,” she’d say, softly and gently drawing out the word. “Can you tell me if you really think that’s true, or if you may be prioritizing not making a fuss above your actual needs?”

And Harry’ll think, well, he’s already made a fuss, the wrong kind of fuss, so there’s no point in digging himself any deeper by trying to explain the entire convoluted truth to Louis.

He doesn’t think he can anyway, probably not without asking Zayn’s permission to tell his photographer they’re not really dating, and wow, yeah, no, absolutely not.

He just wishes he could talk to a friend about all this. Or his sister. Or even his mum. (Although, mostly, no, not really; there’d be large chunks he’d want to leave out if talking to his mum.) Just someone who’d listen to him vent, who wasn’t being paid to help him, ugh, grow.

But there is no such person, so back to detached, professional Plan A, it is then.

He does his best to put it all out of his mind, his feet pounding the asphalt trail sandwiched between the cornflower blue sky, the murky Hudson, and the looming mansions of Riverside Drive. By the time he’s approaching the George Washington Bridge, he’s actually managed to stop obsessing and attain a bit of a runner’s high (or maybe that’s just from the fumes of the nearby parkway).

No sooner does he realize that he’s actually managed to stop thinking than his music cuts out, and his AirPods announce that Sarah is calling.

“Hey,” she starts once he’s answered, “I just forwarded it to you, but I wanted to check that you’d seen the official invite for Zayn’s party? There’s been a slight change of venue.” Her tone betrays the real meaning of her use of the word ‘slight.’

“I hadn’t; I’m out on a run,” he admits, slowing his pace so he’s not panting on the phone, and because Fort Washington Park, with its Little Red Lighthouse, is one of his favorite places on this route—and in the city in general.

“Ahh, okay, that also explains why I didn’t hear from you about the gallery from the video shoot.”

“What do you mean?” He thinks he manages not to sound flustered, even though something about Sarah’s tone makes him wish he’d already opened the damn thing. “I saw the emails; I just haven’t looked yet. Figured it’s not urgent.”

“Nothing; it isn’t,” Sarah agrees. “They’re just outrageously good. Like, damn, H, we all know you’re photogenic, but… that guy is seriously talented. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised given that he’s working for Zayn, who’s obviously incredibly choosy.”

She’s gushing, and Sarah doesn’t gush. An uneasiness that’s half-irrational annoyance and half-excitement (despite himself) resumes coursing through Harry alongside the endorphins from his run.

“I don’t quite know what we can use them for—they don't really fit the current vibe of the grid or your portfolio,” she goes on. “But they’re so good, maybe we make a Tiktok or something…”

“Well, uh, we have at least a month to decide on that,” Harry interrupts her before he caves and pulls the link up on his phone right there on the sidewalk. “Was there something about the party you needed from me?”

“Oh, right,” she refocuses, back to her usual steady, professional tone, “so it’s at PHD Terrace at the Dream Midtown now. You know the place with the flower tunnel? Hang on, I’ll text you photos.”

She keeps talking while she undoubtedly taps around on her phone to send him reference images. “I wasn’t sure if that was going to throw off the plans for your look, so I reached out to Caroline, and she said to please stick with black. And I mean…the flowers in the tunnel are white right now, and I heard something about more white orchids, so maybe the black still works? But if not, I can ask Novum to send more samples if you want.”

Harry slows to a walk to open the photos she’s just sent.

“Oh right, yeah, this place. Ugh.” He gnaws at his lower lip, wondering if Niall is getting some kind of most valuable customer discount from Tao Group venues at this point. “Well, the pros are that I can do more of an interesting shoot there, unlike at Niall’s, where it’d just be on the terrace again. So that’ll make Novum happy. The con is that tunnel is such an Insta cliché. Although I do like it in all white.”

He sighs.

There’s no reason why the outfit Zayn's stylist has already okayed won’t still work. But he definitely would’ve chosen something else had he known about this. Something in a different color—although it’s likely Zayn’s team will always be steering him towards black—and a little less, well, over the top.

The piece he’s chosen is one he’s been dying for an excuse to wear since before the holidays, and it’s certainly not something he'd just walk down the street in. It isn’t even something he’d ordinarily be ballsy enough (ha, poor choice of words, given the outfit in question, he thinks) to wear to an event as large as this one is turning out to be. But hanging around Niall’s with a dozen guests, then a few snaps on the terrace? That sounded perfect.

Unfortunately, he’s already told his account manager at Novum, a high-end retailer that’s one of his longest-running, highest-paying, most supportive sponsors, that it’s his pick for Zayn’s birthday party (the easiest way to get more credits on his monthly trade stipend). God, they probably already told the Project Runway-alum indie designer the good news, and Harry doesn’t even want to draft an email to back out of that, so… yeah.

“I can still make the black jumpsuit work,” he finally concedes. “But can you please ask if I can come in early to take photos? I don’t know if you want to go through Niall or Jaime or call the club directly…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out,” Sarah reassures. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Thanks, Sarah.”

“You got it, H. Go enjoy your run—let me know when you’re back later, and we can go over that costing sheet for the latest batch of Pleasing samples.”

“Thanks, I will, just uhh, this is gonna be a long one,” he hedges, eternally feeling guilty any time other people are working and he isn’t.

“No problem,” she laughs, “sounds like the New Year’s resolution drum circle has already worked its magic.”

Harry coughs out a laugh in return. “Something like that.”

They hang up, and he’s annoyed enough by the change in plans from what was supposed to be a low-key gathering into what’s clearly become an industry party of several hundred people, that he taps out a text to Niall asking him to lunch.

All of this is Niall’s fault, so his alleged best friend will just have to deal with being Harry’s shoulder to cry on, he decides, looking out over the rock sculptures on the small beach along the Hudson.

He’s just resumed jogging when his phone vibrates again. He assumes it’s Niall making plans or Sarah calling back about something she forgot, so he picks up before the AirPods can announce the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Okay, I was waiting for you to come to me, but since that didn’t happen last night, here I am. Spill,” an accented alto drawl, which is decidedly not Sarah’s voice, demands.

“It’s, uh, complicated?” Harry replies.

He knows what she’s asking—it’s the same ‘Are the rumors true?’ question he assumes every person who knows him and follows celebrity gossip has. (Thank god his mother and sister generally don’t keep up with any of that.)

He’s less sure whether his answer is about the actual situation or the narrative of his fake one with Zayn. Both work.

“Everything always is, schatzi,” Nik chides, then waits.

Harry would easily consider Anika his best ‘work’ friend—or his best friend in general after Niall. She’d marched up to him at his first fashion week after he and Connor had split, announced, “Hello gorgeous, I am growing out my hair, and I clearly need your advice,” and instantly adopted him into her posse of beauty and fashion creators.

In a matter of weeks, Harry had ended up with a standing invitation to all the shows that mattered, an annual Novum sponsorship that both paid the rent on his new apartment and sent him all over the world all-expenses-paid, and a group of new friends that he mostly adored (but that were, at times, incredibly intimidating).

“Erm, I mean, well, don’t jump to conclusions. Remember when we first started hanging out, and people assumed we were dating?”

Even Nik’s uproarious laughter sounds expensive, like jewels resting on a velvet cushion. “Heteronormativity is a wild thing,” she marvels.

“I mean, we could’ve been?” Harry pouts, feeling irrationally defensive. “People can be bisexual.”

He hadn’t minded the speculation then. It had distracted followers from his breakup and was a compliment, anyway. Nik is a catch—the highly educated, hilarious, glamorous daughter of an Iranian scholar and a Swedish model who speaks four languages and grew up all over the world, from Singapore to London to New York.

“Oh, people can be bisexual, darling,” Nik contends. “Myself, for example. But anyone paying attention knows that is not you,” she recites as confidently as if she were reading from an encyclopedia.

“Well, excuse me for trying to fight bi erasure,” Harry mutters, though he’s not really offended. Sometimes, he wishes he were more mysterious, but he’s just not, really. “Anyway, thanks for calling, but I can’t talk about it. There are NDAs.”

“Ohhh, I see,” she sighs throatily. “Well. Can I just ask if you are happy, then? Doing okay?” she asks, sounding quite serious.

And there’s the question.

He thinks of the annual bonuses he was just able to cut for Mitch and Sarah. And the production invoices for Pleasing he just paid off. All for a glorified acting job that hasn’t really impacted his daily life and work.

The only thing that has thrown him has been his own stress over it.

“I mean, yeah, actually, I am,” he replies. And for the first time, it feels like it might be true. “So far, so good.”

His phone buzzes, and a text flashes onto the screen:

Da Pimp Is Ere 🤑 (Harry has not changed Niall’s name in his phone since uni, and he never will): Meet in 30 @ the westside Blade lounge? I have a flight to a meeting in Baltimore I have to catch soon.

“Oh, shit, sorry, Nik. I’ve got to go meet a friend for lunch.”

“Ahhh, yes, okay. A ‘friend,’” she purrs knowingly.

“That is not who I’m meeting,” he grumbles.

“Photos, or I don’t believe it.”

“Fine. I’ll tag you. Byeeee.”

+++

Resigned to abandoning his run, Harry grabs a cab downtown, unsurprisingly arriving at the heliport before Niall. He’s impressed but unsurprised that Niall has called ahead with his name, and they let him into the empty lounge even though he’s not flying anywhere.

While he waits, he snaps a selfie in the mirror that’s across from a seating area, pleased with the view of the helipad and the river out the windows and how his beanie and sneakers coordinate with the brightly-colored furniture. He uploads that alongside a Boomerang of a helicopter taking off to his Stories with a small text caption in the corner:

🚁 Had to ditch my run and @anikkkkkkka to hang out @flyblade with jetsetter @NiallJHoranEsq even though I’m not traveling anywhere. 😞

He’s gotten himself a glass of water from the bar and is just about to send Nik a different selfie of him very maturely sticking out his tongue when Niall booms from the doorway: “Pumpernickel!”

He doesn’t have any luggage, just a black leather backpack and a stack of takeout boxes in a large white paper bag with red handles, which he dumps onto the large coffee table to pull Harry into a hug.

Niall sniffs at him as he does, wrinkling his nose even though Harry is certain that he’s no longer actively sweating.

“Did you run all the way down here?” he asks as he starts unpacking the boxes. “Christ, warn a man that you’re post-workout when he’s making plans—I’d’ve brought more food. They only have—” he lowers his voice, “shite bagels here, so I swung by the Odeon before we left. Got you your avo kale thingy with an egg—but I suppose I can part with my chips, too, since I’m just flying to PA to have lunch anyway.”

“This is fine, Ni. Thank you. You didn’t have to bring me food.”

Niall gives him a look that says that’s categorically untrue because he’s been mothering Harry (and vice versa) since they both set foot in an international students’ orientation, and he gave Harry an extra donut along with a lecture on America’s Dunkin’ versus Krispy Kreme feud.

“Not that I’ll ever complain about seeing your beautiful face,” he begins as he unwraps his croque monsieur and takes a bite, “but to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, you know…” Harry drawls petulantly, stabbing the poached egg with his fork and watching it flood the bowl. “Just wondering what happened to letting us ease into our…relationship with a small dinner party, not renting out the entire Dream Midtown?”

“Jaysus,” Niall cackles immediately, “you sound just like Zaynie. Are you sure you two aren’t dating?” He winks theatrically. “I’m sorry, babe, but it couldn’t be helped. The guest list was getting out of control, the label got involved, etc. And if Zed has new friends all of a sudden, who am I to say no—he needed to invite Louis, you know, his photographer, and his friend, Liam, who Shawn knows. Shawnie is, of course, already mentally planning a couples’ stag do in Madeira—thinks the six of us are destined to be besties.

“Oh,” Harry yelps before he can think better of it. “Are Louis and Liam…?”

Niall just cackles. “No, mate, not from what I’ve heard. Just joined at the hip like the two of us.” He looks at Harry like only someone who’s known him a decade can, a glint of too much knowing in his eyes. “Anyway, I hear you’ve already got Louis at your beck and call?”

Harry sputters, and a bit of the Sriracha broth hits the back of his throat, the heat flaring up his nose. “What?” he manages to ask between coughing and gulping water.

Niall’s subtly botoxed face gives away nothing. “Taryn needed an updated licensing agreement for the files that Louis shared with you. How’d they turn out?”

“Oh, uh, I, uh, haven’t looked at them yet.”

“Alright, give it here then.” Niall sighs, holding out his hand.

Harry knows there’s no use arguing, so he navigates back to the email, then hands Niall his phone.

“Christ on a cracker, H, these are smoking hot,” Niall whistles softly as he scrolls. “Shit, if he makes you look like this, imagine how Zed is going to look.”

“Niall!”

“I’m sorry, poodle. That was insensitive. I shouldn’t have said it like that. Jesus, though, you two make a right pair with your wobbly self-esteem. Course, I just hadn’t counted on you being as obstinate with each other as you are with me,” he mutters, “sometimes I think I should just—” He cuts himself off, looking up from the photos at Harry, seeming to consider something, before shaking his head and going back to scrolling.

“Anyway, it just makes me teed off to think about it because if the world can make you two perfect specimens feel this way, then what hope is there for the rest of humanity? You and Zed need someone like my Shawnie to smile at you like the sun shines out your arse. Who looks at you like you’re a Greek god waiting for your plate of grapes.”

He gestures pointedly at the pictures, then hands the phone back to Harry.

“We’ve been over this,” Harry drawls playfully, deciding to ignore most of that speech. “It would be creepy if I were with someone like Shawn, who is basically my twin, had I been raised on a diet of poutine. You couldn’t have me, so you’ve found the next best thing.”

“Damn right, cupcake. The professional chef version of you. My dream man.” Niall sighs dramatically, a hand over his heart.

“Mr. Horan?” A concierge interrupts, her heels clacking on the linoleum floor. “Your flight is ready. Mr. Styles, there’s no need to rush if you’d like to finish eating.”

Once Niall has packed up and they’ve said their goodbyes, Harry’s left staring at the link in Louis’ email again, the cataclysmic beating of nearby chopper blades echoing the beating of his heart.

He steels himself to click on it. He doesn’t even know what he’s so worked up about anyway—the two people he trusts more than anyone have already given their stamp of approval.

He clicks.

Oh, right, that’s what it was.

He was afraid to see himself through Louis’ eyes.

Except, well, it turns out he’d already known how Louis sees him.

Louis mightn’t remember all the things he’d said on New Year’s Eve, but Harry hasn’t been able to stop remembering.

He’s wondered if maybe they'd been harmless white lies to cheer up a stranger who’d just poured his heart out—Louis is a big brother, after all. But as Harry scrolls through thumbnail after thumbnail, he can hear Louis’ voice in his ear again, gritty and soft and hot all at once, like the hum of tires over pavement.

"Pretty."

Sarah’s right; the editing is not at all the current hazy pink ‘Harry's Styles’ brand aesthetic. Harry could filter these to get them closer to that, but now that he’s seen them, he knows that he couldn’t bring himself to alter Louis' vision that way, despite what he might’ve implied. He wouldn’t want to alter Louis’ vision, not when Louis’ vision is… this.

"Stunning."

Sometimes when Harry sees himself, usually when he likes what he sees, it feels like looking at someone else. He’s spent so many hours editing photos and watching back footage of himself that it's often like looking at a stranger. It’s an uncanny phenomenon he waffles between wanting to ignore and wanting to unpack. He doesn’t think he recognizes the Harry in these photos, either, but he thinks he wants to.

"Gorgeous."

His hair is longer than he realized, grazing his shoulders, pooling around him when he’d laid back on the white velvet. He’s been half-heartedly growing it out again, thinking it might help market Pleasing’s hair oil if he were a more obvious use case, but seeing it like this has him missing it being long just for the sake of it. (And maybe for remembering the act of rebellion that it was after his break up.)

"Raphaelite beauty."

Right at the end are the shots of dancing with Zayn, and he can tell, just from the thumbnails, without even needing to click on the videos, that they look completely believable together.

Like this whole farce might work.

Because, right, it’s the farce that’s the priority here.

Harry swipes up and quickly closes the tab in his browser.

It’s a nine-mile uphill run back to Inwood, but he thinks he might need it.

+LIAM+

Liam feels idiotic and underdressed, loitering on the sidewalk outside Bloomingdale's in Soho, dressed in a four-year-old North Face parka he’d gotten off ASOS thanks to a deep discount. Not helping his self-consciousness is noticing how frayed the seams at the zip and pockets are getting. He’ll probably either need to get it repaired or replace it entirely by next winter.

Or maybe he’s just fixating on it because he’s been standing around waiting for Louis for ten minutes.

Liam had arrived via the R train at two-thirty because he knew that if it wasn’t a professional commitment, he could reliably count on Louis being half an hour late. But now it’s approaching the forty-minute mark, and Liam’s freezing his bollocks off standing in one spot like this.

He doesn’t regret quitting smoking a year ago, but it leaves little to distract him as he waits, watching cars and taxis and buses drive up and down Broadway and shoppers go in and out of stores.

After what has to be fifteen minutes, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and nearly fumbles it into the gutter between his gloved hands.

“Hey Siri,” Liam isn’t about to remove his gloves. “Text ‘boss’: Where are you? I’m freezing my tits off.”

‘What’s that?’ The robotic voice he’d set to a Scottish woman’s accent sounds annoyed.

Liam hates feeling like he’s inconveniencing the robot in his phone, so he gently repeats: “Text ‘boss’: Where are you?”

Merida (as Liam had named her after watching ‘Brave’ alone in his apartment several Coke and Bacardis deep one night) answers more jovially: “I texted ‘boss’: Where are you?”

Liam doesn’t thank her, but only because he’s trying to stop treating Siri like a real person after a lot of ribbing from Louis about it.

He jumps when a text comes through his AirPods a moment later in Merida’s voice: “Boss messaged: ‘Fuck sake, I’m almost there. You waiting outside and texting through Merida? Go inside, DJ doop.’”

Clearly, Louis is using Siri as well. Not only is Louis more capable of getting his AI to swear, but his robot also tends to correct any of Louis’ many nicknames for Liam to ‘doop’ for some reason.

He turns to look at the entrance of the department store. The double doors themselves aren’t the most intimidating thing, but it’s what’s inside that has him on edge.

Liam has spent his whole life dealing with his debilitating shyness. He was a quiet kid who grew into an introverted teen and only came out of his shell somewhat when he’d begun DJing. Being behind the booth keeps him distanced from people yet gives him a context that makes interacting with them easy.

In short, going to a party as a guest is a nightmare; going to a party as a DJ gives him a reason to belong.

Shopping is still somehow the most anxiety-provoking thing Liam can imagine. Salespeople are so friendly that it makes him feel awful to dismiss their kind (if sometimes pushy) offers of assistance, but the thought of accepting their help sounds even more uncomfortable.

Louis has been his security blanket in these situations for years now (well, that and online shopping), so right now, Liam’s not sure what sounds worse: waiting in the cold or facing his fears of basic human interaction.

Then, he remembers his resolution. Even if it’s specifically to quit drinking and engage in more productive hobbies, if he’s being honest, what he's really keen on is becoming brave and independent—without falling back on liquid courage or relying on Louis to face the world.

And there’s no time like the present because, with Louis’ new gig, it’s looking like Liam is about to be doing that a lot more often.

Decision made, he rushes through the double doors before he can lose the nerve.

The cosmetics and fragrance section fills the first floor, and before he can even breathe in and inevitably choke on the low-hanging cloud of perfume, a beautiful woman dressed in all black with a face full of impeccable makeup descends on him.

And this is precisely what he was trying to avoid. He can feel himself go bug-eyed as he fumbles to respond to her questions about what he is looking for while pulling his beanie and gloves off to shove them into his pockets. (Oh great, one pocket is ripped down to the hem.)

“I’m, erm, looking for a suit. I just need to know what floor I should go to?”

“The third floor is the men’s section. Specifically, the northeast corner is where Hugo Boss and Theory are.” The redheaded woman looks at him hungrily, a slight curve at one corner of her mouth like she has information he doesn’t, as she lifts her arm towards the bank of escalators. “I can take you over that way.”

“What’s the occasion?” She asks as they reach the escalator, standing close enough that her shoulder bumps into his bicep as they step on. “A nice dinner with your girlfriend?”

Liam’s cheeks burn for a multitude of reasons at the blatant fishing, and he glances back down the escalator in a panic, willing Louis to appear before he’s dragged into the depths of the store by this stranger. But with no rescue in sight, he finally shrugs and chokes out the simplest explanation. “Just a birthday party.”

“A dinner party?” She purses her red-painted lips and tilts her head. She looks and sounds like she’s talking to a toddler, and Liam is beginning to resent that. “Or a full-blown soirée?”

”The second one, I think.” He really wants to sink between the metal slats of the escalator and disappear.

“You think?” She raises her eyebrows as they land on the third floor.

He can’t think right now, which is part of the problem. Liam can only shrug.

“Marcus!” She calls out to a younger-looking man with dark, gelled hair wearing a well-fitting black suit, who appears to be counting his till while dropping Visine into his eyes. He groans at the sound of her voice.

“Yes?” The man answers with feigned cheeriness, shoving the register closed with a clang. ”How can I be of service?”

“Our new friend here…” She stares at Liam intently, waiting.

“Liam,” he awkwardly supplies.

He really needs Louis.

”Liam is looking for a suit for a party.” The woman squeezes Liam’s bicep as she speaks. The gesture is far too familiar, and she is oblivious to his discomfort as he shifts on his feet, trying to subtly move away from her grip. “Shouldn’t be a difficult task.”

The man—Marcus—comes closer, his eyes widening a little as he looks Liam up and down. Seemingly satisfied with what he sees, he waves the woman off with a pointed look. “Thanks, Tracy, but I think I’ll be of more service here.”

The woman’s hand drops from Liam’s arm, and she looks at him as if she just realized…something.

Liam is relieved when she huffs and takes off the way they came.

“Apologies for the obvious thirst, sir.” Marcus smiles brightly, tilting his head. “It’s funny how kids these days want everyone to be at least a little bit bisexual.”

Liam nearly chokes. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t mean to assume she’s not your type, but I’ve been a fan for a long time, DJ Payno,” Marcus explains with a gentler smile before he waves him over toward a rack of jackets. “That’s you, right?”

“It is. But it’s just Liam.” Liam breathes a huge sigh of relief, although he’s completely lost on how to act around…a fan?

The kid—realistically, they must be close to the same age—is so chill. Much more so than Liam had been meeting Zayn.

Then again, DJ Payno is certainly not Zayn.

“Guessing about forty long for the jacket and thirty-four waist for the pants?” Marcus’ question brings him back to the present.

“Maybe? I haven’t bought a suit in years.” Liam mumbles.

The sales associate sifts through the nearby racks, throwing things over his arm. “I don’t want to fangirl out on you, but I can’t not tell you how much joy you’ve brought to my life.”

“Me?” Liam sputters, following behind and taking a pile of jackets off his hands.

Marcus stops, turning to Liam before gesturing toward a fitting room. “You probably don’t remember me, but when I was a freshman, I used to go to the parties you DJed at that penthouse-cum-dorm—the one south of Canal with rainbow flags pouring out the windows? Even after you graduated, my friends and I would check to see where you were doing sets. Not that I could make it all that often—I worked here part-time while going to NYU full-time, so, you know, that was exhausting, and it was maybe once a month that I could actually go out and enjoy myself. But, all the more reason to ensure the DJ was worth it.” He winks.

“Wait, what? Really?” Liam is frozen in disbelief, Hugo Boss jackets weighing his arms down. He can’t… possibly be… He’s not…anything… to anyone.

“Absolutely. My husband and I used to joke that we needed you to DJ the wedding because we fell in love on your dance floor, but we both know you’re too good for weddings,” Marcus smiles.

Maybe Liam should have Marcus call his parents to inform them of that sentiment.

“I’m so not…” Liam babbles. “I would’ve done it in a heartbeat. When’s your anniversary? I’ll be there if you’re having a party.”

“I might hold you to that,” Marcus laughs. He takes a deep breath, then shimmies his shoulders as if to wake himself up. “Promise you won’t judge, but last night was a rare night out. I was probably going to sleep when the ladies from Cosmetics woke up to start their morning routines, bless. But don’t worry, I am still more than capable of helping you find the perfect suit for whatever the occasion.”

Liam notices that his eyes are still bloodshot. “I wouldn’t judge.” Far from it—he thinks he might feel comfortable shopping for the first time in his entire life. And he knows all too well the feeling of clubbing into the wee hours of the morning before dragging himself into work hours later. “You’ve given me plenty to try on; we can go from there.”

Marcus unlocks a fitting room and pushes the door open, but before Liam can step inside, the selection of jackets is being yanked from his arms.

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here. No time to waste.” Louis descends like a hurricane, the fur-lined hood of his parka still covering his head as he sorts through the jackets. Apparently, Louis only approves of two because he tosses the others back to Marcus. “He’s going to try these, and we need to get the pants as well, lad.”

Liam is about to quietly chastise Louis for being rude, but Marcus just laughs delightedly and agrees to go get them.

Of course, he does. That’s the effect Louis has on people—he can act like a complete shit, yet all it takes is a quick smile to feel privileged just to be in his presence and earn his attention at all.

“You’re over an hour late,” Liam hisses once Marcus is out of earshot.

“I got caught up.” Louis pulls his hood off, and Liam gapes at the cropped sides of his carefully styled hair.

“Did you get a haircut?!”

“Did you get a haircut?” Louis parrots mockingly as he shrugs out of the parka and absently tosses it on the floor behind him, glancing briefly in the mirror and adjusting how the cut is styled across his forehead.

Louis’ retorts are usually much more clever than that, which is suspicious.

“Lou,” Liam groans as he slips out of his own coat and carefully hangs it on a hook, ensuring his beanie and gloves are secure in the pockets. “I waited in the cold forever, and you were getting a fucking haircut?!”

“Sorry, Lima. There was an appointment available, and things are so hectic I had to take it.” Louis rolls his eyes as if he’s the one who’d been put out. “Try on the jackets already, yeah?”

“You could’ve texted,” Liam mutters as he tugs his hoodie off.

Marcus returns with a pile of trousers, as promised.

Liam doesn’t even have a chance to say thank you before Louis is taking them off his hands with a charming smile. “Ta. Tell me—” He looks at Liam with raised eyebrows.

“His name is Marcus.”

“Marcus, love,” Louis is laying it on thick today. “What’s the turnaround time on tailoring here?”

“I can’t imagine Liam would require anything elaborate, so no more than three days if I had to guess,” he answers confidently.

“Perfect. Cheers, mate.” Louis bestows Marcus with a smile that’s wide enough to show his dimples.

“My pleasure. Let me know if you need another size or anything else.” Marcus is clearly hypnotized by Louis, focused entirely on him now rather than Liam.

It doesn’t bother Liam; he’s used to it. He does have other concerns, though, as he takes the trousers and places them carefully on the fitting room bench before firmly shutting the door on them both.

Louis seems flustered, almost manic. It reminds Liam of the time they hosted Louis’ crush’s massive rave junior year—in the very penthouse apartment-turned-dorm Marcus had remembered. Louis had experimented with hairstyles for weeks, only to have forgotten both the party and the crush by the time the event arrived, content to smoke in his joggers on the beanbag chair in their room with his unstyled hair falling over his eyes. Meanwhile, Liam had quietly changed out of his new outfit, dug out the receipts to return everything they’d both bought, then put a movie on while the party raged outside.

Sometimes, Louis got over things just that quickly.

Other times, not so much.

Liam pulls the first jacket on—a black double-breasted piece—and thinks he might like it. Better still, it fits well enough that he might not have to blow an extra eighty dollars on tailoring.

The other thoughts rattling around in his head are idiotic, and he knows it. He’s just being paranoid.

Yet, staring at himself in the mirror, he can’t help wondering.

“Do you have a crush on Zayn or summat? Now that you’ve hung out with him?” Liam calls quietly. He sounds so meek to his own ears that he wouldn't be surprised—but he would be grateful—if Louis hadn’t even heard his pathetic question.

Louis doesn’t answer; he just raps his knuckles on the door.

Liam feels even more pathetic as he pulls the door open.

“That’s preposterous.” Louis looks indignant. Still distracted, but indignant.

“That’s a big word for a Saturday.” Liam chuckles nervously.

“Every word is big for you on a Saturday.” He finally seems to focus on Liam and their conversation, patting Liam’s cheek affectionately, if maybe a little too firmly. “Or any day.”

Liam snorts at that. He’s not an idiot, but he does tend to mix and match the wrong words, his mouth always moving faster than his brain.

“It’s just…” Liam slows down, conscious of choosing his words carefully. “If you do…like if you like him and he likes you, ‘dibs’ on a celebrity is not a thing in real life. If it turns out he’s into guys, and you two have a connection, I’d be happy for you.”

“Liam,” Louis plants his hands firmly on Liam’s shoulders and stares into his eyes. “Zayn is objectively out-of-this-world good-looking. He’s far more chill than I could ever imagine someone with his level of fame to be. But I swear on me mum’s grave, I do not have a thing for your man.”

“Please don’t call him my man.” Liam laughs uneasily as he tries to shrug Louis off. “I just wanted you to know it’d be fine.”

“You’re so strong, noble, perfect,” Louis rolls his eyes fondly, patting his cheek again. “And warm.”

Liam suddenly feels like one of those strangers blushing under Louis’ attention as he ducks his chin, overwhelmed even if Louis is joking.

“But I promise you,” Louis drops his hands. “I am not interested in Zayn.”

Louis doesn’t lie, and even on the rare occasions that a white lie slips out, he’s one to confess quickly. But even though it seems obvious that Louis is not lying, it feels like he’s holding something back, and Liam feels foolish that he can’t figure out what it might be.

Then again, Louis has signed about a thousand NDAs, which means there are things he can’t tell Liam.

“I like it. You look fit.” Louis steps back to sweep his eyes over Liam’s torso. “I’m gonna go grab some button-downs. Try the other one, and I’ll be right back.”

Liam replaces the jacket carefully on the velvet hanger and pulls on a charcoal grey two-button athletic-fit blazer labeled Hugo Boss.

This might be the one.

He’s barely pulled the matching trousers over his thighs when he’s nearly pushed to the ground by the dressing room door swinging open and banging against the rubber stopper on the wall.

Apparently, Liam hadn’t locked it, and Louis is back to behaving just as manic as when he’d first arrived.

“Change of plans,” he swipes aggressively through his phone as he picks up his parka from the floor. “Forget this shit. We’re going to Bergdorf’s.”

“What? That’s all the way uptown.” Liam is confused, though he quickly drops the trousers to change back into his jeans, swapping the jacket for his hoodie and shrugging into his coat before Louis can reprimand him for any holdup.

Louis is scrunching his nose, focused on his phone. “Okay, looks like Prada is just a few blocks away?”

“We can’t afford Prada!” Liam exclaims.

“Is everything alright?” Marcus appears outside the door; Liam’s grateful he hadn’t walked in when Louis had exposed Liam half-naked to the entire floor.

Before Liam can answer, Louis pockets his phone and sends Marcus a reassuring smile. “All good, mate. You’ve been incredibly helpful. We’re just looking for more options before we settle on anything, you know what I mean?”

“Of course.” Marcus looks dazed as Louis brushes past him and hurries toward the escalator, pulling on his parka and taking his phone out again.

“Can you hold these for me, please?” Liam gathers the trousers from the floor and folds them neatly to hand them over along with the gray blazer. “Just for the day?”

“Not a problem at all, Liam.” Marcus smiles generously, half-laughing. “Your friend reminds me a bit of my husband. A real force of nature.”

Liam doesn’t have time to reply, but he mouths ‘thank you’ before rushing after Louis, appreciating Marcus’ understanding immensely. He tugs on his beanie and gloves as he hops down the escalator and strides across the cosmetic floor, avoiding eye contact as politely as possible with the woman who’d helped him previously.

He finds Louis on the sidewalk, still staring down at his phone with a death glare, a cigarette in his free hand, his wrist arced delicately as he scoffs at the screen.

“Prada, come on.” Louis tilts his head without looking up and begins walking briskly.

“We can’t afford that,” Liam repeats as he falls in step, easily keeping pace now that they’re side by side. “We can barely afford Bloomingdale’s.”

“We can with the check we got for New Year’s.” Louis huffs through a cloud of smoke. “We’re getting proper fucking suits for this party.”

“Lou, my parka is literally falling apart at the seams,” Liam argues firmly. “I’m not even properly dressed to walk into this kind of place, let alone buy anything.”

“It’s a mindset, Payno.” Louis rolls his eyes in clear exasperation. “You need to stop selling yourself short.”

“I’m not.” Liam can only put up with so much. “I’ll go, but only if you tell me what is really going on. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re clearly freaking out about something, and you have not told me what.”

“Fine,” Louis concedes with a deep sigh, halting in the middle of the sidewalk. “I just got an email with a credit to Givenchy. A fucking five thousand dollar credit. From Zayn.”

Liam is floored. Speechless. Itching for a cigarette, as he watches Louis take a deep drag.

That only explains the last few minutes, though, but Liam isn’t sure which way to push for more information.

“Okay, so why aren’t we going to Givenchy?”

“Because I don’t need anyone’s charity, Payno.”

“Maybe there was a clothing allowance in the contract?” Liam offers.

“I may not be a lawyer, but I read every line of that Tolstoy-sized document, and there wasn’t,” Louis huffs, tugging the hood of his parka down to cover his eyes. “And even if there was, I don’t need anyone to tell me how to dress. Not even a suggestion. I’m not a child.”

Louis is the most self-assured person on earth, so rarely insecure in any way, never questioning himself, that Liam is gobsmacked, but not surprised he missed this.

Louis is feeling self-conscious.

It may just be coming from the pressure of being contracted to work for Zayn, but Liam has a feeling that being invited to an event socially, rather than for the documenting of it that comes naturally to Louis, is possibly affecting him in a whole different way.

Louis has never given a shit about fitting in, but now he’s in a situation in which he might…not—and painfully so.

“Yeah, I get it.” Liam bites his lip. “You should get whatever you want.”

“Fuck!” Louis ignores Liam’s words and squeezes his eyes closed as he tosses his cigarette into the gutter as they approach Prada. “What I need to get is a fucking date!”

“Let’s just get the suit first,” Liam laughs, elbowing Louis’ side, which leaves Liam walking through the doors first and into a massive space that’s basically empty.

Five sales associates' eyes land on him and his tattered parka.

“Can I help you?” A woman with pale skin and dark hair pulled into a tight bun approaches, her heels clacking on the wooden floors.

Louis is standing behind Liam, practically hiding, but he supplies: “My brother needs a new coat. And a suit.”

Liam could kill him for throwing him under the bus, but he isn’t surprised by it in the least.

“Yes, I do need a new coat.” Liam smiles at the associate, then glances back at Louis with narrowed eyes.

“Come with me.” The woman seems entirely unfriendly and disinterested, probably aware that Louis and Liam can’t possibly afford anything here, but she waves for Liam to follow her.

Liam follows her dutifully, expecting Louis to remain right behind him, only to find himself alone with the woman. She eyes him openly—not at all like the associate at Bloomingdale’s, but with a sharper eye devoid of thirst. “I think I have a coat that will fit you very well. It’s on ‘clearance,’ though we don’t mark things as such.”

“That obvious?” Liam bites his lip, grateful when the seemingly stern woman actually laughs from deep in her throat.

“Let me take your jacket?” Her smile is much warmer now. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“I’m okay, thank you.” Liam is perplexed, but he pulls off his pathetic excuse for a coat and watches as the woman places it carefully on a hanger.

The knee-length wool coat she hands over is the most beautiful garment he’s ever seen, let alone touched. She helps him slide his arms into it, and he pulls it over his shoulders, mesmerized at the image reflected in the mirror as he buttons it over his chest.

“This is amazing.”

“I can give you another twenty percent off,” the woman gently presses a lint roller to the coat, taking away any invisible residue, “in addition to the fifty percent off that it's already been discounted.”

“I don’t know…” Liam hesitates, looking around but not seeing Louis anywhere.

“Don’t worry about your brother. Tanner will take good care of him.” The woman smiles sympathetically, her teeth visible for the first time since Liam had walked in. “You should take it. It fits perfectly, and at this discount—this coat has clearly been waiting for you.”

Liam still feels like an idiot and has no idea how to respond. “I’ve never bought anything this expensive, discount or not.”

He probably shouldn’t be admitting that to the woman.

She doesn’t seem put off, though. “I’ve been there. Would you like to see some suits instead?”

Before Liam can answer, Louis walks past them with his hand resting between the shoulder blades of an impeccably dressed sales associate—Tanner, Liam assumes. He’s flirtatiously whispering in the man’s ear: “We all wanna look good. You likely spent a while on your hair today.”

At this point, Liam has just about had enough. Whatever Louis is going through, if he's going to keep this shit up without admitting that he’s having an internal meltdown, Liam’s ready to do whatever it takes just to keep up.

“No, thank you; I’ll take the coat.” Liam pulls out his wallet, already working out an excuse for the expense, when Louis, inevitably forgetting this was all his doing, asks about it.

+++

Liam is wearing the new coat, his old one folded into a white paper shopping bag with the Prada logo, when he returns to Bloomingdale’s to buy the grey suit.

Marcus is delighted to see him and is more than happy to waive the tailoring fee for the trousers as he eagerly bags the suit jacket.

“What’s the return policy?” Liam asks, bashfully adjusting the collar of his new coat.

“Ninety days on anything from the rack that’s not tailored.” Marcus leans forward to whisper. “But with that coat? They’d probably refund you entirely for anything.”

“Oh.” Liam clears his throat. “Okay, good to know.”

Marcus winks. “Smart purchase.”

Chapter Text

+LIAM+

Liam’s mum’s face suddenly appears on his phone, interrupting the stopwatch timing his plank.

The building gym is empty, and it’s not as if he’s about to break his record, so he drops to his knees, removes the forty-pound bumper weight from his lower back, and answers the FaceTime call.

“Hi, mum.” He forces himself to sound more cheerful than he feels about taking this call.

“Hi dear, I’m not interrupting, am I?” She’s holding the phone too close to her face for him to tell, but he assumes that she’s calling with his dad after their dinner.

“Nope, just finishing my workout,” Liam answers, crossing his legs on the mat in front of him and dragging a towel across his face. “How are you?”

“Doing well! Just beginning to plan Nic’s wedding; it’s been so long since mine and daddy’s—there’s so much to consider!”

“Just remember not to take over, mum.” Liam does his best to laugh good-naturedly, but it’s a valid concern that he and his sisters have been discussing.

“Of course not!” His mum insists. “But there is just one tiny thing that your father and I have been discussing, and I think she’s too afraid to ask…”

Here it is, then; she’s getting right into it.

Nicola had warned Liam this was coming. It isn’t that she wouldn’t welcome him as her wedding DJ; it’s just that, one, she wants a live band, and two, she knows Liam doesn’t want to be a fucking wedding DJ.

“Would you at least consider DJing the wedding, honey?” It seems his mum has already been told where he stands, and he can’t fault Nicola for throwing him under the bus because he’d told her she should. “You’re the one who’s always gone on about what being a DJ means to you, so I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want a chance to share that with your family?”

“Of course, I’ll consider it,” Liam fibs, glossing over the cajoling that might sound genuine to the untrained ear, but that Liam knows means something else entirely. “But you know how Louis would demand travel expenses and a per diem,” he offers half-jokingly.

His mum titters in response; it’s probably as fake a laugh as his own. “Of course. But darling, you know that if you do this, so many guests would hire you after? Ruthie will be engaged soon, too. All of her and Nic’s friends will be in attendance between the two weddings. It could be very lucrative in the long run.”

Liam sighs. “The gig we had on New Year’s was pretty lucrative for us.”

His dad finally pokes his head into the frame with a frown. “Your mum is talking about the long-term. Not a one-off. You alright, son?”

“I’m good.” Liam truly hates FaceTime because he has to keep smiling despite all the annoyance itching beneath his skin. “I promise, we’ve had a lot of lucrative gigs that will benefit us in the long term, and there are a lot more lined up.”

(There are a solid few.)

“Just think about it, alright, hon?” His mum smiles sweetly while his father remains frowning in disapproval. “There’s also a lot of single men at these weddings, too, you know?”

“I’ll think about it, of course.” Liam smiles back, ignoring her last comment. (It’s an improvement over peddling single women like she continued to do for years after Liam had come out.)

They say their goodbyes. Liam goes back to his plank, and he’s so lost in thought that he breaks his personal best by a full fifteen seconds.

He obviously isn’t about to fill his parents in on what’s really worrying him these days. It’s not a lack of upcoming, decently-paying gigs. It’s the looming possibility that he’ll have to do them on his own.

Despite Louis’ zipped lips, he’s aware of the rumors that Zayn is going on tour—he remembers Zayn himself mentioning it when they’d met, despite being so overwhelmed he was only catching every third word.

(And he knows Louis isn’t withholding information for the fun of it or to torment him; he’s literally contractually bound to keep mum on anything that isn't public knowledge. Besides, Liam has a hunch that Louis is in the dark on a lot of things himself.)

A tour would mean Louis going along. With Zayn, who could open doors neither of them had ever dared to dream of, whether Louis stuck by him or moved on to one of the million other offers he'd have at his feet by the end of the year.

Louis would be living his dream of making art and calling the shots, working with people deserving of his talent, rather than the small-time promoters that often left him biting his tongue.

And Liam will encourage him to take every opportunity this job brings his way—he’d never want anything less for his best mate, one of the hardest-working and most talented people he’s ever met.

But all that means something else, too…that Louis will be leaving Liam behind.

Liam knows he’s capable of handling things on his own. He’s just never had to face the reality of actually…doing it.

God, his level of self-pity is starting to resemble a codependent teenager on a CW show.

He checks his phone and realizes he still has time for a run before he has to get ready for the party tonight. That’ll either clear his head or result in a further spiral into existential crisis.

He supposes he’ll take his chances.

+++

“I thought you were coming here first?” Liam sighs, unsure whether Louis can even hear him over the jostling and commotion on the other end of the line.

“Eh, I have to pick up me date first. He lives in bloody Astoria, so I’m already going around the world, and I don’t exactly have eighty days, yeah?” Louis grumbles.

Liam doesn’t bother reminding him that he’d repeatedly promised they’d arrive at Zayn’s party together. He just hangs up, briefly wondering how long it will take for Louis to notice.

Liam already knew this would happen if he were being honest with himself. He sighs as he smooths a hand over his new suit.

It looks good, but he still feels foolish as he pulls on his new coat and heads to the train, the chilly air making its way under the coat and into his bones.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Siri informs him, “Boss is calling.”

“What?” Liam tries to hide his irritation.

“Quit pouting and get a car,” Louis says sternly.

“I’m not pouting. And I am getting a car,” he lies. (A car wouldn't even cost much, but he’s still feeling guilty about the new coat on top of the suit.)

“I know you, and I know you’re not. Don’t sweat in that suit, Payno!”

Louis is officially worse than his actual mum because he does know him.

“I’ll see you there.” He hangs up and ducks into the station.

+++

Liam opts to wait outside for Louis because it’s a feat that he’s even gotten this far, and the parade of glamorous people making their way through the doorway that’s dripping with an enormous white flower arrangement certainly isn’t helping. Many faces are apparently familiar enough that security barely needs to check their list as they nod everyone in.

He feels like the other guests can practically see his old parka materializing in place of his new coat like some kind of twisted cartoon. (That is, they would if any of them were actually sparing him a glance.)

When they finally arrive, Louis’ date—who Louis had warned was Tanner-the-Prada-Sales-Associate—looks perfectly coiffed and politely disinterested. The guy has probably been to events like this before and already knows to act nonchalant to fit in.

”Just act like you belong, yeah?” Louis states in place of a greeting as he blows right past Liam to make his way toward the entrance.

”We were literally invited,” Liam reminds him with a shrug, following quickly.

Louis just shoots him a sardonic grin as the doorman checks their names on the list, then ushers them inside and into the lift.

Even though he’s not drinking, Liam’s first instinct, after arriving on the fifteenth floor and checking their coats, is to make a beeline for the first bar he sees, right across from the elevator doors.

Louis is right behind him, with Tanner in tow. He raises his eyebrows at Liam but doesn’t say anything.

Liam scrunches his nose in response before ordering a cran and soda with lime.

Louis gives him an approving nod before leaning close. “The invite said open bar, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Liam raises his eyebrows.

“I’ll have a Johnny Walker Blue, neat,” Louis tells the bartender. “Please, and thank you.”

Not only was that overly polite, but Louis is a drinker of habit and always has been. In fact, Liam can’t recall a single instance where he’s witnessed Louis drinking anything besides beer or a vodka-red bull. If shots are involved, it’s usually chilled vodka.

As he watches Louis wrap his hand around the cut-crystal glass, Liam begins to wonder who this imposter is and what he’s done with his best mate.

It must show on his face because Louis rolls his eyes. “What? It’s on Zayn. Clearly, he can afford it.” Louis waves a hand at the elaborately decorated room filled with webs of fairy lights and more enormous white floral arrangements.

Liam raises his palms in surrender, but it’s all he can do to hide his laughter when Louis swallows down a cough on his first sip.

Yeah, that Scotch is not going to be finished.

Louis gives Liam one final glare before turning his attention to his date. As he should, Liam supposes, but that doesn’t leave him feeling any less out of place, so he scans the crowd for Shawn.

He breathes a sigh of relief when his eyes land on an infectious smile beaming out over the crowd’s heads. They make eye contact, and Shawn’s smile widens before he excuses himself from his current conversation and makes his way over.

Liam feels far more at ease the second that Shawn throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into a hug. “Glad you could make it!”

“Why?” Liam laughs.

“Because, while I do love him, I can sometimes use a break from Niall and his delusions of grandeur.” Shawn ducks his head and whispers, “Is it a delusion if it’s true, though? Because I think this party was supposed to be even bigger than this, so I’m just hoping he doesn’t throw a fit.”

“Really? There’s so many people here, and we haven’t even been upstairs yet.” Liam peers further into the crowded room. He’s been here once before, for a total failure of a second date, and if he recalls correctly the terrace is nearly three times as large and the indoor bar downstairs.

“Well.” Shawn nods in thanks when the bartender deposits a colorful drink in front of him. “I was only half listening, but he got home late the other night muttering about Zayn not wanting it to be a big deal. So I guess this is their idea of compromise.”

“How so?” Liam is lost.

“Niall had already booked even more of this place and was ready to fill it. Zayn must’ve cut the guest list.”

Liam looks around again, not totally following. It seems pretty packed to him.

“How’s Louis doing?” Shawn leans down to ask quietly, which reminds Liam just how tall he is.

“Hard to say.” Liam shrugs. “He hasn’t told me much because he’s not supposed to, yeah?”

“Don’t be offended. Niall and I are literally engaged, and he doesn’t tell me shit,” Shawn laughs. “He says after we’re married that we’ll have the fifth amendment on our side, but I’m still not sure he’ll tell me anything. Or if his understanding of the fifth amendment isn’t based more on Columbo than his actual law degree.”

“It’s not as though he’s running a criminal empire.” Liam chuckles as Shawn stares straight ahead.

“Well, I’m just assuming he’s not, and that I will never need to plead the fifth.”

“I…uh…” Liam doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Kidding,” Shawn elbows Liam’s side. “The whole thing he’s fretting about these days is…well, actually, I can’t say what little I do know. Speaking of which…” Shawn rolls his eyes as Niall approaches with Harry Styles right behind him, wearing something low-cut and black beneath a black blazer with enormous feather-trimmed sleeves.

“You keeping everyone company, babe?” Niall slips an arm around Shawn’s waist and leans up to kiss him.

“Literally everyone.” Shawn beams dotingly at him.

“Hi, guys,” Harry mumbles. He seems out of sorts, almost shy, which seems at odds with what Liam knows about him.

All of the…cleavage on display, on the other hand…

Louis’ head snaps away from Tanner at the pair’s arrival. “Shawn, Horan, always a pleasure seeing you two lovebirds,” he chirps. ”Styles. Nice to see you…and your moth again.”

Louis’ eyes don’t even flicker below Harry’s face as he coolly delivers that barb, but Liam watches as Harry’s face reddens under his impeccable foundation and the literal blush painting his cheeks all the same.

“Nice to see you, too… Lewis.” Harry’s nose wrinkles and his bottom lip juts out and firmly reaches over the top one.

Liam has yet to understand what Louis’ problem with the guy is, but it’s becoming apparent that the disdain might be mutual.

“Well,” Niall claps his hands together jovially as if completely unaware of that exchange. “Everyone enjoying the party?”

Liam isn’t sure if he’s intentionally contributing to the awkwardness or simply relishing in it, but either way, no one answers.

“Shots?” Niall grins and winks at the bartender.

Everyone begins loudly talking over each other in protest, so Liam takes the opportunity to sneak a smoke out of the pack Louis has left out on the bar top and duck away unnoticed.

+++

The cigarette seems like the lesser of two evils, even if Liam doesn’t really want to give in to that temptation either.

It helps that he doesn’t have a lighter, so he’s content with the ritual of twirling it between his fingers as he climbs the stairs to the sixteenth floor, winding his way through the party to a whole other side of the terrace.

He gradually meanders away from both the intimidating crowd and the shitty house music—honestly, he’d have thought both Niall and Zayn would have chosen something better than this—grateful to find a quieter, less crowded area.

But, as he turns a corner, he’s suddenly very aware that he has no idea where he is, much less if he’s even allowed to be here. He feels like a kid in a shop who’s wandered away from their parents while they prattle on with some old acquaintance.

Shit.

He supposes the best option is to continue roaming until someone yells at him to go back the way he came, or, preferably, politely offers directions. He comes across an elevator before either of those things happens, and he presumes it will at least bring him back to where he left the others on the floor below.

His stomach plummets with the lift, however, when he realizes the single unmarked button is taking him down further than one floor. He must be in some kind of service elevator. He's never been kicked out of a place before, but it would be just his luck if the first time were less than two weeks into sobriety.

The doors open onto a dark lobby, though he swears he can hear quiet music coming from somewhere nearby. He turns a corner to follow the sound and comes across a large, empty game room with a long bar and vintage skeeball machines in one corner.

It’s the enormous cylindrical aquarium in the center of the room that Liam’s drawn to, though. Yellow and gold beams of light dance off the blue-green water, and several turtles swim languidly.

He still feels like a little kid, albeit in a much better way this time, as he watches them in awe. He steps closer, managing to resist touching the glass—or worse still, pressing his face to it.

As he circles the column of water, he notices it’s so large that it stretches through the ceiling to the floor above it. He watches one turtle in particular as it seems to look back at him before swimming upward.

Then, Liam nearly jumps out of his skin because a pair of human eyes meet his own from across the tank.

”Shit!” He falls on his arse as he stumbles backward, the back of his knees hitting an ottoman behind him hard enough to topple down onto it—all while miraculously not spilling his drink.

Liam irrationally fears he’s about to be scolded by a baton-wielding old-timey night watchman, but chimes of delighted giggles pierce the air instead.

”Hey, DJ Payno.” Zayn walks around the tank to stare down at him with his hands tucked into the pockets of a pair of simple black trousers. “What are you doing here?”

Zayn’s syrupy drawl is as unhurried as the swimming fish, which makes the question sound genuinely curious rather than angry or accusatory.

”Sorry, I—uh,” Liam stammers, as if he has any hope of a proper reply to anyone, let alone Zayn, right now.

Zayn just grins, raising his eyebrows as he waits.

Seeing his close-cropped blonde hair in person—Louis’ photos couldn’t possibly do it justice—is not helping Liam’s ability to make his mouth work.

“I was invited. Maybe Niall was just being polite—sorry…”

“Liam.” Zayn’s feline grin turns into a pout. “Niall sent the invites, but I’m the one who invited you. I wanted you to come.”

Oh.

“Oh.” Liam has lost the ability to form complete sentences.

“I just meant,” Zayn smiles crookedly. “What are you doing down here? Weren’t you enjoying the party?”

“I guess I, erm, got lost.” Liam manages as he starts to stand up.

“S’okay.” Zayn places a hand on his shoulder to keep Liam in place, then sits down beside him. “You’re lost, I’m found, I guess.”

Liam has heard better lines from slurring half-naked men waiting for the bathroom at seedy clubs, but this is Zayn, so he’s already sort of deciding where to get it tattooed on his body in the morning.

“What are you doing down here?” he ventures.

”It’s Niall’s party, not mine, innit?” Zayn laughs softly.

“How do you mean?”

“Don’t really like parties much—contrary to popular belief,” Zayn snorts. “It’s not usually my idea to go to one. Or to host one.”

“That, um, sucks.” Liam is willing himself to relax, and hoping that might make his mouth work. “But…happy birthday, anyway?”

“Thanks.” Zayn smiles, gazing up at the fish tank. “You might be the first person who isn’t related to me, working for me, or a fan to say that today.”

“Maybe that’s just because you’re hiding down here?” Liam teases before he can realize what he’s doing.

“I made rounds before I came down here.” Zayn sighs. “Like I said, this party isn’t really about me or for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Liam doesn’t know what else to say, but he does feel awful hearing that.

“S’alright. At least the charity will get some money out of it.” Zayn's cheerfulness sounds pretty obviously forced. “Anyway, I found these guys to hang with. And now you. I prefer it that way, to be honest.”

“I used to have turtles.” Liam blurts out, then immediately wishes he could join the ones here, and swim up to the floor above to escape. “Sorry. I just cannot shut up sometimes.”

“Don’t tell me I still make you nervous?” Zayn drags his hand over his buzzed head.

“Yeah, a bit.” Liam thinks he might prefer Zayn tell him to stop talking, rather than ask questions that send his motormouth into overdrive. “But, I mean, I speak before I can think all the time. It’s just how I am, and I wish I didn’t—” he rambles uncontrollably until Zayn cuts him off.

“Liam,” Zayn gently pokes the side of his leg with his finger. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“You don’t?”

“Not at all.” Zayn takes a deep breath. “You say what you mean. That’s not something I’m used to, but it’s why I like Louis, too. His lack of filter.”

“Louis is much cleverer than I am.” Liam takes a sip of his drink and stares down into it.

“Cleverness or sincerity, it doesn’t matter,” Zayn insists. “I prefer either to…well, have you ever met a real slow talker?”

Liam supposes he has, though he can’t remember a specific example at the moment. “Sure?”

“One could argue that they’re being thoughtful about what they say, yeah?” Zayn doesn’t wait for an answer. “Maybe I’m just cynical because I’ve had my arse kissed for so long, but it always feels calculating when people can’t just…come out with it, you know?”

“That makes sense,” Liam answers quickly, eliciting a giggle from Zayn.

“See?” Zayn nudges him gently again. “I know you mean that. You didn't need to think about it. Unless you’re just agreeing because you’d agree with anything I say?”

“I might be.” Liam manages to shoot Zayn a small grin. “But in this instance, I understand why you’d feel that way because of your circumstances, so I don’t disagree when I look at it from your perspective.”

“And you don’t think you’re clever?” Zayn teases.

“No.” Liam’s grateful it’s dark enough that his blush might not be too obvious. “Not really.”

“Well, I think you’re clever, though I imagine being Louis’ best friend makes that hard to realize about yourself because he’s pretty fucking sharp. You shouldn’t feel overshadowed, though, because there are a million different ways to be brilliant. And I doubt Louis would waste his time or energy on someone he didn’t think was on his level, even if it’s in a different way.”

Liam relaxes at Zayn’s sincere, surprisingly comforting words. Unfortunately, that leads to him saying: “I really did have turtles, though.”

“Yeah?” Zayn smiles with his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. “What were their names?”

“Erm, Boris and Archimedes.” Liam answers, tucking the cigarette behind his ear and swallowing the last of his mocktail to hide his disbelief that Zayn would care to ask about something that silly.

“Cute.” Zayn nudges Liam’s shoulder with his own.

“Real cute until Archie bit Boris’ foot off,” Liam says without thinking. Again.

“Liam, no!” Zayn gasps.

“Sorry.” Liam bites his lip. “That’s not a very fun story.”

“Then tell me a fun story, Liam.” Zayn gently plucks his empty glass from his hand, placing it on a table behind them. “Or do you need a fresh cocktail first?”

“Oh, I’m not drinking. My New Year’s resolution.” Liam explains before ducking his head sheepishly. “Sorry, that’s not a very fun story either.”

Zayn tilts his head as though he has an opinion about that but says instead: “My New Year’s resolution is to figure out new ways to make fun of Niall.”

“What?” Liam can’t hold back a guffaw.

“Mostly new grandpa jokes.” Zayn snickers.

Liam doesn’t know Niall very well, but he’s about to mention what Shawn had said about Columbo, when Zayn abruptly stands, gently pulling Liam up by the wrist. “There’s another spot I want to check out, alright? Join me?”

“Okay.”

As if Liam wouldn’t follow him anywhere.

+LOUIS+

On his lap around the rooftop, Louis finds a staircase to another part of the terrace before he finds Liam, so with a sigh, he starts climbing it.

After Liam’s disappearance at the mere mention of shots, the rest of the group reluctantly downed one before Styles wandered off, Niall got distracted, and Tanner and Shawn started talking about fashion and where to find pants when you have the legs of a moose.

As Louis stood there with nothing to contribute, he started feeling increasingly guilty about downplaying Liam’s obvious anxiety about the entire situation, so he figured he’d beg off to have a smoke and, hopefully, find Liam and prevent him from doing the same.

If he’s not up here, Louis’ll get his own cigarette between his teeth and then text the lad. Who knows, maybe he thought better of actually using the smoke that he thinks Louis didn’t see him steal from his pack, and is off somewhere else continuing to win the Eagle Scout award for actually sticking to a New Year’s resolution for… two weeks.

A rush of cold air hits Louis as he reaches the top—it’s freezing away from the tenting and the heaters, but not as bad as it would be if he weren’t wearing a suit and boiling from the stress of just being here, not as bad as it would be if he were—

Sitting around half-dressed like Harry Styles.

Harry is alone on the terrace and has ditched his ridiculous feathered blazer, which is complete madness in Louis’ opinion, not just because it’s freezing, but because Harry Styles in shoulder-to-ankle sheer black lace is a lot to take in.

Well, Louis supposes he’ll be staying quite warm for this smoke because he’s now burning up with the frustration of how, no matter where he goes, the bloke is there at every turn.

(Sure, he’s ignoring that, technically, it’s been a whole week since he’s seen Harry, but it just feels true, alright? Particularly since he’d spent hours that he hadn’t meant to staring at Harry on his laptop screen. For editing purposes. And also for trying to figure out what the fuck had happened on New Year’s purposes.)

To be fair, Louis is the intruder here. The spot Harry’s found is about as tucked away as one can get at a party like this, a completely isolated terrace all on its own, with a total of three small tables and a wall of white flowers that matches the feature wall downstairs.

Louis is still half-hidden behind a planter of boxwood and the glass railing at the top of the stairs, so he turns to go before Harry notices him but then stops in his tracks when he realizes what Harry’s doing.

He’s sitting on a low stool, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, adjusting the settings of a camera that’s locked atop a portable tripod stood between his spread knees.

The terrace is dimly lit, just a single string of bare bulbs and scattered candles on the tables, but the pinpricks of light from the skyscrapers rising around them are enough to reveal the contrast between the swirls of black lace on Harry’s jumpsuit and the pale skin beneath.

Louis watches Harry move off the stool to perch on a banquette in front of the flower wall, crossing his legs and twisting his torso while pushing out his chest. A remote must be tucked into his palm, invisible from the camera, because the shutter starts clattering, and Harry makes slight adjustments in pose and facial expression between shots.

The position has the muscles of his thighs straining against the sheer lace encasing them, making something catch fire in Louis’ gut and his mouth turn dry.

He wants to bite.

He wants to mark a perfect crescent moon of teeth in those thighs, to make a field of dark whorls that mirrors the shapes of the lace.

Fucking hell, what?!

“No,” he tells himself firmly, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“Excuse me?” Harry’s voice chimes in from behind Louis’ closed eyelids, a rumble as jarring as the thunder of the subway eighteen stories below them.

“I—” Louis’ eyes snap open. “Sorry, but… that’s not the shot.”

Thank god. Sometimes, the speed of his brain is a miracle.

“A jumpsuit like that, you want more legs, is all,” he doubles down. “To balance out the shoulders.”

Harry gives him a look, but it’s nothing like the look he would’ve given if he knew what Louis had really been thinking about.

And granted, Louis isn’t lying. A part of his brain—a lovely, intelligent, professional part that isn’t going entirely off the rails, thank you very much, thinks that pose isn’t doing Harry any favors.

“Because of the jumpsuit, not you, lad,” Louis clarifies. “I’m not in the business of body shaming anyone.”

Harry just stares at him, and despite the low light, Louis can see his defensive sniff clear across the terrace.

“You know what, never mind. I’m sorry; it’s none of my business.” He starts to turn back toward the stairs, but some invisible, masochistic force inside him won’t let him leave without airing his opinions. “Don’t you have a photographer for this, Styles? Or you know… lights?” He waves his arms around the dark terrace. “A flash?”

“Not really,” Harry answers, and it’s subtle, but his shoulders curl in slightly, hunching until his back hits the banquette's cushions.

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, aiming for gentler, willing himself to be slightly less of a know-it-all.

“I mean, I usually just do this.” Harry nods towards his tripod, his chin jutting out defensively. “My editor sometimes comes with if it’s particularly chaotic—like fashion week. Or if I’m traveling, I have friends around who’ll help, or I'll hire someone for a few days, but I don’t really like to work with anyone.”

Louis is speechless. (And not just because he thinks this is the most Harry Styles has yet said to him.)

Granted, he hasn’t spent much time on Harry’s Instagram; he’s really only followed the YouTube stuff, and even that’s just been when he’s visiting home, or his sisters watch things together over Facetime, or that summer Lottie had crashed on his sofa for six weeks because she’d had an internship.

But he’s seen Harry’s Instagram; he knows it’s good. It’s full of perfectly serviceable professional photos. And he’s supposed to believe that this entire time, they’ve all been self-portraits, for fuck’s sake?

“Not since Connor,” Harry adds, out of the blue.

“Oh right, yeah, okay.” From what Louis knows of his channel, that makes sense, but he’s not sure why Harry’s bringing up his ex like he knows the guy.

“I probably won’t even use these…there’s plenty from earlier,” Harry starts, then trails off. He looks positively morose now, like it had only taken the tiny pinprick of Louis’ incredulousness to deflate his metaphorical balloon completely.

Louis wants to march over there and take the camera off the tripod. Maybe he can grab something from downstairs that’ll work as a reflector so he can use his phone flashlight as an LED. He knows Harry’s not completely incompetent, but he’s never met a photograph he didn’t think he could improve, and this is no exception. Plus, that urge is now coming with a side of Harry’s look of defeat—which has no business even being there. Harry apparently does this self-portrait thing all the time. He shouldn’t even be listening to Louis.

Ultimately, though, despite all of that threatening to move his feet forward, the camera is a Sony, so Louis stays firmly planted where he is.

“Okay, well, you know the ‘morning after’ photoshoot with Faye Dunaway?” He tries a different tactic.

Harry looks at him blankly, so he adds: “The one at the Beverly Hills Hotel?” Nothing. “After the Oscars? When she won for Chinatown?”

“What?” Harry asks.

“Babe, no.” Louis covers his mouth with his hand.

“Wha-at?” Harry demands.

“No, no, no.” Louis cannot believe it’s just gotten worse. “Styles, this is what you do! How do you not know your history?!”

“How do you know?” Harry’s nose is scrunched, and his bottom lip is sticking out, and Louis sort of wants to take a photo of that, too. It humanizes him.

“Look, I’m the worst sort of nerd. The art school kind. Have a BFA and everything.”

“I do, too,” Harry echoes grumpily.

Huh. Well, there was something else Louis didn’t know.

“Tisch?” he asks lightly. He doesn’t think it’s the case, but he can’t help wondering if they’d been in different years, and had somehow managed to never cross paths.

“No, Columbia. S’where I met Niall.”

“Ahh, gotcha.” Louis shrugs. “Well, I didn’t realize that. I guess I’d assumed a fashion influencer would—”

“Have gone to fashion school?” Harry quips. At least Louis thinks that’s what it was. The right side of Harry’s mouth has lifted maybe a quarter of an inch.

“Well, I was going to say make it up as they go, Styles,” he tries to tease, gently, but it maybe comes out a little meaner than it should have. “But yeah, guess if you’d have said FIT or Parsons, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Nope.”

“Anyway,” Louis carries on, unsettled by them trading information like ordinary acquaintances. “Nothing new under the sun, right? Everyone has their references; I guess I just prefer mine to be historical enough that they’re uncommon.”

Harry doesn’t reply, and the silence stretches on until it’s awkward enough for Louis to plan his departure again, except, well, there’s something he’s been wanting to say, and this feels like his chance to say it.

“Listen. I’ve had a nagging sense that we made more than just small talk on New Year’s, and, erm, I’m really sorry it didn’t stick in me head. I’ve tried to remember, but it’s just that since starting this gig for Zayn, I can barely remember to sleep, so I was hoping you could just tell me if there’s something I should know? Like if I embarrassed myself more, or offended you, or summat. If I’ve got something to make amends for, I’m happy to take some shots for you now if you’d like. Even if it is with a Sony.”

“Um, no, thank you,” Harry sniffs, not looking up from where he’s started examining his nails. “I’m good.”

“Right. Erm, okay. Well, you know, Google ‘Faye Dunaway and Terry O’Neill’ if you want. You’ll get the idea.” He turns to go.

He’s got his foot on the first step down when Harry calls after him. “What's wrong with Sonys?”

Oh no. Can opened, worms crawling everywhere.

“What’s wrong with Sonys, Styles?” Louis spins on his heel. “I’ve never seen so many fucking menus in me life.”

Harry’s eyes narrow, and his jaw drops like he’s about to leap to the brand’s defense, but Louis keeps going before he can get a word out.

“And don’t even get me started on battery life—where do you even carry all the spares in an outfit like that? I’m surprised you don’t have an assistant just to lug around a case of batteries. Look, I’ll bet it’s half dead already.”

Before consciously deciding to, Louis is striding across the small terrace and unscrewing the camera from the tripod.

‘Here, forty-five percent!” he squawks, his voice going up in pitch at the shock of it. “Well, I guess we ought to work quickly then.” He rests the camera back on the table, then plops down onto the stool Harry was sitting on earlier, taking his phone out of his jacket pocket to pull up the goddamn Faye Dunaway photo.

Harry still hasn’t said anything, but he accepts the phone when Louis hands it to him.

“Oh,” he exclaims softly at the sight of Faye slouched in a patio chair, one bare leg kicked out of her robe.

“That one for sure,” Louis offers, reaching out to gently take the phone back and swipe to show him a second option of her perched on the edge of a table, legs splayed. “But not in front of this fucking flower wall. I’m sure you’ve already got plenty of shots with the one inside.”

Harry doesn’t dispute the assumption.

Influencers.

“Alright, up you go—” Louis stands, steps back, and points to where Harry should sit. “To the chair over there, in front of the railing. The shot here is you floating among the buildings, for fuck’s sake. We’re doing Blade Runner meets Faye, love.”

“Let me see it again,” is Harry’s only response as he unfurls himself from the bench, standing and squeezing past Louis, then holding his hand out for the phone.

Louis hands it to him, and watches as he memorizes the pose, brow furrowed and fingers pulling at his bottom lip. Then he flops himself down in the chair, slouching until his crossed legs are stretched out for miles in front of him, emulating it perfectly.

“Bingo,” Louis announces, picking up the camera to double-check the settings.

He also just…needs a minute away from the sight of Harry fulfilling his creative vision to stop his brain from sliding back to the sort of unacceptable thoughts that had started this whole thing.

“Shutter’s right next to…” Harry drawls impatiently. Sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah, I know how a Sony works, mate,” Louis contends, flipping Harry off without looking up. “Just give me a sec to get me bearings; we’re not shooting a runway show here.”

He lifts the lens towards Harry, pressing his eye to the viewfinder because he knows better than to rely on the blinding LED in the dark like this. Luckily for him, Harry had already more or less dialed the camera in to where it needs to be in these conditions.

He clicks a test shot just as Harry says, “Nikon’s shit for video.”

“A Nikon is not shit for video, you photogenic knob. Now, shush, Faye.” Louis keeps shooting, and Harry, to his credit, shushes, but his bottom lip sticking out indicates he’s holding back more commentary.

Louis isn’t even bothered; he’s too busy being obsessed with the lines of him sliding off the chair.

Those fucking legs.

All anyone is going to be able to look at in this shot is the portion of the jumpsuit that’s completely sheer pin-striped lace from hip to calf, through which Harry’s particularly stupid thigh tiger tattoo is just visible, but Louis’ is pretty pleased with the composition as a whole, regardless.

He’s been wanting to do a shoot like this for years, but it obviously wasn’t ever going to work with Liam. In fact, he’s still possibly a little too obsessed with the way Harry looks right now, so he goes back to talking.

“I’ve been using Nikon for video for years, and the Z series has solved all the minor inconveniences anyway.”

“Ha!” Harry chortles, running a hand through his hair and tossing it. Click. Click. Click. “So you admit that Nikon used to be shit for video.”

“I admit that some of us aren’t exactly rich, and we use the gear we have available to us. Speaking of which—” Louis lowers the camera, slinging the strap over his shoulder to pick up his phone from the table next to Harry. He turns on the flashlight and tucks it safely onto the steps behind Harry. It’s no actual light, but it might help some.

“Yeah, we do.” Harry agrees as he watches Louis assess the new lighting. There’s a defensive jut to his chin and a steely glint in his eyes that tells Louis (as much as he’s loath to admit it) that Harry might just get that, and regardless, he wants to capture that expression forever, so he fires off more shots.

“It still needs more,” Louis announces. “Can I have your phone?”

“In my jacket pocket.” Harry nods towards the black blazer that’s draped over the banquette.

Louis crosses over to it and lifts it to grab the phone out, being hit with a faceful of feathers and a waft of cologne as he does. Fucking Tom Ford, he thinks, grabbing the coupe glass holding what looks like champagne that’s sitting beside it and transferring it to the table beside Harry.

Once Harry’s flashlight is on and tucked next to Louis’, they try a few slight adjustments to the pose before Louis indicates for him to stand and lean against the railing.

It begins to feel easy somehow, speaking this language they both understand, that what slides out of Louis’ mouth next does so without any consideration.

“Right, so, Styles—you’re really not gonna tell me what we talked about?”

“I’m, um… I can’t,” Harry answers. Louis shouldn’t have asked, firstly because it freezes Harry’s shoulders, and despite his earlier white lie, they are disproportionate when highlighted by the deep V of the jumpsuit, and that’s how this mess started, and secondly, because, wait—

What the fuck?

“You ‘can’t’?” Louis echoes skeptically.

Harry shrugs. Great, now they’ve become hulking, angry shoulders, and just like that all the shots disappear.

“It wasn’t important,” he drawls.

Louis lowers the camera. “Okay, well then, which is it, Styles?”

“It’s not important,” Harry decides. “And you don’t need to do this. You’ve already made it quite clear that you don’t like me, so…”

“Oh my god, I knew it! I knew I said something stupid,” Louis interjects. “Okay, listen, how someone feels about someone’s work doesn’t necessarily dictate what they think about them as a person, and…”

Harry’s stopped posing, and is grabbing their phones off the steps, turning off the flashlights. “Oh, um,” he interrupts. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to see, but there’s a text here from your—uh, Tanner? He’s looking for you.”

Whoops, Louis had totally forgotten about that.

“He’s not my… we’re just… seeing each other,” he explains lamely, unsure why he’s even bothering, as he takes the phone from Harry’s hand. “So you’re really not going to tell me, and you’re going to be annoyed at me even though I’ve been trying to apologize and help you?”

“I already told you,” Harry sniffs, “I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, you said that and then you—” Louis flaps his arms in frustration. “Right. Okay, you know what? Fine, Styles. You don’t. I’ll leave you to it.” He turns and gently, primly, deposits the godforsaken camera onto a cocktail table before he heads for the stairs. “And if you end up using any of those shots, it’s fine. There’s no need to credit me.”

Chapter Text

+LIAM+

It seems Zayn knows his way around the hotel much better than Liam. He leads them further into the rear of the building until they reach another elevator that actually does go up to the roof. It doesn’t bring them to where the party is, though, but to another quiet floor with a roped-off staircase.

“Are we allowed up here?” Liam asks.

“Live a little, DJ Payno.”

Liam can barely make out Zayn’s grin in the darkness as he ducks beneath the rope and holds it up for Liam. He feels ridiculous for hesitating to follow, but he does until Zayn flicks on a light and rolls his eyes, seemingly amused. “If it makes you feel better, Niall rented out the whole place.”

Liam isn’t about to admit that calms him, but it does, so he follows.

Zayn keeps smiling back at him as they ascend the steps to an empty terrace that looks like it’s meant to hold an even larger event.

Liam wanders over to the railing, embarrassingly in awe at the view of the party in full swing below.

“No one’s even noticed I’m not down there,” Zayn observes sullenly, coming up beside him. “No one cares.”

“I care.” Liam shrugs, knowing his opinion probably doesn’t count for much.

“Do you now?” Zayn smirks.

“Well, I’m glad you’re up here with me.” Liam ducks his head, jamming his hands in his trouser pockets. “Boring as that must be.”

“It’s not boring at all. Quite the opposite. Like I said before, I much prefer this.” Zayn hooks his arm through Liam’s. “Niall likes to make a fuss. Well, he likes throwing parties. He rented out the entire hotel intending to fill it up, but I plied him with chicken sandwiches and curbed his grand plans.”

”Really?” Liam snorts, just barely managing not to die on the spot as the warmth of Zayn’s body scorches his side.

“Oh yeah,” Zayn smiles at him. “For future reference: Niall can be bought with food. You should let Louis know in case he ever gives him any lawyerly trouble.”

“Right, will do.” Liam would laugh if he weren’t trying desperately to remain calm and collected. “I just meant the space. Seems a waste, no?”

“How else will he learn?” There was that tongue-to-his-teeth smile again. “But I am sorry if you went to all the trouble to get a new suit, and it’s wasted on hanging out with me.”

“No,” Liam answers far too quickly. “Totally worth it.”

“I like it, by the way.” Zayn smooths his other hand over Liam’s arm. “Suits you very well.”

“I like yours, too.” Liam nearly chokes on his saliva as he tries to reply in kind.

“Thanks.” Zayn steps back, dropping Liam’s elbow and holding his arms out to his sides. Liam would regret the loss of contact if Zayn weren’t basically modeling for him. “Did you read it?”

Liam had already noticed the white block letters standing out against the black suit, but now he takes a second to read the words ‘We are so old we have become young again.’

“I like it,” Liam smiles. It's kind of like one of your early songs, the ‘Live While We’re Young’ and ‘Won’t Act My Age’ kind of anthems.”

“Well, now I hate it.” Zayn pouts, dropping his arms and flapping the coattails like a bird with clipped wings trying to take flight. “Those songs were so…not me.”

“Sorry!” Liam sputters. “It’s —”

“Joking, DJ Payno.” Zayn shakes his head, laughing silently, before he moves to rest his elbows on the railing, his eyes darting over the guests milling around below.

Liam settles beside him, trying to spot Louis among the mingling partygoers. Of course, he spots Shawn first, half a head above most, including women in heels, with Niall at his side. Liam’s surprised to see Tanner speaking with someone he doesn’t recognize, but then he sees Louis returning from the bar to him with fresh drinks.

There are other familiar faces, but not anyone Liam could actually name…

Not that he should recognize anyone, only… wait… is that—?

“Is that Sandi Rae?” Liam blurts out.

Zayn follows his eyeline and chuckles. “Oh yeah. I didn’t know she was in town. She’s actually… kind of a friend. I guess. We’re on the same label, and Niall represents her, too. We’ve met at a few events. She’s nice. Also single, I believe. I could introduce you, or at least put in a good word, if you’d like?”

“Oh, no.” Liam insists immediately. “I mean, I’m a fan of her music, but not like that. I’m gay.”

“I know,” Zayn chuckles. “I’ve seen your Instagram. Figured you could be bi, though?”

“Oh no, I’m pretty gay.” Liam blurts. “Sorry!”

“For what?” Zayn looks surprised.

“Shit,” Liam scrubs his hand over his face. “It’s the speaking before thinking thing. I’m literally apologizing for being gay. Or for being a fan of your friend? Or… I don’t even know.”

“No worries, DJ Payno.” Zayn stares down at the crowd. “I am, too.”

This time, Liam chokes at the insinuation, grateful he wasn’t mid-sip of a drink, as he starts coughing on nothing. He turns to find Zayn smirking at him. “Am what?” he finally manages to croak out.

“A fan.” Zayn smiles crookedly.

“Oh.” Liam inhales deeply through his nose, finally catching his breath. So that’s all Zayn meant, which is simultaneously a disappointment and a relief.

“A fan of you, which you already know,” Zayn winks. “But also gay.”

And there goes the coughing again; Liam might legitimately be having an asthma attack now, which would be a first, but Zayn’s already turned around and is heading back toward the stairs.

Liam thumps his fist to his chest, pausing when Zayn swivels back around just as quickly with his index finger to his lips. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone,” he whispers sarcastically.

“I…I…” Liam sputters. “I wouldn’t. Never.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow, full of suspicion, as he returns to lean his left arm on the railing, several feet away from Liam now. “You seem genuinely surprised,” he says.

“I am,” Liam answers truthfully; there’d be no hope of hiding his shock, even if he wanted to.

“Really?” Zayn cocks his head, incredulous.

“Well, I hope it doesn’t sound rude or presumptuous or…” Liam is fighting not to use Louis’ ‘parasocial relationship’ thing to explain. “But growing up a fan, I suspected, but also figured it was probably due to misplaced hope on my part…”

“You mean Louis didn’t tell you?” Zayn interrupts his rambling.

“What?!” Liam yelps so loudly that he’s surprised the music doesn’t stop and draw the entire party’s attention to them.

”I’ll take that as a sincere confirmation. Credit to Louis; he takes NDAs seriously. Remind me to tell Niall.” Zayn looks impressed and otherwise unreadable.

That is a lot of information for Liam’s mind to wrap around, sober as he may be.

Louis knew and didn’t tell him?

Of course, he didn’t. He does respect NDAs. And this at least partially explains his caginess for the past two weeks.

”You alright?” Zayn has scooted closer, but Liam hadn’t even noticed.

“Fine.” Liam takes a deep breath. “I just…no..he didn’t tell me anything.”

“Please don’t be upset with him.” Zayn looks concerned, as though Liam’s feelings about any of this even matter. “Contracts are scary, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to lie or not tell you things. But he legally can’t.”

“Oh, I know he doesn’t.” Liam immediately waves that concern off. “I’m not mad at him. I’m just processing that you’re gay. That you’re standing right here in front of me and telling me that you’re also gay.”

“You’re not upset that your best friend knew and didn’t even tell you?” Zayn’s voice comes out strained.

“Of course not.” Liam takes a deep breath, focusing on Zayn’s concerns over his meltdown. “Louis is professional and loyal to a fault, plus he signed a contract that doesn’t give him much choice to be otherwise.”

“Don’t you expect him to be loyal to you?” Zayn bites his lip.

“He is, but I wouldn’t expect him to jeopardize this opportunity. It’s suddenly making a lot more sense why he’s been trying to trap me into asking him about everything.”

“Why didn’t you?” Zayn’s question is so quiet it nearly fades behind the music.

“Because he’s held to a contract, and that’s more important than my curiosity.” Liam shrugs, his heart still racing as he grips the railing.

“Where the fuck did you guys come from?” Zayn asks in a whisper.

“England?” Liam offers with a smile.

“Doughnut.” Zayn swats his arm. “I’m serious. There’s loyalty and integrity between the two of you that money can’t buy. Trust me.”

“We’re brothers.” Liam shrugs. “He doesn’t lie to me, and if there’s anything he doesn’t tell me, I know either he will eventually, or he has a damn good reason not to. A breach of contract that could ruin his career is exactly that.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever had a friend like that.” Zayn bites his lip again as he moves closer. “That’s like… unheard of.”

“Everyone needs a friend like that.” Liam immediately feels terrible for saying that. “I mean, I’m sure you do. Have one, not need one.” He clarifies and hopes he hasn’t just completely insulted Zayn.

“I suppose I do tell Niall everything…” Zayn's arm presses against Liam’s as he considers it, before he laughs. “Not that I always want to.”

“He’s your lawyer, that’s the whole point, innit?” Liam wishes he could shut his goddamn mouth already because now it sounds like he’s downplaying Zayn’s friendship with Niall, christ.

“Cheeky.” Zayn doesn’t seem insulted; he shoves Liam playfully before pulling him back to lean into his side. “I like to think he’d be that way regardless. He always has my back even when it feels like no one else does.”

“Honestly, if your ride or die is also a lawyer, that’s probably a bonus.” Liam laughs.

Then, suddenly, Liam remembers where he is and who he’s talking to, and he just about melts into the floor over the warmth at his side.

”So…” Zayn moves closer still. “Louis really hasn’t told you anything? Anything at all?”

“Is he in trouble if I say I saw a few photos from the video shoot?” Liam regrets the words before they leave his mouth.

Zayn throws his head back with silent laughter before turning his eyes back on Liam. “I was more curious if he’d told you that I’m trying to have you along as an opener on the North American leg of my tour. The offer’s nearly finalized, so I don’t mind telling you. Not that I’d mind telling you either way. It’s basically happening—if you accept, of course.”

Liam blinks.

He blinks again.

And again.

“Liam?” Zayn’s eyes go wide with concern. “DJ Payno, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Liam manages even if his blinking has only become more rapid, and his heart is racing to the point that he subtly checks his pulse on the inside of his wrist just to make sure he’s not actually dying. “I just… Are you serious?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Zayn’s face twists in irritation.

“Sorry!” Liam apologizes quickly. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

“No,” Zayn gently lays his hand on Liam’s forearm. “Not you. Niall’s calling me.”

Liam bites his lip as Zayn presses his phone to his ear, answering coolly. “What is it?”

Liam’s heart isn’t slowing down, and he’s unsure where to even look while Zayn listens intently, meeting Liam’s eyes and biting his lip.

“Alright, well, I’ll come down there on one condition.” Zayn squeezes Liam’s arm. “Liam’s not convinced I want him on tour, but maybe he’ll believe me if you tell him my only birthday wish is a set from DJ Payno?”

Liam’s heart definitely stops entirely now. At least he’s pretty sure that’s what he’s feeling when Zayn hangs up on Niall and smirks at him with raised eyebrows.

“How about it?”

+++

Liam can’t exactly say no to Zayn, especially when they return to the party and Shawn pulls him toward the DJ booth.

Niall is currently standing there, holding a mic, and enjoying the spotlight far more than anyone who doesn’t make a living as an entertainer should. It looks like he’s at the tail end of a speech by the way the majority of the guests are enraptured.

“Once again, on Zayn’s behalf, I thank you all again for coming and for your generous donations to Feeding Britain.” Niall looks straight at Liam. “Before the bar shuts down and your drivers charge you for another hour while they wait, Zayn has one last gift for all of you.” He nods ever so slightly, and Shawn pushes Liam towards Niall in the booth.

“The final DJ of the night is a special one.” Niall pulls Liam to his side like an old friend, regardless of how little Liam knows him. “Liam Payne has performed the world over, having started his career right here in the city, and he’s recently become Zayn’s favorite. We agreed that his talent should be shared with all of you tonight.”

Liam had been prepared to perform for a crowd like this on New Year’s, so this shouldn’t be all that different, but his knees still feel wobbly as Niall wraps an arm around his shoulders and whispers in his ear, “Listen, I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess Zaynie has been complaining that this party isn’t what he wanted. But if it were up to him, the guest list would’ve been six chickens and a horse. Sometimes, he just has to accept that other people want to see and celebrate with him.”

That sounds like something Louis would say, and, as irritating as it is, Louis is often right, so maybe Niall is, too—though Liam isn’t sure why he’s being told all this in the first place.

“You doing this is going to make his night, though, okay? So thank you. Go get ‘em, tiger!” Niall grins and smacks Liam’s shoulder before he jumps down the steps.

All Liam can do is slide off his jacket, plug in his phone, and hope for the best, considering he has nothing prepared. At least the whistles and cheers piercing his eardrums seem to indicate that most of the guests are at least half-drunk.

He dares to glance around the floor below, and his quick scan lands his eyes on Zayn’s.

The crowd is sparser than on New Year’s Eve, but Zayn is again standing apart from everyone. He smiles up at Liam with his tongue to the back of his teeth and claps enthusiastically as Shawn and Niall flank him with enthusiastic whoops of their own.

It’s enough encouragement for Liam to relax into his set, his actions becoming automatic as he keeps his eyes trained on Zayn between glances at the crowd and the board.

Zayn doesn’t take his eyes off Liam, either. He nods his head to the beat, his lips curling into a smile. Even when Shawn and Niall bump his shoulders or other partygoers come over to tell him happy birthday or good night, Zayn only stares up at Liam and occasionally winks.

Liam feels like he could carry on all night with this sort of reassurance when Louis appears behind Zayn, looking confused and not quite as excited, even though he forces a smile at Niall when he slaps his back in greeting.

Liam isn’t sure how long he’d been at it, but he slows the beat down, switches to one of the house tracks, and grabs the mic. “I hope you all had a great night. Thank you all—especially Zayn—for having me. Happy birthday.”

Liam leaves the music playing from the house speakers as he unplugs his phone and shrugs his jacket on before bounding down the steps.

Most of the crowd, including Zayn, Shawn, and Niall, has already dispersed.

That’s fine—to be expected, even, he rationalizes as Louis throws his arm over Liam’s shoulders. “Alright, if I crash at yours, mate?”

“Not heading to Astoria, then?”

“Naw,” Louis tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “He already went home. Don’t think he’s the one.”

“The one?” Liam raises his eyebrows. “Not even for a night?”

“Wasn’t feeling it.” Louis shrugs, looking around distractedly.

+LOUIS+

Exactly two weeks after he last woke up on Liam’s sofa, Louis wakes there again, stone-cold sober and all too painfully aware of what had happened the night before.

He thinks he might’ve been having a dream where Tanner, Harry, Liam, and Zayn were cat burglars fighting over pirate treasure, but then the treasure was cats. The whole thing was nonsense, but he’s pretty sure there’s some symbolism in there somewhere that he’s going to ignore.

“Bleurghhh,” he groans, pulling the blanket all the way over his head and curling up into the smallest ball he can manage. Maybe if he just lies still long enough, he’ll turn into a cushion, and he can live permanently on the sofa, receive occasional cuddles from Liam, and no longer have to face his ridiculous, fucked up life.

Unfortunately, entirely without his permission, his ridiculous, fucked up brain starts replaying the events of the night before.

+LAST NIGHT+

“Did you find Liam?” Tanner asks when Louis turns up at his side and hands him a fresh IPA with an apologetic smile.

Shit, shit, shit.

First, Louis had forgotten all about Tanner, and now Liam.

Bloody hell, he’s failing at being a date and a friend because of Harry fucking Styles.

“No, but I’m so sorry about that, love.” Louis is; he really is.

The way Tanner is tilting his perfectly styled sandy blond head in genuine concern despite Louis ditching him for half an hour is so admirable that Louis is starting to feel like he’s been a shit person all around, inviting the lad out of a misplaced sense of competitiveness that he couldn’t just not use the plus one, then ignoring an anxious Liam for him, and now, well, whatever the fuck that had just been with Harry.

“I ran into a, uh, mate of mine who’s, erm, an influencer,” he explains. “He asked for my help with a couple of quick photos, and then I couldn’t get away.”

“Oh, that’s right, you’re a photographer,” Tanner smiles, just enough for two tiny dimples to appear like little tufts in soft upholstery. God, his face is so young and round and full of collagen that he probably still assumes the best of everyone. Sure, Louis has barely gone thirty, but he suddenly longs for the innocence of twenty-five.

At any rate, he knows where this is going. Queer men have been preening for artists at least as far back as the ancient Greeks, and the Age of the Influencer certainly hasn’t curtailed that tendency.

“Would you mind taking a few photos of me? That flower tunnel is so amazing…”

There it is.

Still, it’s the least Louis can do to make up for being such a shit date—even if it means taking photos on a phone.

Goddammit.

(Please @God, let no one utter the words ‘portrait mode,’ Louis mentally pleads, thinking it might be time to see if the ancient Greeks have a deity for tortured artists.)

He knocks back the second half of the vodka soda he’d acquired himself, plasters on a smile—the sort of utterly believable emergency enthusiasm he developed raising his sisters—and gets Tanner situated in the hallway surrounded by a cloud of baby’s breath.

Louis’ annoyance at being unable to sufficiently adjust the settings of Tanner’s iPhone aside, the lad is as stiff as a store mannequin. He’s the sort of perfectly put together that suggests it takes a lot of time and effort, and while the teal blue of his suit pops nicely against the white floral backdrop, it’s so shiny. Everything about the whole… look just seems… generic compared to what Louis had shot with Harry.

The image of Harry sprawled on the terrace won’t stop flashing through his head, and it’s such a stark contrast that Louis has to hide what he knows could become visible frustration while he tries to coax Tanner to loosen up and try a couple of different stances and angles.

Collaborating with Harry was more like working with the professional models Louis had sometimes done for photography classes at uni than what he’d assumed influencers were like. In fact, Louis supposes he’d always thought that influencers did more like what Tanner is doing —show up, pose in front of a feature wall, and collect a check from all the sponsors they’re wearing.

But maybe Louis was wrong.

Or maybe Harry is different.

Harry mightn’t have immediately gotten Louis’ reference, but he had wanted to make a piece of art; that much has to be said.

Regardless, Louis is a professional. There’s a shot here somewhere, and he’s going to find it.

Perhaps, if he can get in closer, a portrait of Tanner’s face through the flowers will work.

He gives it a go, leaning into the wall on his shoulder hard enough that he positions himself in the flowers so that they create a foreground to a composition of Tanner’s profile from the shoulders up.

Louis reaches out, murmuring, “May I?” before he guides Tanner by the chin to tilt his face slightly toward the camera.

He’s got stunning blue-green eyes, which almost make up for how hard he’s trying with his inhumanely perfect hair. But at any rate, his eyes look much nicer among the baby’s breath than his shiny suit.

Louis wonders if Styles managed to take a shot like this. The flowers would look like a crown, like his terry-cloth headband in his makeup tutorials.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Thanks for doing this,” Tanner whispers, looking straight at Louis. “Usually, I feel uncomfortable having someone take my photo, but you’ve made it really easy.”

“Want to take a look?” Louis lowers the phone and hands it over, but Tanner doesn’t break their eye contact to look at it.

“I’d rather do something else first.” As he says it, his gaze drops to Louis’ lips, and before Louis knows it, Tanner has moved in, and Louis hasn’t moved away.

It’s a… serviceable kiss, but it doesn’t feel like much of… anything. Just skin against skin; warmth. A five o-clock shadow that’s too sharp, and cologne that’s too strong. It smells familiar, somehow, but less… good.

Fucking Tom Ford.

And that’s what does it.

That’s what makes Louis remember.

And, oh fuck, does he remember.

He remembers ghosting his nose down the side of Styles’ face, breathing in that faint scent along the shell of his ear.

Oh god. Oh god. What the fuck.

He remembers, “We’re not really together, Zayn and I.” “Well, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you win him over, Styles.”

He remembers Harry pouting that he “wouldn’t be opposed to a snog in the catering kitchen with a handsome stranger, is all.”

Then Louis sees him on the terrace again with that stupid pout and those stupid legs immortalized by Louis’ lens while surrounded by stars.

Had they kissed?

No.

Louis had thrown up in the sink first.

But now, at some point during his flashback, he’s started kissing Tanner like he’s finishing something he’d started two weeks ago.

So he breaks away.

Tanner ducks his head down with a small private smile that Louis absolutely does not deserve, opening up his phone and flipping through the photos. “I guess I should post one of these.”

Louis watches over his shoulder. They’re not bad. The portrait is definitely the shot; he actually wouldn’t mind having a copy of it. That, or the first one he’d taken of Tanner from behind, walking through the tunnel, half-blurred so it looked like the flowers were swallowing him.

(Of course, as he’d framed it, Louis had wondered what it might’ve looked like if Harry had taken a shot like that, too.)

But Tanner doesn’t pick either of those; he uploads one of the generic mid-length ones to his Stories, geotags PHD Terrace, and doesn’t bother to ask if he should credit Louis.

“I should probably get going.” He turns to Louis after clicking post, his intent written plainly on his face. “Did you want to get out of here?”

Louis just barely manages to babble some kind of excuse about how he should stay and find Liam.

Tanner’s face falls, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. He probably thinks Louis and Liam have a thing at this point, and maybe that’s for the best.

“It’s just as well; I’m opening tomorrow,” Tanner deflects with a tight smile. “I’ll call you.”

Louis is almost certain he won’t; the thought is a relief.

+++

Long story short, hindsight is 20/20, and quarterbacks figure their shit out on Mondays, or whatever the Americans and their fake football say—Louis shouldn’t have gotten caught up in needing a date in the first place. A plus one isn’t a competition, despite his dumb, competitive brain making it into one.

It was funny, though, how he wasn’t feeling it with Tanner but was having all sorts of weird intrusive thoughts about Styles. (And, you know, weird intrusive memories that he was ninety percent certain he hadn’t made up.)

Both seem to have something to do with how Tanner had suddenly struck him as boring and… vanilla after the impromptu photoshoot with Harry.

Louis has often argued to his sisters that he can staunchly defend someone’s right to express themselves however they wish—in their art, style, gender, or otherwise—and have that expression be met with supportiveness and safety, but that that doesn’t mean that said personal self-expression has to be Louis’ cup of tea.

And, well, the ‘Harry’s Styles’ (the puns, christ, the puns) brand, for example, never has been.

But maybe Louis does have some sort of latent… interest in men (people?) who are, let’s say, somewhat creative sartorially or gender-wise, after all?

And who knows, maybe it’s mostly related to photography? Like he needs some sort of new muse? Maybe Liam’s particular breed of buff gym rat, erm, wolf, has finally started grating on Louis after all these years, and he’d just like to photograph a different sort of human for once.

And none of that necessarily has to do specifically with Styles.

Or well, even if it does, even if Louis is attracted to Styles (he’s never denied that the lad’s attractive)—and was buggered enough to almost give into it on New Year’s—he can acknowledge that like a mature adult whilst also knowing he still doesn’t like the guy. Louis knows Harry well enough (albeit mostly parasocially) to know that much.

At any rate, while Louis is nearly certain that Harry asked for that kiss and thus he didn’t cross any lines that night, even if Styles and Zayn weren’t officially together on New Year’s Eve, they apparently are now. The absolute last thing Louis needs to do is get involved. Styles clearly wants all to be forgotten, as well, which Louis can respect.

And he certainly doesn’t need Harry Styles as some kind of new muse, either. He’s got Zayn for that. Zayn and the multiple six figures he’s paying.

So Louis can just avoid Styles, particularly when he’s hardly dressed, remind himself he hates the bloke, and it’ll all be fine.

Work is the important thing here, not grammar school kissing games.

Ahh, well, best to come clean, get it off your chest, and move on, he decides.

“Leeyummm,” Louis yells from the sofa when he hears Liam shuffle out to the kitchen.

“Li—fuck, I remembered.”

“Remembered what, mate?” Liam croaks as the wicker Keurig basket creaks open. Louis wonders if there’s any tea in there. It’s definitely a tea sort of morning.

“New Year’s,” he replies from under the blanket. “What happened in the kitchen with Styles, yeah? I almost fucking kissed the lad. Right before I threw up. He was moping around like some sort of sullen Eeyore kitted up in pink sequins, all torn up about Zayn, and damn near begging me to give ‘im a pity midnight kiss. Jesus christ. Might throw up just thinking about it.”

Cabinets clatter as Liam presumably grabs his enormous salad spinner, which is confirmed when he drops the bowl onto Louis on top of the blanket.

“You use that; you clean it,” he orders. “S’too big to fit in the dishwasher.”

“Alright, alright,” Louis elbows his way out from under the blanket, sending the bowl to the floor. “I’m not actually going to vom, mate. I had two drinks last night.”

“Yeah, well, you might once I tell you—”

“But I am going to make a resolution, too. It’s only the thirteenth; that can’t be too late. No hookups for me. Not this year. I need to focus.”

“Lou…”

“I can’t afford to let myself get distracted, not by someone like Tanner. And especially not by someone as annoying as Styles.”

“Lou—”

“It’s just far too easy to let people down when I’m distracted, you know what I mean? People like you, Lima Bean. Or Zayn.”

That’s when the bleariness in Louis’ eyes clears up, and he notices Liam looks fit to burst.

“What?”

“Harry and Zayn are dating.” Liam sputters.

“Yeah, I know, mate. S’why it’s fucking weird he asked me to kiss ‘im on New Year’s. But it’s none of my business, I suppose.” Louis scrunches up his face in confusion.

Why does Liam look like his childhood turtle died all over again? Surely he doesn’t think Louis gives a shit that—

Oh.

Fuck.

“Erm, and how are you…. Taking the news? Are you alright?” He asks gently—as gently as if Liam’s turtle had just died. He doubts Liam needs the puke bowl, but maybe he can get him a cuppa.

“Course I’m okay, Lou,” Liam sniffs defensively. “Zayn’s a stranger. I might’ve talked to him twice now, but that hardly makes me someone he’s going to date. He and Harry probably move in the same circles, the same friend group. I’m sure Niall introduced them; you know how it is.”

“Right…” Louis agrees. He’s skeptical. That response sounded like that of a Liam who’d once processed a breakup in uni by emailing Louis a color-coded, two-column, bullet-pointed list about why it was a good thing, and how Liam intended to makeover his entire life in response to it.

It’d been chilling.

“How’d you—how’d you find out?” Louis asks cautiously.

“Ruth sent me an article.” He scoops the bowl off the floor, taking it back to the kitchen. “But Zayn told me last night.”

Louis’ eyebrows raise involuntarily.

“Just that he’s gay, not about Harry,” Liam clarifies as he picks up his phone. Louis assumes he’s about to receive a link to whatever new drivel has been printed about ‘Zarry,’ and his phone buzzes to confirm that.

“Alright, mate, well then, that’s one less secret, I guess, thank fucking christ.” He shuffles onto a stool at the kitchen island with the blanket wrapped around him as he reads.

+THE SUN+

Is ZAYN celebrating more than just his birthday?
The reclusive pop star has a rare night on the town

Relationship speculation continues to swirl around Zayn as he invited the who’s who of the music and fashion world to a star-studded soirée at Dream Midtown in Manhattan to celebrate his thirtieth birthday in style.

The blowout bash was uncharacteristic of the reclusive pop star, who resides on a 32-acre ranch in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, but perhaps his rumored new beau has encouraged him to venture off the farm.

Rumor has it that Harry Styles, the fashion influencer and YouTube star with whom the pop star was photographed on New Year’s Eve, was once again in attendance.

This time, insiders say the rumoured couple were glued to one another’s sides as a parade of DJs performed at the star-studded affair.

Although no photos were captured at the private affair, partygoers spotted them heading for the elevator together, perhaps to a private suite to keep the party going!

+++

“Hang on—” Louis looks up from his phone. “You said you talked to Zayn last night, yeah? And then he had you DJ? How long were you with him? Because if you were with Zayn and I was with Styles, when the hell did they find the time to be all ‘glued to one another’s sides’?”

“Yeah, was with him almost all night, I think.” Liam shrugs, his attention fixed on his phone. “I found him hanging out alone when I went to go smoke; we walked around and talked for a bit before he asked me to do a set. Sort of thought he was flirting, to be honest, but yeah, apparently not.”

“Well, I didn’t see Styles again after he conned me into taking his photo—he didn’t watch your set, right? I suppose that’s the way these things go, though. S’probably better if these rags make shit up than follow them around and actually spy on ‘em. ‘A private suite to keep the party going!’” Louis parrots. “Christ. I don’t know whether to be offended on their behalf or sickened by the visual.”

Louis looks up from his phone, both to gauge Liam’s reaction and to ask what can be sorted regarding tea. (This darling twit and his beloved machine that feels the need to revolutionize a perfectly good beverage delivery system that doesn’t need revolutionizing.) But when he meets Liam’s eyes, he looks positively green.

Ahh, well, there it is.

It looks like his little Lima Bean has feelings after all.

Louis props his head up his hand, blinking sleepily at Liam, waiting patiently.

One best friend, reporting for broken heart clean up duty.

Except.

“Harry, erm, did watch my set,” is what Liam says.

“Okayyy, why are you saying it like that, DJ Dodgy…?”

Louis sits up again, realization straightening his spine like a cold shower. He already knows.

They’ve done this once already; bloody hell, the deja vu is strong today.

Liam looks back down at his phone, his face all screwed up like he’s at war with himself because, yeah, how dare Harry Styles steal Lima’s man right out from under him and then deliver him thousands of new followers as a consolation prize.

“Let me guess,” Louis begins. “He posted a clip of your set again and tagged you. How many new followers this time?”

“Um. 20k. He, um, followed me.”

Louis blows out a breath, fluttering his lips in annoyance.

Way to go, Styles. Upping the ante.

“Uh, Lou.”

“What now, mate? Cause I’ve been meaning to ask you about a cuppa, but at this rate, I’m going to need the freezer vodka if you haven’t already binned it.”

“Harry tagged you, too. And I did bin the vodka.” Liam looks crestfallen enough that Louis is glad the temptation of alcohol has already been dealt with.

Except, wait.

What?

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, drawing it out, like if he asks slowly enough maybe the world will end before he gets an answer. “Tagged me where? I don’t have an Instagram.”

Even as he says it, he feels the blood draining from his face, probably seeping through Liam’s hardwood floorboards down through his neighbor’s ceiling below.

Louis did have his own Instagram once.

A long time ago.

During gap year, specifically.

Where he posted a lot of—

And with that, he’s racing to unlock his phone but failing on account of his shaking hands since Face ID is apparently unable to identify ‘panic zombie’ as a recognizable face that can unlock it.

He finally gets the app open—already logged into Liam’s account, of course—finds the tag, then follows it to Harry’s Stories.

Louis barely registers the photo of Styles on the terrace—it’s fucking gorgeous if he were to say so himself, not quite edited how he would have, but much closer to his style than he would’ve expected from Harry—and clicks on the tag that reads @louist91.

It’s as bad as he remembered.

It’s worse than he remembered.

There are dozens of decade-old photos of him. In nautical stripes. In braces. In capris and Toms. Shitfaced. Hungover. Hamming it up for the camera. Terrible grainy videos of jokes, skits, and pranks. Sloshed and hanging off all manner of men and boys. Licking their faces. Sucking their lips. Sunburnt. Covered in cake. Messy hair. There are photos of his swollen foot when it had been stung by a sea urchin. And his bare ass in the hospital gown. His first tattoo. His first three ‘boyfriends.’ Even some selfies from a time before they were called selfies.

Basically, there is nothing that looks vaguely like anything related to the account of a professional photographer.

He is going to murder Harry Styles.

But first, he might vomit into Liam’s salad spinner.

Louis hasn’t touched this account in close to ten years. He’s always known he should have a portfolio account, but when was he supposed to do that? With what time? Liam’s account alone has always been enough to keep him gainfully employed. By Liam.

And the worst part is that the photos have way more likes and comments than they could’ve possibly had ten years ago.

Or twenty-four hours ago.

Some of them say things like:

susiexx0: “omggggg he’s so cute. 😭”
harrysheadbands: @susiexx00 “I knowwww. Do you think he and H are childhood friends?!”
londonangel1999: @harrysheadbands @susiexx00 “Maybeee? That photo is so HOT tho. 🥵 Is he like a photographer? idk I still don’t think Zarry is real.”

They’re carrying on entire conversations as though Louis isn’t even here. On his own account. That he doesn’t have the password to, but still.

He’s spiraling, lost in the insanity, utterly oblivious to his surroundings, his body, or the rest of his human life when a text notification pops up on top of the screen.

Lots: OI LEWIS. STOP IGNORING US. Y TF DID HARRY STYLES TAG AND FOLLOW YOUR NAUTICAL TWINK ACCOUNT FROM 2011?! DID YOU RLY TAKE THAT PIC?! CALL MEEEEE.

“Lou…”

Liam is saying his name from a very long way away.

A mug of hot tea, no sugar, splash of milk, slides toward him on the countertop.

“Lou, private the account.”

Louis looks up. Then back down. Swipes. Taps.

Yup. His neglected account, which couldn’t have had more than three hundred followers, now has thirteen thousand.

“I don’t have the password,” he whispers.

“Alright, come on then,” Liam holds out his hand, takes the phone, and starts to fix things.

“You know,” Liam says after a few moments of silence, during which Louis sips his tea and contemplates various ways to make Harry Styles’ life a living hell without losing his job. (He assumes he hasn’t already lost his job because Zayn probably thinks this is hilarious. Zayn is probably laughing about it right now, lying beside Harry in an enormous bed with sheets made out of the tears of free-range vegan unicorns, the dickheads.)

“Lou?” Liam tries again.

“Yeah, mate?”

“Zayn, um, told me something else last night.”

“Yeah?”

“He, uh, wants me to open for him on tour?”

And just like that, being outed as a former flamboyant twink on Instagram matters slightly less.

“Oh my god, Leeyum!” Louis exclaims, snatching the phone back. “He told you?! Why are you letting me make this about me?! Fuck my bullshit! Today is about you! Yes! Finally! Fuck, what are we doing to celebrate?” He looks around excitedly; there has to be something they can do that doesn’t involve drinking or fucking strangers.

“Smoke a bowl and play FIFA?” Liam shrugs.

“Fuck, yes, lad. We’ve still got vices. Let’s go.” He hops off the counter stool.

“It’s just… Lou?” Liam asks, his big brown eyes not looking quite celebratory enough. “You’re alright with the Harry thing, for real, yeah?”

“Oh yeah, Payno. Promise.” Louis replies. “How about you and Zayn? Think the gig’s worth the heartbreak?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Liam proclaims with a determined glint in his eyes, though Louis can tell by how he’s gripping the edge of the countertop that that’s not the whole story. “It’s a dream come true, just as it is.”

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it? I only took the job because he told me you’d be coming along on day one. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you sooner.”

“Well, I would’ve made you take it, regardless. But I get it; you don’t have to apologize.” He looks down, busying himself with cleaning the nonexistent clutter on the island. “But, uh… Lou? I am a tiny bit upset about the Zayn thing.”

“Oh, Payno, c’mere…” Louis shuffles around the island, opening his arms to wrap himself and Liam in the blanket from the sofa. Liam, on the other hand, looks unnecessarily reluctant about this proposition. “C’mon, give us a cuddle, babe.”

“When does the tour start?” Liam mumbles into Louis’ shoulder once he’s finally tucked up in a blanket burrito.

“April, I think? Or May?” Louis replies.

“Alright,” Liam mutters. “Well. What do we do now?”

“Right then,” Louis declares, freeing Liam from the blanket and pulling away to grab him by the shoulders. “Well, for starters, we stop giving a fuck about the both of ‘em. It’s three whole weeks til I even have to see Zayn next. And that’s for the fucking Grammys, mate.”

The bullshit with Harry aside, Louis is buzzing from the excitement of finally getting to celebrate everything that’s happening for both of them, as it should be. He feels like going out on the balcony and yelling like something out of a film, but instead, he settles for letting Liam go and bouncing across the room to jump up on the sofa.

“That’s plenty of time for us to do what we’ve always done, Payno—make music, make art, make money. Hook up with fuckboys from the clubs—well, you should do some of that, I’m not going to. Drink. If you’re me. Work out—if you’re you. Smoke. Me again. Edit. Also me. Watch TV. Consume caffeine. Get high. Play video games. C’mon lad, let’s do those last ones now, please…” Louis bounces down into his designated corner of the sofa, fishing out the controller from under the coffee table.

“Yeah, Lou,” Liam answers. “Of course; always. But I’m ordering in breakfast first. You alright with bagels from the place downstairs?”

Chapter Text

+ZAYN+

Zayn groans when his phone rings, not because it’s early but because of the obligations he has to face today.

He’s just returned from feeding the chickens and taking his thoroughbred, Titanium, out for a workout; they’d been galloping up and down the hills at breakneck speeds, but he isn’t totally sure whose nervous energy the ride was meant to burn off—the horse’s or his own.

The weeks since his unnecessarily elaborate birthday have been peacefully spent on his farm, enjoying the company of his animals and the general sense of serenity that living here brings him.

But the world outside of the confines of his home never stops.

His publicist, Amorette, has been on his case because the gossip accounts and tabloids aren’t generating enough interest in his relationship with Harry. Apparently, without photographs of them together on Zayn’s birthday, they are of no interest to the general public. Plus, the fandom isn't buying them as anything besides friends. (Zayn’s sort of proud of them, but, well, it’s not helping.)

Amorette’s point is that “Zarry” is losing steam before it’s even begun, and Zayn needs to step it up.

As much as he’s loathe to admit it, she’s probably making a valid argument. Zayn and Harry have agreed to do this, what with the signing of literal contracts and all, and yet they’ve barely spoken since they first met and were pictured together at Niall’s New Year’s Eve party.

Sure, Harry was at Zayn’s birthday party, but they hadn’t really seen each other—or been seen by anyone else. Zayn was actively hiding from everyone that night for many reasons, but to be honest, Harry’s over-the-top outfit hadn’t helped. It was just another reminder of how little he and Harry have in common and how fake the whole thing is.

Zayn’s already showered and gone through his skincare routine, but he lets the phone ring without answering, assuming it’s Amorette with a lecture on everything he’s just been thinking about.

He gets a text next.

T Zimm: you awake?

Oh. The missed call was from Taryn.

She’s always on top of things, checking on him even when nothing important is going on. It’s just in her nature to make sure he’s alright.

(Zayn had invited her to live in the cottage on the back of the property a few years ago, though he was surprised that she’d accepted his offer over keeping her apartment in the city, where she could meet up with friends and not be so readily available to cater to his every whim.)

But this particular morning, Taryn is checking in for professional rather than personal reasons, to make sure Zayn’s ready for a day of agonizing meetings at the label offices before catching a red-eye to LA for a weekend of vapid, exhausting parties ahead of the Grammys on Sunday.

Seriously, fuck the Grammys.

Zayn knows he shouldn’t complain that part of his job involves attending parties, but he hates parties and thinks the whole awards show circuit is mind-numbingly boring at best and an affront to the art of making music at worst.

Z: I’m awake. Have been for hours, actually.

Since living on the farm, Zayn no longer struggles to wake up like he once did. As it turns out, when you’re not miserable at the thought of the day ahead, it isn’t nearly as hard to get out of bed.

Go figure.

So, he’s grown used to early mornings, but this is the kind of morning where he’s dreading not just the day ahead but the entire coming week.

He doesn’t want to dwell on that right now, though. He’d much rather soak up as much tranquility as possible before leaving it behind.

He pours food into the dogs' bowls from a bag that almost outweighs him and is nearly knocked over as the waiting dogs all lunge to eat and seek his attention for head scratches. Next, he delivers Dobby his usual mix of dry and wet food. The Sphynx must sense Zayn will be gone longer than usual because he graces him with purrs and leaps into Zayn’s arms for a brief cuddle before hopping back into his safe, little nest.

Zayn envies him.

Once those chores are done, he makes buttered toast and watches the sun rise outside the windows as he eats it. He nearly feels like crying as he swallows down the anticipatory anxiety of being away from home. Ever since moving here, he’s hated leaving, even for only a few days.

The farm will keep running just fine in his absence, thanks to the two local preteens who come to milk the cows, groom Titanium, and collect the chickens’ eggs, and the handful of professional farmhands who care for everything—and everyone—else. (Admittedly, the preteens are being paid too, just with a small trust waiting to surprise them when they turn eighteen, for which their grandparents, who are raising them, are grateful.)

But Zayn misses doing all of it himself whenever he’s away. Taking care of the farm makes him feel useful in a way that posing on a red carpet or providing sound bites for overeager journalists never will.

He’s been an international pop star since he was a teenager, and although he tries not to feel too sorry for himself about the isolation and loneliness that come along with it when he bought this place and began adopting his animals, it was the first time he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Animals are better company than the majority of people, anyway.

The farm truly is his happy place, and the weeks ahead will be the longest he’ll be away since moving here.

“Paddy’s here!” Taryn calls from the front of the house. Zayn can hear Dobby hissing loudly at the intrusion on his territory.

Zayn takes one last glance around and pets all the dogs, scratching their ears one by one and kissing their heads before he begrudgingly makes his way down the hall, like a dead man walking to his execution.

He laughs when he catches Paddy hissing back at the cat before schooling his expression into something more professional. “Sir, we should leave within twenty to make the first meeting on time.”

The luggage Zayn and Taryn have been packing for the coming weeks is probably already loaded in the car, but Zayn’s beloved Dolce and Gabbana coated jacquard trolley is sitting in the hallway, full of everything he’ll need for the next couple of days. Paddy swoops it over his shoulder, ignoring its wheels.

“I’m ready.” Zayn shoves his main cell phone into the pocket of his joggers, wondering where his other phone is and whether he even needs it. “I just need to find my wallet.”

“Here.” Taryn holds out the Gucci wallet in question, his (fully charged) second phone, and a thermos of freshly brewed black coffee. “Passport is in the front pocket, and I printed a boarding pass, but it’s also on both phones. Are you sure you don’t want me to come today?”

Zayn’s inability to keep track of something as mundane as his wallet probably instills little confidence in him, but he wills himself not to be annoyed by her mothering. (He knows he can be a pain in the arse, especially when there are meetings to go to and he’d rather stay home with the chickens.)

“I’ve got this, Taryn.” It’s the people he’ll soon be facing in a boardroom that he needs to prove himself to, not Taryn, but she’s a start.

“I know you do.” She looks skeptical but fakes a smile and gives him a thumbs up. “See you in LA tomorrow.”

“See ya.” He smiles and waves before heading out of the door behind Paddy.

“Zee?” Taryn calls quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know if you’ve checked the calendar with Harry, but…”

“What?” Okay, now Zayn is feeling impatient. Taryn should already know he has not checked the shared calendar because he was meant to have had these past few weeks free.

“It’s Harry’s birthday.” Taryn smiles nervously. “Today.”

“Great.” Zayn takes a deep breath. “So?”

Paddy is out of hearing range, already long gone down the gravel drive, when Taryn crosses her arms over her chest. “I know you hate doing all the fake shit, but you agreed to, and…well, I talked to him for a while on your birthday and…”

“Your point? Spit it out.” Zayn is rarely annoyed with Taryn, but it’s taking a lot of willpower to stay that way right now.

“He’s nice.” Taryn shrugs, unoffended by Zayn’s rudeness. “I think you should go to his dinner. Not necessarily for a photo op or anything. Just to be there, you know? He might appreciate it. I don’t think Niall’s wrong that you two could be friends, and maybe that would make everything easier?”

“Sure.” Zayn is definitely not going, but he doesn’t want to disappoint his most loyal friend. “I’ll think about it.”

She seems satisfied by his answer, but she knows him well enough to assume he’s not committing to anything if the deep sigh she lets out when Zayn waves and turns away is anything to go by.

Paddy is quiet, as usual, on the drive. Zayn silently thumbs through his phone before dozing off against the cool windowpane as the green countryside flies by. A little while later, the jerking of the car in traffic wakes him; the city skyline is just coming into view, which is always a simultaneously exhilarating and anxiety-inducing sight.

He opens his phone and panics when he realizes he’d fallen asleep scrolling Insta. A post from DJ Payno is staring back at him, so he frantically confirms that he hadn’t accidentally liked it or left a line of gibberish in the comments, sighing with relief to find himself in the clear.

After his anxiety subsides, he realizes the post is a shirtless photo of a sweaty Liam surrounded by gym equipment, with a towel draped over his neck.

He smirks at it automatically, deciding to send a quick DM from his anonymous personal, private account: looking good, babe.

Zayn is considering a follow-up message when Paddy announces: “I’ll drop you off for your meetings and be back to take you to Niall’s in a few hours. You have the afternoon free until the scheduled appearance with Mr. Styles for dinner at seven this evening, sir.”

“Can you not with the ‘sir’ shit, Paddy?” Zayn groans. The argument has been going on for so many years that Zayn doesn’t even notice half the time Paddy says it anymore. “And I’m not going to Harry’s dinner.”

“That’s not what it says on my calendar, sir,” Paddy states flatly. “Says I’m to drop you off at seven sharp.”

“I’m not going,” Zayn repeats.

Paddy doesn’t bother to respond. He arguably knows Zayn better than anyone—even Taryn and Niall.

Zayn sends Louis a quick text to confirm he’ll be available in a few hours, and attaches Niall and Shawn’s address.

The Escalade finally rolls to a stop on Madison Avenue in front of the label's imposing Art Deco building. Zayn sinks in his seat at the sight of a handful of photographers hovering in the vaulted entranceway.

“Management must’ve tipped them off.” Paddy turns to him, frowning with concern. “Want me to come with? Or pull around the block?”

“It’s alright,” Zayn sighs and pulls on a pair of Arnette sunglasses from his collaboration with the brand a few years ago to cover his eyes. “Just keep an eye out until I get in the door, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.” Paddy nods ceremoniously, but a grin is teasing at his lips.

Zayn flips him off before shoving the door open. He debates between smiling and waving at the paparazzi or keeping his head down but decides on the latter.

+++

Zayn does not recognize this executive, not that he tends to remember the rotating cast of white men who have been controlling his destiny for over a decade now. But he feels like he would’ve recalled this particular sweaty, beady-eyed, red-faced idiot with a gelled helmet of blonde hair if they’d met before.

“We’ve got some big names coming in to pitch the next video when you get back from LA,” the man chirps as he moves closer to Zayn from across the room.

Zayn is so distracted by the bloated face coming his way that it takes a minute to register what he’s said. “Wait. I thought we agreed I’d retain creative control for the next single since I went along with the team’s plans for the lead-off.”

He tries to remain calm and offer a compromise, even though that seldom ends in his favor. He wants to prove he can be professional and not throw a fit like he desperately wants to, but he still looks over to Amorette for some backup.

Amorette has been his publicist for the past couple of years now. While she’s an out lesbian, she’s also a tough-as-nails realist, and the one thing she probably loves more than her wife is money and power. Zayn’s always figured that’s why Clint, his manager since his very first contract, brought her on. On the surface, the move looked like acquiescing to Zayn’s desire to be more open, but the reality is that Amorette still prioritizes money over Zayn’s actual desires for his life and career.

True to form, she simply averts her eyes and hands a tablet to the exec while Clint nods in approval.

Clint and Amorette are apparently fucking cowards for assuming that Zayn won’t fight back with this guy the way he will with them.

(That’s yet another industry game—having your team pretend to have your back while they allow the label execs to play the bad guy so they’ll get their ten percent in the end.)

“That was before we saw the numbers, Zee.” Gel-head perches on the conference table near him because he thinks he’s starring in Wall Street.

“It’s Zayn.”

Only his friends call him Z. Zayn has about three of those, and this C-grade Jordan Belfort wannabe in an expensive yet ill-fitting suit is definitely not one of them.

In fact, maybe this is someone who should call him ‘sir.’

He mentally notes to tell Clint and Amorette as much once the idiot leaves. That is, if they don’t flee first and relay all their meeting notes via a call from Niall.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Right, Zayn.” Blondie’s terrible breath might just knock Zayn out cold, sour coffee and something else unnameable. “But you have to understand: The numbers are projected to be huge. Once we confirm that’s the case, we have to build on that, not take a left turn. Be reasonable.”

Be reasonable.

Zayn has heard those exact words many times over the years. Suddenly, it becomes painfully apparent that Clint has coached this moron. And even worse, he thinks Zayn won’t notice.

Those “numbers” probably have to do with Harry Styles’ appearance in the clip of the upcoming video that was teased on Zayn’s official social media accounts a few days ago.

Zayn isn’t sure what said ‘numbers’ really mean regarding public interest, but considering how hard Amorette is pushing their fake relationship, he can assume she and the suits think they mean a lot.

Her mumbled whispers and long, claw-like acrylic nails clicking at the iPad only confirm his suspicion.

Zayn already has his phone clutched tightly in his hand, ready to call Niall.

+++

Zayn lights a cigarette in the executive floor bathroom. “Look, you know I agreed to all of the mafia-themed bullshit for the last videos because it was a funny way to spend all the money they were throwing at me. And well, it was fun.”

“Well, they haven’t stopped throwing money at you, have they?” Niall argues. “They liked the heist concept for the first single, and the teaser of you and Harry dancing is blowing up with very positive responses! I call that a win, considering Clint asked me to write up a kill order to bury that video in the ground if it didn’t go that way.”

“You didn’t tell me that.” Zayn snorts, slamming his free hand on the vent that won’t open properly, the cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Are you smoking in the bathroom? The switch is on the left above the sink.” Niall cackles. “I never bothered to write it. Once I saw Louis’ gallery, I knew it would go over well.”

Zayn can’t deny it has so far, as he flips the switch and sends the fan whirring to life. He wants his music to finally be the focus after all these years, but he still has to play their fucking games, and it’s exhausting.

“It just makes no sense,” Zayn argues. “This album is stripped back; it’s not that same aesthetic. Why can’t I do something simpler next if the first video gets a positive enough response?”

“You went with the art heist. If you wanted to keep it simple, you should have pushed back from the get-go, Zaynie.” Niall laughs in the way he does when he knows Zayn can’t argue his point. “And again, everyone is going nuts over you and Harry. And we both know Clint and the label did not want that video to be anything but het, so we won that battle, wouldn’t you say?”

“I was trying to challenge them with that. All the dancing with Harry bullshit.” Zayn takes a deep breath. “I thought they’d never go for it; that was the point. But I thought if it worked, I might gain some leverage. Now it feels like it’s backfired, and they just want me to do more things I don’t want to do.”

“Meaning?” Niall asks.

“More stunting,” Zayn sighs heavily. “They don’t trust that my work will speak for itself. They want me to just keep feeding the machine to get the public’s attention.”

“Well, then, I suggest you come up with a pitch for what you do want to do, and make sure it’s something they’ll go for to capitalize on whatever leverage you have. As your friend, I support whatever you want—as your lawyer, you know this is out of my hands, mate. I’m sorry.”

Niall doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“I’m sure you are,” Zayn huffs around an exhale of smoke. “Twat.”

“Hey now,” Niall guffaws.

“I’ll choke you when I get back to New York, mate.” Zayn lights another cigarette, leaning against the tiled wall.

“Not tonight?” Niall laughs, sounding uncharacteristically cagey.

“What are you on about?” Zayn takes a deep breath. “I thought you weren’t going to be home?”

“Well, there’s always Harry’s birthday party…” Niall is treading lighter than usual.

“I’m not going,” Zayn states with conviction. “The Grammys are bad enough; I don’t have the bandwidth for stunting right now.”

“It’s just a quiet dinner,” Niall insists anyway. “Amorette has been losing it that no one is buying you two together since you hid all night on your birthday.”

“I don’t care!” Zayn stamps his foot and isn’t the least bit sorry that he’s acting like a petulant child. “I’m not fucking going.”

“Alright, princess. But you have to do something together eventually. You’re under contract. But I’ll tell Harry not to expect you tonight,” Niall laughs before he hangs up.

Zayn manages to endure over an hour more of meetings that he once would have bailed on. It’s never a guarantee that he’ll have his say or be taken seriously, but he figures that showing his face and using his voice is the first step this time around.

He’s ready to shake off every stifling moment in that conference room the second he steps into the underground garage, lighting a cigarette and waiting for Paddy to pull around.

“You’re making an appearance at Harry’s birthday, right?”

Zayn jumps, turning to find Amorette clutching her iPad and purse in one arm, using her free hand to expertly fix an out-of-place bit of eyeliner with the tip of her finger and no help from a mirror.

The sorceress.

“No,” Zayn answers firmly, narrowing his eyes.

“Well,” she doesn’t seem surprised or bothered by his answer, “we’ll figure something out. See you in LA, Malik.”

Zayn is grateful when Paddy pulls up because he never knows what to say to her, least of all right now.

+HARRY+

Leaning his elbows on his kitchen counter, Harry taps open the Instagram app on his phone for the millionth time that day, navigating to a conversation he’s opened an embarrassing number of times since it had begun three weeks ago.

The most recent message is a video he hasn’t replied to yet. It's a screen recording from a group FaceTime, featuring three lovely Tomlinson faces talking over each other to wish Harry a happy birthday and tell him how much following his journey has meant to them.

Louis’ message above the video reads:

Tommotakesphotos: Now that my sisters know I sort of know you, the consequence is them insisting I do things like send you this. So, just know you brought this on yourself, Harold. Hbd.

Harry doesn’t rewatch the video because he’s already done his makeup for dinner, and he doesn’t want to cry it off. The message alone is enough to start him grinning like a loon again.

He scrolls up to the start of the chat, which isn’t very difficult because it isn’t very long… yet. (He might... have hopes, alright?)

At the top, a tiny font announces: “tommotakesphotos tagged you in a story that’s no longer available.”

The Story in question had been a selfie of Louis looking deliciously sleep-rumpled, glaring at the camera with soft hair and tired eyes. A neat caption in serif font had read: “Hi, everyone. Just woke up and am now about to spend the day reconstructing this account. Thanks for the tag @harrystyles.”

Harry had snorted at the revised username, screenshot the photo immediately, and then replied before he could overthink and stop himself.

harrystyles: I have a feeling you don’t actually mean that, but you’re welcome all the same.

Louis’ response had come surprisingly quickly, and from there, the conversation had sort of just… flowed.

tommotakesphotos: I’m trying to be professional here, Styles, but I have a feeling you knew exactly what you were doing when you dug up a decade-old account and tagged it.

tommotakesphotos: How’d you even find the bloody thing?

harrystyles: Well, to be professional, you need to have a professional account. I couldn’t just *not* credit you. And I scrolled wayyy back on your friend Liam’s.

tommotakesphotos: Yeah yeah that’s what Z says too. Guess I should expect you two to talk behind my back. A heads-up would’ve been nice, though.

harrystyles: You definitely shouldn’t expect that. But he’s right. And you’re right. I’m sorry, though. I was on a deadline.

tommotakesphotos: And you couldn’t have used one of the shots I didn’t take?

harrystyles: I could’ve, but yours were better.

tommotakesphotos: Ta, but flattery will get you nowhere.

harrystyles: What about opinions? I need to put together a gallery for a blog post…

tommotakesphotos: Well, my rate is usually $500 an hour, but for today, it’s $666.

harrystyles: Har har. In that case, do you have a portfolio I can link to in the post? ;)

tommotakesphotos: I can have an opinion and a link for you in 12 hours if you give me one of those codes for a free Squarespace site you must have.

harrystyles: Done.

tommotakesphotos: Great. Shit, tho. Liam is gonna kill me.

harrystyles: Why?

tommotakesphotos: I told him we were hanging out all day, but now the hanging out has turned into me sitting on his sofa overhauling my online presence bc this influencer we know sent 13k strangers my way.

harrystyles: Oh nooo. What a terrible hardship.

tommotakesphotos: You know, I try not to resort to name-calling among colleagues, but you are tempting me today.

harrystyles: Sorry. I really am sorry. 😞

harrystyles: Can Liam be won over with food? (Niall can be won over with food.) I can send you guys lunch or Magnolia Bakery or something as an apology?

tommotakesphotos: You’re not sending us food, Styles.

tommotakesphotos: Hang on, is there a box of Magnolia Bakery sitting next to you that was gifted or summat you’re trying to get rid of bc you’re vegan?

harrystyles: Pescatarian, not vegan, but….

tommotakesphotos: Eat the damn cupcakes, Harold. I don’t want your sloppy seconds.

Harry hadn’t known quite how to react to that except to choke on his coffee. The phrase didn’t exactly fit their particular convoluted situation, but it had reminded him there was a situation to begin with.

He’d decided not to reply but instead had sent Louis a photo of the box of miniature cupcakes (promo from a dessert-inspired accessories designer), the link to the gallery he was choosing from for the blog post, and one of his coveted codes for an annual subscription to Squarespace.

(His standing 15% affiliate discount is unlimited, but he only gets a handful of freebies a year. He was on the fence about whether Louis really deserved one but ultimately decided that it was a much better apology than secondhand cupcakes.)

A few hours later, Louis had sent him back the file names of his top ten selects and a link to a newly created portfolio site.

(Harry was disappointed but not surprised to see that none of his photos were featured on it. He spent entirely too long clicking through the handful of pages, wondering if Louis had saved his photos even if he didn’t use them.)

Harry hadn’t known what to expect when he dug up and tagged Louis’ old account, but honestly, it wasn’t any of that.

All he knew was that he’d been feeling petty—about Louis being too good for social media, about Louis taking over and shooting even more photos of Harry that made him feel some kind of way, and then still not remembering New Year’s Eve—but expecting Harry to explain what had happened—and finally, about how Louis had stormed off to go cuddle with his date in the very flower tunnel he’d made fun of Harry for photographing.

Tracking down and tagging Louis’ neglected Instagram in retaliation was irrational. It was immature. It was petty. But Harry had just needed some kind of… outlet for how frustrated he was that he couldn’t seem to escape Louis. Louis and his straight-off-the-pages-of-GQ man friend literally blocking his attempted early exit from the party had simply been the last straw.

Plus, Louis’ ‘no socials’ remark and Sarah’s promise that she couldn’t find a trace of him was, well, let’s just say Harry couldn’t pass up a challenge like that.

(Sarah’s face when she’d turned up for work on Monday, having clearly witnessed the tagging debacle, indicated that she had found the account but that she is a professional, not a petty bitch like him.)

At any rate, Louis hadn’t seemed too annoyed in the end, and now Harry has him in his DM’s (alongside an inappropriate sense of satisfaction to have learned he hadn’t spent that morning with his date from the party).

Somehow, that feels much better than trying and failing to pretend Louis doesn’t exist or that Harry isn't irrationally obsessed with him.

Plus, Harry is invested in Louis’ Insta now. He was the catalyst for it, after all. He’s used that excuse to drop into Louis’ inbox a few times since, as he’s started actually using his new-old account to document his adventures with his friend Liam.

So far, Louis has always replied, usually with a single vaguely snarky sentence, but he hadn’t initiated a message until the birthday one that morning.

Harry scrolls back down, smiling stupidly at it again, and is still smiling at it when his phone rings.

It’s Amorette, Zayn’s publicist, calling. Harry hasn’t met her in person yet, but he’s done his research on her too, so he pictures the bouncy curls she's sporting in an IG photo of her cheek-to-cheek with her wife because that mental image is far less intimidating than the severe bun she seems to wear most of the time.

“Hiii?” he answers hesitantly.

The single syllable isn’t even out before she replies. “Zayn won’t be attending tonight.”

Harry feels a surge of relief down to his toes despite knowing he shouldn’t consider himself off the hook just yet.

“Okay, alright.” Harry tries to play it cool as Sarah raises her eyebrows at him from where she’s huddled over her laptop on the sofa. “That’s fine.”

“We’ll have someone post birthday wishes on his stories,” Amorette continues. “I’m not sure yet if it’ll be one of the photos from New Year’s or a selfie. Of course, having something from Zayn’s birthday would have been preferable, but we’re dealing with that. You’ll repost his Story to yours. Keep it simple: a thanks, a tag, a couple of emojis. Alright?”

“Yeah, um, fine. I can do that. It’s totally fine," Harry agrees. He certainly isn’t lying. Reposting a story is nothing that he doesn’t do multiple times a day. And not having to deal with anything beyond that is the second best birthday gift he’s gotten so far.

They hang up just as Nik waltzes through the sliding door with her boyfriend/photographer, Felix, behind her. She’d come over to help Harry pick out an outfit for tonight, and they’d been outside shooting her own outfit first.

“You know I love your garden, H, but fuck me, it’s too cold. It’s not worth freezing my tits off for natural light.”

Felix rolls his eyes at his partner because he does care about natural light, and Harry can’t help it; he grins at the pair like they’ve just returned from months at sea. He’s suddenly immensely grateful to have one last night with his friends all to himself.

“Oh honey, what is that face?” Nik exclaims. “You’ve been staring at your phone all afternoon looking, how do you say—liebestoll? You’ve been texting your man?”

Harry can’t help but make eye contact with Sarah across the room before he answers. Her expression gives nothing away except the discovery that she has a much better poker face than Harry.

“What? Now, what is this look?!” Nik gestures between him and Sarah. “Who died?”

“No, nothing. It’s, uh, it’s fine,” Harry stammers. “Just, Zayn isn’t coming tonight after all. He’s heading out to LA for the Grammys.”

There. He pulled that off. Sort of.

Nik raises her eyebrows skeptically. “We’re all heading to LA for the Grammys, are we not?” Harry must immediately look defensive, albeit for different reasons than she thinks, because she adds, “Okay, yeah, yeah, I get it. The A-list has a different schedule to us mortals. I only want to make sure he deserves you, schnucki. And that he knows what he’s missing out on, yeah?” She waves a hand up and down at Harry. “Let’s pick out something for you that will make the pop star regret his flight arrangements, yes? Are we taking photos here or going to Niall’s before the restaurant?”

“Let me call him, and I’ll see.” Harry quickly agrees. Once Nik is distracted by clothes, she’ll forget all about what his face is or isn’t doing.

“Okay, babe. Felix is going to run out to get us coffees, and I’ll be raiding the closet,” she announces imperiously, leaving everyone with no choice but to follow her marching orders.

Aries people, Harry thinks.

“And we’ve got to get you a bigger apartment,” she calls as she heads into Harry’s spare bedroom. “I don’t know how you stay sane surrounded by so many boxes…”

Dealing with the excessive amount of product samples—both his own and those gifted by other brands—piled around his apartment is the least of Harry’s worries these days, so he turns his attention to calling Niall.

“Birthday baby!” Niall yells, picking up on the second ring.

“Hiii,” Harry greets him. “Just checking if we should head to yours for a drink first tonight?”

“No, no, erm, ours is out of commission. And I’m still at the office, and Shawnie is with the realtor looking at restaurant spaces.”

“Out of commission?” Harry asks because that could mean anything, from Shawn finally getting his dream kitchen to the neighbors’ flooding again.

Niall sighs. “Zed is hanging out there before his flight to LA tonight. He’s not coming, you know that, right?”

“So I’ve heard.” Harry is chuckling at how the answer is far less dramatic than Niall had made it seem when a thought occurs to him.

He glances around to make sure no one’s in the room but Sarah and then asks: “Wait, you know—Amorette’s been grumbling about not having more photos. I could swing by there on the way, and we could take some. Best of both worlds?”

“I don’t know about that, mate,” Niall hedges. “He’s not in the right headspace, you know? Also, he’s meeting with Louis there to talk shop.”

“Oh well, that could be helpful? Louis could…”

“H, look, I know you mean well, but today’s not the day. Don’t worry about Amorette. She’ll calm down, and it’ll all work out; it always does,” Niall insists, and Harry knows this is the end of the discussion.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” he agrees. “I just want to be sure we’re doing what we need to do…”

“Poodle, it’s your birthday; worry about Zed’s nonsense any of the other 365 days this year, yeah?” Niall assures him. “Tonight is about sheep’s milk ricotta.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry giggles. “Can’t wait. See you in a bit, Ni.”

“See ya, birthday bean!”

+ZAYN+

Zayn has finally settled onto Shawn and Niall’s overstuffed cream-colored sectional, a nature documentary streaming on the enormous flatscreen, when Louis texts.

L: Downstairs. This place is proper posh. Forgot my monocle, I’m afraid. Though I suppose I can pass for a maintenance worker if need be.

It’s precisely the kind of comment Zayn had expected, and that expectation was what had him changing out of his Adidas for Prada tracksuit into a regular Adidas tracksuit before he left the farm that morning.

(He figured Caroline would have something to say about that if the paps caught him—which they always did in the city, as evidenced by the ones camped outside the label earlier—so he’d compromised on a set from the flashy, colorful, and well-publicized Love Unites collection. Zayn is well aware that considering such things when getting dressed in the morning is completely absurd, but such is his life. At least he has a wardrobe that never fails to provide something precisely suited for the occasion.)

Z: They have your name at the desk. Show your ID, and they’ll let you up.

Louis lets out a low whistle as he steps out of the elevator and into the foyer of the open floor plan penthouse, dropping his bags next to the elevator doors.

He tucks his hands in the pockets of his black joggers and sends Zayn a crooked grin. “You’ll excuse me as I take this all in. I mean, it’s exactly what I expected, right out of a magazine. Just my first time here and all.”

“Long way from Yorkshire, yeah?” Zayn folds his hands behind his head and leans back into the soft cushions.

“Long way from Bed-Stuy, too,” Louis chuckles as he slowly walks around the room, squinting at the framed photos of Niall at events with various clients on the bookshelves alongside the expensive, framed modern art on the walls. “So this is how the other half lives, huh?”

“Suppose so?” Zayn closes his eyes, unbothered. He must have had the same reaction himself at the beginning, though perhaps more quietly. “But not all things change. I’ve just ordered us the best fish and chips in the city.”

“No caviar?” Louis’ voice is laced with sarcasm.

Zayn sits up and rubs his eyes. It’s been a long fucking day, and his patience is wearing thin—if he ever had any to begin with. He takes a deep breath, trying not to get agitated. “If it bothers you that much, I can grab a cap and call Paddy, and we can find a pub somewhere. New Yorkers tend not to be too fussed. Tourists can be an issue, but usually not in Tribeca…”

“Zayn, mate.” Louis finally sits down on the chaise at the other end of the sectional and huffs out a breath. “‘M only taking the piss. Defense mechanism. Like, this is all a bit intimidating, you know? Siri doesn’t have an answer for ‘How do I prepare to hang out in a pop star’s penthouse?’”

“Well, if it helps,” Zayn leans back again, “it’s not mine. It’s Niall and Shawn’s. And don’t be intimidated. Shawn is a hot slob, which Niall begrudgingly deals with, but he definitely had the housekeeper deep clean when I told him I’d invited you to hang out.”

“Really?” Louis snorts as he looks up from where he’s begun running his hand gingerly over the soft leather. “Did you think I’d knick something if I came to yours?”

“Naw,” Zayn snickers. “Just no point in booking a hotel when we’re leaving for the airport in a few hours.”

“Why would you need a hotel?” Louis tilts his head, looking confused.

“I don’t have a place in the city anymore,” Zayn admits.

“Alright. So where do you live then?” Louis laughs.

Zayn supposes he can tell the truth because, for one, he trusts Louis, and for another—well, he’s going to have to trust Louis, at least to some extent.

“I live on a farm in Pennsylvania.”

“Do you now?” Louis snorts doubtfully. “I sort of assumed that was another lie fed to the media so they’d leave you alone.”

“Nope.” Zayn smiles proudly. “That’s something the media has right for once. Though I suppose I did move out there so I’d be left alone.”

“So what, it’s like a proper country estate with a landscape architecture team?” Louis laughs. “You got albino peacocks running around like Hugh Hefner? A grotto?”

“No,” Zayn can’t help but laugh at the idea. “Swear I’m not that ridiculous.” (He decides not to bring up poor Marilyn Monroe, unwillingly trapped for eternity beside that creep. Louis probably wouldn’t know or care about that depressing bit of trivia.)

“But I do have a horse, two cows, and half a dozen chickens. And a few dogs. And a hairless cat who hates everyone but me. And a garden.” It feels good to be proud of the things he never really gets to talk about, the things that make him happy in his absurd life.

“You’re taking the piss, mate.” Louis narrows his eyes.

“I’m not.” Zayn holds up a hand. “I swear.”

“Alright then.” Louis still seems to be eyeing him suspiciously before he turns to take in the massive screen before them. “What are we watching?”

“Well, the food’s almost here and…” Zayn uses the toe of his Adidas Kantanas to pull a drawer out of the coffee table. “Nature documentaries are my preference when I partake, if you don’t mind?”

A Cheshire cat grin spreads across Louis’ face as he gazes at the drawer full of pre-rolled, individually packaged joints. “Now you are, as they say, speaking my language.”

Louis kicks off his beat-up Vans to tuck his feet under him, and Zayn perches his feet on the coffee table. “Niall would scold me for this, but I know he does it himself in the absence of company.”

Louis laughs in response, settling back onto the sofa. “I’ve only met Niall a few times, and the lad can drink—fucking Irish—but I would’ve bet he’s never touched this stuff.”

“Oh yeah,” Zayn laughs, “I doubt he’s ever smoked weed; I just meant he doesn’t put his feet up on the coffee table.”

Louis utterly howls at that, falling back into the pillows as he lights up the joint.

The food arrives soon after, and once they’ve devoured most of it, they light up a second joint and fall into a comfortable silence while birds sing and frogs croak alongside David Attenborough’s quiet narration on the surround sound.

Louis finally speaks from behind a smoke ring of ‘o’s. “So, how did your meetings go?”

“Eh, the usual bullshit. Clint and Amorette—my lovely manager and publicist—insisted they respect my vision and opinions, then turned around to force a bunch of their asinine ideas down my throat, while hiding the source of those opinions behind the label brass.”

“Oh yeah? Ideas about what?” Louis passes the joint over.

“Current arguments are over my next music video.” Zayn zig-zags his jaw back and forth through the curls of smoke.

“I’ll admit I went back and watched your old videos after I signed on,” Louis pops a remaining fry into his mouth. “Well, not the teen pop idol ones. The mafia ones. They’re visually sick, don’t get me wrong. But they also have absolutely nothing to do with the actual songs. I mean, even this last one didn’t make all that much sense. Why an art heist?”

“I agree,” Zayn chuckles around another long drag, holding it in a beat. “But as far as the mafia ones… They offered me a massive budget; Scarface is my favorite movie; I was twenty-four when I made the first of them. What would any idiot kid have done?”

Louis takes the joint, leaning back as he considers it. “Yeah, alright. I can’t say that as a film school graduate, I wouldn’t have gone a bit wild myself.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Clint,” Zayn protests. “I’ve matured. I don’t want the big budget. I want to make something straightforward that reflects my growth and the simplicity of this project.” His tone had started out frantic, but—as with many things lately—he finds himself resigned by the end of stating his case.

“I think that sounds perfectly reasonable, and you should tell those twats to fuck off,” Louis laughs. “Not in so many words, of course.”

Zayn snorts. “Yeah, I’ve tried to use words they understand. I almost threw up in my mouth when I explained how this album ‘is a departure for me.’” Zayn tosses up air quotes while scrunching his nose at the memory.

Louis cackles so loudly that Zayn nearly falls off the couch. “I bet that’s exactly the word Pitchfork and all those rubbish journos will use. Brilliant.” As soon as he catches his breath, Louis adds, “This album is my favorite by far. Honestly, it’s sick to have gotten to listen early. It’s so different, and it feels… I don’t know, relatable. You’d think they’d want your videos to reflect that.”

“Thanks. Really. That means a lot.” Zayn lolls his head on the back of the couch to glance at Louis, then back to stare at the ceiling. “Like, what about something in a small theater with moving sets? Like a play in action as I move through the space?”

Zayn finds the joint back in his fingers as Louis settles back on the couch, his eyes closed and his fingers tented together like he’s picturing it. “You’re speaking to the recovering drama kid in me, mate. I can see it.”

“Or, like, a black and white shoot of me in the studio, just being myself.” Zayn takes another drag, his head starting to swim as he passes the joint back to Louis. “Or, hell, walking my dogs through the fields on the farm.”

“Not a bad idea.” Louis gets to his knees on the couch as he squints at Zayn’s face, his thumbs meeting his forefingers to form a makeshift frame, the joint dangling from his lips. “That face is all it would take to make anything work, really.”

Zayn grips his stomach in laughter, probably more to the weed’s credit than Louis’ words and gestures, as he actually slides off the couch this time.

“Something simple should be easy, though, mate,” Louis pulls a long drag before handing it back to Zayn. “Just propose an exotic locale. That’s what’ll get ‘em, you know what I mean?”

“Brilliant!” Zayn sits up. “Seriously, Louis—they would go for that…”

Louis closes his eyes again, humming as he drums his fingers at his chin, swapping Zayn’s genuine enthusiasm for sarcasm. “Zayn, glamorous international pop icon, roaming the Yorkshire countryside—the moors!”

“Yeah, enter a pitch meeting and mention Wuthering Heights…” Zayn starts.

“And watch a room of illiterate business school graduates think you’ve lost the plot?” Louis raises his eyebrows alongside a shit-eating grin.

“Exactly.” Zayn wipes a single tear from his eye and puts out what remains of the joint in the vintage ashtray Niall’s taken to leaving out for him. “What about Iceland?”

“Go big or go home, I say,” Louis agrees with a chuckle, leaning back and weaving his fingers together over his chest.

“You should do it.” Zayn pulls himself back onto the couch, tucking his legs under his bum.

“Do what?”

“You should come in and pitch some ideas.”

“Are you mad?” Louis’ eyes shoot open to stare intensely at Zayn.

“Course not,” Zayn leans over to poke at his side. “But no matter what I say, they’ll pretend to humor me, then force me to go with whatever they want. They'll have to consider it if it’s coming from you.” He puts on his best posh accent. “You’re my artistic visionary, darling.”

Louis swats his hand away. “And they’ll take me seriously for what reason, now?”

“Because you’re a creative, a filmmaker… Hell, like you said, if you start confidently spouting off exotic, far-off locales, they’ll probably approve it by the end of the day.”

Zayn's next thought has his mouth going uncomfortably dry, but he knows he’s not wrong to suggest it. “Tell them you’ll put Harry in it, like the last video, and they’ll probably write you a blank check.”

Louis snorts, wiping his hands on his joggers. “Why would I do that?”

Zayn really hates lying to Louis, but this could be a means to an end for both of them. “Because he’s my boyfriend, and he’s internet famous, and for some reason, the trailer of the two of us together made people go nuts. Don’t ask me why.”

“Really?” Louis looks surprised.

“I really couldn’t tell you why.” Zayn leans back onto the cushions.

“Oh, not that.” Louis swallows. “It’s just that you insisted he was just a friend at the video shoot.”

Fuck.

Zayn should be better at this.

Shit. Does he have to go to Harry’s party now? He’s just told Louis that Harry is his boyfriend; it would look suspect if he weren’t there to celebrate, right?

Fuck.

“I was just surprised because you two seemed much cozier on New Year’s and at the shoot than on your birthday,” Louis offers. “Not that it matters. It’s just literally my job to pay attention to you now, so I notice things…”

“Uh…” Zayn doesn’t know what to say as he stealthily texts Taryn to ask where Harry’s dinner is tonight. He knows it’s on the calendar, but this is easier than figuring out if that’s synced to his phone. “Yeah, we were…”

“Congrats if you’ve made it official since then, that’s…” Louis provides Zayn an out when he has literally no explanation. “Good. Good for you. Both of you.”

“Thanks?” Zayn wants to disappear, flee to the farm, and not answer questions or provide explanations, but he is willing to take any lifeline Louis unknowingly offers. “So you’d, uh, be willing to pitch for the next video? It'll be when we get back from LA. Lots of time to figure it out. We can work on it together.”

“Yeah, alright,” Louis seems to have sobered slightly, as well. There’s a determined look on his face as though Zayn were challenging him more than encouraging him. “I’ll think about it, sir.”

A shiver goes down Zayn’s spine. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Right. Sorry, mate.” Louis looks confused, then quickly apologetic as if he instinctively gets it. “Seriously, though…I don’t know…”

Zayn reaches down to open the coffee table drawer again. “You can have all of this if you do it.”

If he’s about to rope Louis into a ridiculous stunt, Zayn might as well try to get what he actually wants, and offer Louis something beyond an extra paycheck in return.

Louis’ eyes go wide before a smile breaks over his face. His eyes crinkle closed as he turns to Zayn. “What time should I be there?”

“You’d really do it?” Zayn is surprised.

“Even if it’s just to take the piss, I’m in.” Louis cackles. “I’ll do it just to watch a bunch of suits sitting at my attention.”

“I’m supposed to go back into the office the day before we head to London.” Zayn is still unsure whether Louis is serious. “Maybe you can put a pitch together amidst everything else? Like I said, we can work on it together between all the bullshit I don’t care about this week.”

“I’m in.” Louis leans back with a satisfied smile. “I can throw a pitch together between shooting and editing everything in LA.”

“Sorted,” Zayn claps his knee. “C’mon mate, let’s go out for a real cigarette. I’m assuming you can handle a penthouse terrace?” he teases.

“Zayn,” Louis straightens up to his full height. “I’m about to follow you around celebrity parties in Los Angeles before we go to the goddamn Grammys, then head to the top-floor offices of one of the world’s biggest record labels to tell the big scary bosses that I want to put you in a little plywood boat and float you down an imaginary river.” Louis stands up, smirking. “I can handle anything.”

“So you’re up for it?” Zayn laughs.

“I think more than you are, mate,” Louis grins.

“Yeah, alright, come on.” Zayn leads the way, pulling the glass door open to the terrace overlooking the glittering red brake lights on the Holland Tunnel’s off-ramp and the Hudson River Park’s piers beyond them.

Louis steps out, looking stunned as his eyes dart all around.

Louis may be packed and ready for their flight, but Zayn wonders if he’s truly prepared for everything ahead this year.

The sun is setting over Jersey City across the river, and Zayn realizes they only have an hour before they should get going to the birthday party. Hopefully, that’s long enough to calm any nerves Louis may be trying to hide.

“What do you think?” Zayn asks carefully.

“Not bad,” Louis mutters in genuine wonder before schooling his features. “For a bunch of rich guys trying to act like you still relate to us commoners.”

Zayn ignores him, taking a seat on one of the many loungers lining the terrace and lighting up. “Thanks for coming. This helped.”

“Helped what?” Louis sits across from him, accepting a cigarette and the light Zayn offers him.

“For one, I get lonely in the city—which may sound unbelievable, but I’m usually either stuck in a hotel or this penthouse,” Zayn sighs.

“You just need friends, mate,” Louis states matter of factly, without judgment.

“You sound like Niall.” Zayn scrunches his nose, though somehow Louis sounds a lot more genuine saying it than Niall.

“I don’t know much about the lad beyond him wanting to ply everyone with alcohol to keep the good times rolling, but he seems like a good friend. When people get engaged, they can worry they’re leaving their friends behind,” Louis exhales a cloud of smoke.

“I don’t think Niall thinks that way,” Zayn laughs. “But I think he was on board with roping you into this because he thinks we could be friends.”

“Ahh, you’re tugging on my heartstrings,” Louis chuckles uncomfortably.

“Listen, I don’t really need more friends, and I’m not asking you to be that,” Zayn deflects. “But I’m glad you’re here because you seem pretty goddamn level-headed, and that’s what I need from someone documenting my every move.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression,” Louis admits, “because I’m as much of a mess as anyone else. But as far as needing me to film, I’ve got you.”

“That’s what I’m saying. There’s nothing normal about being followed around by a camera, but if I have to do it, I know you’ve got it.”

“Now you sound like Liam,” Louis grins. “When he started DJing, he said the same thing. Not as eloquently, of course. Just that it was weird having a camera shoved in his face, but if it needed to be done for him to be successful, he trusted me to do it.”

Zayn wants to ask more about Liam and how Louis had refined his talents with Liam as his muse, but Zayn isn’t supposed to be focused on Liam; he’s supposed to be focused on Harry.

“You’re okay with doing all that for me?” Zayn questions. “Harry is going to be sort of a factor, I guess. I’m sure he has opinions on how to do things. He’s, like, a filmmaker of sorts.”

“A filmmaker?” Louis outright laughs. “No comment.”

“I honestly haven’t watched much of his… content?” Zayn clears his throat. “But he’s my boyfriend, and he’s going to be making content of his own, I think? I’m sorry, you’re, like, a real filmmaker, and his shit is sort of… vapid?”

“Right.” Louis is unreadable, looking off into the distance. Zayn can’t imagine what it must be like to wrap one’s head around all the stupid things that go on in his bizarre world. “Sounds pretty… ridiculous.”

“Beyond ridiculous.” Zayn quickly agrees, stubbing out his cigarette and pulling a joint from his pocket with a crooked grin. “Another?”

Maybe that isn’t the best idea, given that Zayn is now planning to appear at Harry’s birthday party soon, but Louis' smile returns, and Zayn instantly feels better.

He lights it and takes a quick puff before passing it over. “Tomorrow, we’ll be in LA. That’s why you’re here.”

“Sure,” Louis agrees with a quivering grin—just high enough to be perpetually on the brink of laughter. “I’m ready to follow you around; it’s me job now.”

“I don’t know if you’re prepared for all my life entails,” Zayn laughs.

“I’m just here to document it, mate.” Louis shrugs. “Kind of think I should have my camera in hand right now.”

“You want to catch me on camera telling the world how much of it I think is bullshit?” Zayn cackles. “Because I will.”

Louis coughs, on the brink of choking, and Zayn wonders if his reaction is really down to the smoke. “Shit. I'm down if that’s what you want to share. Is it?”

Zayn repositions himself to sprawl across the lounger. “I wish it were that simple. Sometimes, I think, if I could just get control of something, and it works, then maybe I could get control over more of it… Then someday, all of it.”

Louis takes another drag, passing it along before he leans back himself. “Well, I’m happy to be along for the ride because I think you have it in you, Zed. In fact, I know you do. So, just know I’m happy to help.”

“Louis,” Zayn lolls his head to the side, raising the joint in the air, “I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Dial it back, Bogie,” Louis snorts, clasping his hands behind his head as he leans back on his lounger. “We’re moving away from the epics, darling.”

“True,” Zayn snorts. “Hey, did I mention we’re making a quick pit stop before the flight?” He offers the joint back.

Their entire exchange has cemented the realization that he’s been fucking up the very thing he’s agreed to do. So what harm could dropping in on Harry’s birthday dinner be? He was invited, after all.

“What’s the pit stop?” Louis looks confused, observing the joint apprehensively. “The flight’s only a few hours away.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Zayn does his best to play it off. “Just have to stop at Harry’s birthday party before we head to the airport.”

Louis opens his mouth to respond, then quickly shuts it, his fingers still pinched around the joint.

“You alright out here?” Zayn shoves his fists into the pocket of his hoodie. “I need to shower and get dressed.”

“I’m fine.” Louis scrunches his nose before reluctantly taking another drag.

Zayn isn’t sure Louis means it, but as he gets up to head inside, he realizes there’s something that might relax him. “Hey, you should invite Liam!”

“What?” Louis furrows his eyebrows.

“Tell Liam to join us,” Zayn giggles. “At Harry’s dinner. I’ll have the restaurant name soon.”

“I don’t think he’d want to hang out with you and your boyfriend, mate,” Louis laughs.

“Why not?” Zayn pouts.

“I just meant Liam is very busy.” Louis shrugs noncommittally before grunting. “Super busy. You know, like, DJ stuff.”

“Oh.” Zayn tries to hide his disappointment as he slides the glass door back and forth, his eyes trained on the tracks.

He thinks he'd prefer Liam’s company over whatever he’s about to walk into—and for Louis to feel more comfortable, of course.

“Zayn,” Louis’ voice coaxes him out of his trance. “How soon is Paddy coming?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Zayn sighs as he finally closes the glass door and heads toward the penthouse's guest bathroom.

+++

After a quick shower, Zayn pulls on a cream Bode button-down covered in soft, textured patterns, and brown Walesbonner trousers with red, yellow, and green stripes down the sides. He’d planned to wear a white Nike sweatsuit to be comfortable on the plane, but he’s glad he had another outfit on hand for the change of plans.

He’s thinking about how much he wants to change back into his sweats when his phone pings.

T Zimm: Locanda Verde. I thought you weren’t going?

Zayn would normally text her back, but he has other things on his mind, namely, calling Derek, one of the more... eager paparazzi who used to practically live on the sidewalk outside his old Soho apartment building, and is still often camped outside his hotel at Amorette or Clint’s request.

“Zayn!” Derek enthusiastically answers. He must have Zayn’s work phone number saved and is probably ecstatic because Zayn hasn’t called him directly in years, if ever. “I’m outside. Are you coming down soon?”

“I’ve already left the Bowery Hotel, mate.” Zayn laughs at the lie. He hasn’t stayed there in ages. “How’d you miss that?”

“Shit,” Derek mutters. “Amorette said to wait for you here.”

Okay, now Zayn’s actually pissed. He was joking, but he can’t believe Amorette really told them that to mislead them; it annoys him that they’re all puppets in this stupid game.

“Naw,” Zayn clicks his tongue. “Head across town. I’m giving you the exclusive on my plans tonight.”

“Where?” Derek pants desperately, probably running for a car.

“Locanda Verde.” Zayn hangs up.

Fucking overpriced Italian food. Could white people be any more predictable?

Granted, Zayn likes some Italian spots. But most involve blending in somewhere off the beaten path, not being seen in celebrity central. He’s already imagining Harry with everyone’s eyes on him as he waits for a sparkly pink candle to be delivered in his tiramisu.

“Zayn?” Louis' voice echoes down the hall.

“Be right out,” Zayn calls, scrubbing a hand over his face when his phone startles him with a call from Paddy.

He answers, and Paddy confirms he’s already at the door. He’s loading Louis’s bags over his shoulder when Zayn emerges from the bathroom.

Louis is unsuccessfully arguing that he can carry his bags as Paddy gathers everything with the ease of a bodybuilder.

“We’re, uh, we’re going to Harry’s birthday party,” Zayn shrugs.

“Taryn told me. Just let me know if I should accidentally get lost so we don’t have time to make it before the flight,” Paddy mutters with a wink, which, thankfully, Louis doesn’t hear as Paddy allows him to grab his camera bags himself. Zayn could not be more grateful for him.

Zayn follows them to the elevator, still high and craving more of that feeling before he has to perform and stunt for the benefit of a guy who seems just as disinterested in all of this as he is.

Chapter Text

+TROIS TOI+

“Anon pls! Looks like Harry Styles is having a birthday dinner at Locanda Verde tonight - think ZAYN will be there?!”

mermaidhairrrry: even if he is, that doesn’t mean anything more than they’re friends. Why would I believe anything that tabloids say? I bet it’s all PR.

z4ismyfavoritealbum: omgggg, I work like five blocks from there. Anyone else going to casually walk by just to see?

+LOUIS+

The Escalade jolts forward and stops short in gridlock enough times that it takes them ten minutes to reach the corner.

Louis unexpectedly and acutely misses Liam’s lifelong insistence that they make no plans during the twenty-four hours before a flight to a gig in favor of arriving at the airport three hours early, meticulously packed and well-rested.

Zayn clearly has no such routine. The rapidly approaching flight looks like the furthest thing from his mind as his lips press together in a thin line while he scrolls through his phone. Something rings, but it’s not the phone in his hand, and, okay, now he’s pulling a second one out of nowhere and answering a call from someone named “Derek the Dickwad.” As much as Louis can appreciate the nickname, he tells himself it’s probably better if he doesn’t know what this is about.

Weed doesn’t usually make him paranoid, but maybe that was some kind of designer, rich people strand because, goddamnit, he is feeling all kinds of out of his skin with anxiety and has been ever since Zayn announced that Harry Styles is his boyfriend.

Which. Like. Louis knew. But he didn’t know, you know?

And now he does know, and he’s pretty sure there’s a neon sign hanging over his head that says, “I touched your boyfriend's nose with my face—shit, I mean, his face with my nose,” and fuck, Louis isn’t usually like this.

He also isn’t usually the sort of stoned person who stares at an Instagram DM, immobilized and unable to respond, but that’s what he did while Zayn was in the shower, and his phone had buzzed with a notification that said:

harrystyles: I’ve gotten a lot of lovely messages today, but this might be my favorite. Please tell your sisters thank you from me—or let me know their accounts so I can follow them?

It should have been easy for him to respond.

It was a no-brainer to send Harry his sisters’ accounts—they’d disown him if he did anything less.

But apparently, the Louis who’s been casually messaging with Harry over the past three weeks—the Louis who figured annoying Harry on IG was the best revenge he was going to get for the unplanned day of archiving his old, embarrassing posts and uploading professional-looking ones instead—that was a Louis who’d been in deep denial that he was talking to the same Harry Styles who’s dating Zayn.

And now Louis is going to be tagging along to that Harry’s birthday party. He half-wants to reply to Harry’s DM to warn him of that, but mostly wants to pretend they’ve never spoken because christ, he still has no idea what Harry remembers or thinks about New Year’s Eve, much less what Zayn knows or thinks, and, jesus, fuck.

Zayn is still on the phone arguing with the alleged “dickwad,” so Louis debates calling Liam for a distraction of his own. Maybe that would settle him down.

“Derek, calm your tits,” Zayn grumbles into what is apparently a backup phone. “I gave you the heads up so you would be there now. We’re a few blocks away.”

Zayn inviting someone else to the party reminds Louis that he’d said to invite Liam, then deflated like a Macy’s Day Parade balloon on Black Friday when Louis said Liam likely wouldn’t want to come.

Louis gets that Zayn has been very welcoming and supportive of Liam, asking him on tour and all, but secondhand inviting him to his boyfriend’s fucking birthday party at the last minute seemed a bit much, even for him.

But whatever. Maybe Zayn is just an eccentric celebrity. A couple of shared joints doesn’t mean Louis knows him.

Louis tries to distract himself by subtly reaching down to check on his passport in the front pocket of his backpack, figuring he can at least assuage that aspect of his paranoia. That is until he realizes Paddy has loaded all the bags—his camera backpack included—into the back hatch. (How had that man allowed Louis to carry his own bags and then bamboozled him into leaving them in the boot?)

He resolves to keep his mounting panic to himself, reminding himself that Zayn’s bodyguard wouldn’t fuck up his things or leave them behind.

Zayn is obviously used to things like running extremely late for a flight and relinquishing control of his bags and personal documents. He looks entirely unbothered as he hangs up the phone, rests his bright white canvas Lacoste trainers on the back of Paddy’s seat, and lights another fat blunt as the car keeps chugging along in rush hour traffic.

“Zayn,” Louis mutters quietly. “I’m not one to back down from anything, mate, but what is the plan here?”

“Don’t worry about it, man. We’re here,” Zayn declares as the Escalade finally pulls over along a sidewalk filled with outdoor tables with heat lamps and plastic bubbles protecting them from the crisp February air.

By Louis’ estimate, they’ve just spent fifteen minutes in traffic to travel what would’ve been a five-minute walk.

Eccentric celebrity, alright.

Zayn hops out, narrowly avoiding dirtying his trainers in a puddle, and tosses the remainder of his blunt into the gutter instead of offering it to Louis. (Maybe for the best, that, considering how Louis is feeling at the moment.)

“Like I said,” Zayn adds. “Just making a quick pit stop at Harry’s party.”

Louis is decidedly not reassured, but he pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and follows Zayn into an unmarked side door, through a nondescript hallway, and into the restaurant's kitchen. The cooks barely glance up from their work as Zayn blows past them all with a few jerks of his chin.

He pauses long enough to smooth his cream-colored button down over his chest. “It’s alright?”

Louis is baffled by the question, wondering if he was supposed to grab a camera before they left the car.

“Looks good?” Louis shrugs. “My camera is… Uh…”

”It's fine. Don’t need that right now.” Zayn looks strikingly confident and collected as he drags Louis through a pantry with a beverage station, then turns a corner and ducks through an open doorway that deposits them behind the full bar of a large private dining room.

Warm wood paneling, leather banquettes, and an enormous stone fireplace make the room feel cozy despite the huge chandeliers hanging from a vaulted ceiling in front of two enormous arched windows. Two long oak tables that easily seat thirty people each are set for a dinner service, but the party only seems to occupy half of one of them.

Harry is seated at the end of the table with his back to them, but every other person swivels their head toward Louis and Zayn’s entrance.

If Louis thought he was feeling paranoid in the car, now he feels like he’s straight-up hallucinating. The tableau of uncomfortable yet inscrutable faces turning to look at them is downright Lynchian, like something out of Blue Velvet. He half expects the chandeliers to flicker or the soft music to cut out with a record scratch from the way the air is sucked out of the room.

Zayn had said they were “making a pit stop” at “Harry’s birthday dinner,” but this, well, this feels like intruding.

There’s not a single person who doesn’t look dumbfounded by their arrival, and Louis wants no part of that, so he slinks back behind the bar and through the doorway until he can see into the room a bit, but the people in it likely can’t see him.

Something’s been telling him that Zayn has left some important details out here, and he seems validated in that hunch when Niall leaps up from his seat to intercept Zayn halfway to the table, grabbing him by the arm, and physically blocking him from getting closer to the seated party.

Thanks to the sudden movement, Harry finally notices what everyone is looking at. When he turns around, his eyes go wide, and his jaw drops open slightly.

Louis is about to head back through the kitchen to the car, cursing Zayn under his breath the whole way, but then he hears Niall hiss, “What are you doing here?!” and, okay, well, to be honest, he's more than a little curious as to what the answer will be. Curious, wildly uncomfortable, and feeling like he’s owed an explanation for what he’s just been dragged into.

He watches Zayn shrug and roll his eyes. “You told me to show up. You, Amorette, Taryn. So here I am. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“You told us you weren’t coming,” Niall mutters back through gritted teeth, “so Harry was told not to expect you.”

Louis glances past Zayn and Niall to where Harry’s guests are blatantly watching the unfolding events, and the looks on their faces quickly confirm that Louis is content hiding outside as this unfolds, where he’ll hopefully go unnoticed. (He’s definitely not dressed for a party like this, at any rate.)

“Well, you told me you wouldn’t make my birthday a big deal, and then you did anyway,” Zayn counters, narrowing his eyes with a dangerous grin and raising his voice loud enough for Harry to hear. “Don’t you think Harry’s should be just as big a deal? Doesn’t he deserve that?”

“I really don’t want anyone to make a fuss.” Louis unconsciously shuffles further back at the sound of Harry’s deep drawl and the scrape of his chair as he stands. “Thanks for coming, Zayn.”

“Of course.” Zayn smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. He frees his arm from Niall’s grip, and moves to greet Harry with half a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Harry’s reaction looks as strained as though he’s been ordered to accept a birthday hug and kiss from a dirty old uncle he’s met twice before.

“Come sit,” he says despite the sour look on his face, grabbing a chair from the neighboring table and sliding it over next to his own.

Not a single person around the table looks pleased about this development.

Louis recognizes Shawn, of course, and Niall’s assistant, Jess, though not the female partner (he assumes based on how the two are leaning close and whispering), seated beside her. He can sort of place the other two couples from Harry’s vlogs.

When Harry returns to his seat, the woman on his left, who Louis is pretty sure is Harry’s producer, the Sarah he’s emailed, reaches out and grabs his hand under the table.

The remaining couple, at the far end of the group, includes an olive-skinned woman with dark, glossy curls who looks like she might be actively biting her tongue and the urge to stand, if the way her male partner’s arm resting around her shoulders to hold her in place is any indication.

Louis can relate.

None of their reactions help him feel any better about crashing this party, and neither does Zayn, who winks at everyone as he slides into his chair, only to be met with silence and uncomfortable fidgeting.

Why are Harry’s friends this surprised by Zayn’s presence?

How is Harry’s boyfriend crashing his party?

Louis is so entirely lost that he wonders if he fell asleep on Niall’s terrace and is dreaming the whole thing.

“We’re not really together, Zayn and I.” Harry’s voice echoes, dreamlike, in Louis’ thoughts.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to make it,” Harry is saying to Zayn. “I know you need to get to the airport.”

“I wanted to stop by, babes,” Zayn scoots his chair even closer to Harry, which really shouldn’t be possible given they’re already crammed into one place setting. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Harry laughs, but it’s so obviously uncomfortable it sounds like a scoff. He winds his free hand around his wine glass, taking a large gulp. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“There’s a pap waiting outside, though. Ready?” Zayn announces loudly, peeling Harry’s glass out of his hand as he stiffens at the touch.

“What?” Harry asks calmly, looking so taken aback by the statement that his voice doesn’t even indicate alarm.

Louis instinctively wants to do something. He’s not sure what he can do, though, and he’s guessing it’d be bad for his job security to get into the middle of this. He’s nothing but Zayn’s photographer. (Thank fuck, though, that his equipment is locked in the boot of the car right now. None of this needs capturing.)

“You really thought that this was going to be easy?” Zayn has raised his eyebrows, challenging, as he tangles his fingers between Harry’s and tugs.

Louis watches Sarah reluctantly let go of Harry’s other hand under the table.

“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about?” The shock appears to be catching up to Harry. His face is turning red, and the chandeliers are reflecting the unshed tears in his eyes as much as the rhinestones on his glittering pink tracksuit.

Louis once again has to fight how much his feet want to carry him into the room.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Zayn scoffs as he stands and hauls Harry up beside him. “Paps taking your photo at my side, right, babe? Come on.”

”I honestly didn’t,” Harry retorts. Louis recognizes the defensive clench of his jaw from when it was directed at him on the night of Zayn’s birthday.

Good, he thinks. Don’t let him walk all over you, Styles.

“Give me a fucking break.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “We all know you want the attention.”

“Zayn, enough.” Niall, who’d returned to his seat beside Shawn, starts to stand back up.

“Enough, what?” Zayn laughs. “Need I remind you that you told me to come?”

Everyone’s gaze, Louis’ included, whips over to Niall, like a football has just been passed to a player in the box.

“Not if you’re going to act like this.” Niall slams his palms on the table as he stands. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” Zayn challenges, raising his eyebrows and looking about as faux innocent as a toddler in the middle of a tantrum. “I’m just here to celebrate my boyfriend's birthday.” He swings their entwined hands. “What’s the issue?”

“Zayn.” Niall’s eyes close as Shawn wraps a gentle hand around his wrist. He takes a deep breath, clearly frustrated beyond what Louis has the ability to comprehend. “Please.”

“Food’s here,” Harry mumbles as a back door swings open and several blissfully oblivious servers enter with trays of appetizers.

“Perfect. Everyone can enjoy their food while we have our photo op.” Zayn pulls on Harry’s arm. It’ll only take five minutes. You can stop looking at me like I’m the villain—all of you.”

“Harry…” The woman at the far end of the table starts in a warning tone.

”No, it’s fine, Nik,” Harry insists, sending a flash of involuntary dimples to his worried friends. “I’ll be right back, guys.”

Everyone seems too stunned to say anything except for Niall, who leans down to whisper to Shawn.

Louis wonders how the fuck all of them are allowing any of this to happen.

“Zayn, mate,” he interjects as Zayn tries to blow past him, dragging Harry behind. “Chill. I get that you two have to parade yourselves around for publicity, but this is your boyfriend’s birthday.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Louis,” Zayn sneers, bumping his shoulder as he brushes by, “so back the fuck off.”

Now Louis is the one who’s unimpressed by Zayn's behavior, but he has no choice but to follow the couple as they wind their way through the main restaurant to the front entrance.

It isn’t just a few paparazzi waiting—a group of fans is also milling around outside. The staff seems to have encouraged them to keep a path to the door clear, but there aren’t any barricades or security to enforce that suggestion.

Someone who looks like a maître d or manager tries to say something as they pass, but Zayn ignores them, and all Harry can do is offer an apologetic smile in Zayn’s wake.

The crowd starts shouting when Zayn pushes open the door—not just for Zayn, but also for Harry.

“I might be paid to be Zayn’s boyfriend for the next year. For PR reasons,” Louis hears Harry’s voice say in his head, but before he can figure out where the fuck that came from, an actual voice behind him is muttering: “What the fuck did you do, Zaynie?”

Louis looks back and sees Niall aggressively typing on his phone. He looks up at the weight of Louis’ eyes on him and jerks his chin towards the door. “It’s not that many people; you’ll be fine. Just not the ideal first rodeo.” He rolls his eyes and turns to head back the way they came. “Help Paddy get them into the car before I kill Zed myself.”

All Louis can do is heed Niall’s instructions and follow Zayn and Harry into the fray.

Harry looks surprised that the fans are interested in him, but he’s smiling and stopping to sign everything being waved in his face, posing for every camera that’s held up, and saying thank you to every last "Happy birthday, Harry!” that’s screamed at him.

Louis squeezes past him to where Zayn is moving much more efficiently through the crowd. He signs a few things and smiles cordially for selfies until Paddy swoops in to gently usher everyone back and guide Zayn through the crowd.

“Louis?” Paddy waves when they reach the safety of the SUV. “Come on!”

Louis looks over at Paddy and then back to Harry, who is still near the door. He rolls his eyes as his feet start moving of their own accord.

“Harry!” he calls as he gets closer. “You’re dating Zayn for a check?!” Louis hears himself mentally exclaim instead of what he’d meant to say out loud.

And christ, isn’t that just brilliant? What an optimal time to start having auditory hallucinations courtesy of the rich people's weed.

“Come on, mate!” Louis shouts at Harry, stuffing aside the thoughts (memories?) for the moment.

Harry is still smiling and taking photos when Louis catches up to him. He seems unaware that the crowd has gotten much denser, leaving a much narrower path to the car. He startles when Louis gently grabs his elbow and exclaims, “We’ve got to go.”

Harry’s eyes dart around the scene before landing back on Louis. He nods in agreement, so Louis steers him away from the fans with an apologetic smile. He uses a hand on his elbow and another on his shoulder to guide him towards the car until Harry climbs into the SUV. Louis slams the door shut behind them, and Paddy pulls away from the curb.

Zayn is in the back seat, curled in on himself and mumbling incoherently, when Paddy stops at a red light a few blocks away.

“Harry?” Paddy turns around in the driver’s seat. “I have to get these two to JFK. Where do you want to go?”

“Um, I just want to go back to dinner,” Harry replies mournfully. He’s looking at Louis as he says it, and something about the crease next to his eyebrow and the downturn of his lips kicks off more of Louis’ intrusive inner dialogue.

“So yeah, we’re not really together, but everyone is supposed to think we are,” the fucking voice of the Ghost of Harry Past pipes up again.

“This is my fault.” Zayn starts to sit up, snapping Louis out of the memory. “Bring him around the back, Paddy.”

Louis is starting to realize where these voices are coming from, but he can’t exactly stop to think about that right this second.

Paddy turns right at the next corner, and they begin the slow process of driving around a New York City block.

Louis is feeling both mentally and physically jarred by everything that’s happened, and quite frankly, he’s beginning to envy the way Zayn is curled up in the backseat.

After an excruciating ten-minute journey around the block, they pull up to the side door where the whole debacle began.

Zayn is silent, aside from heavy breathing, clearly in no condition to offer further apologies, so Louis opens the door and hops out to walk Harry back inside. Someone in this car is going to display some fucking manners, even if it has to be him.

There’s no sign of any lingering crowd or paps, thank god, but they still dash across the sidewalk like they’re being chased.

They make it into the building unnoticed. Harry pauses to catch his breath, but Louis gently shoves him away from the glass door, muttering, “Get back in there, away from the fucking windows.”

Once they’re in the hallway to the kitchen, safe from prying eyes, he watches Harry slump against the nearest wall before asking, “Alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry answers. He smiles as if to confirm, but it’s tight and fake, and his eyes are so empty that it feels like Louis can see straight through them out the back of his head. From the corner of his eye, Louis can see Harry’s ribs rapidly expanding and contracting under the thin white vest beneath his open jacket. He wonders if Harry’s one of those people who smiles when he’s uncomfortable or lying, like a reflex, and it works well enough that most people don’t question it.

“It was fine… we just had to take some pictures, you know?” Harry tacks on half-heartedly, rubbing his hand over his chin.

“I might be paid to be Zayn’s boyfriend for the next year. For PR reasons.”

Louis does know.

At least, he thinks he knows.

He’s hovering around eighty-five percent certain that he remembers what Harry had admitted to him in a different catering kitchen thirty-one days earlier.

Louis may want to confirm that mental maths, but the professional part of his brain is shouting at him through the fog of his fading high, and his very present anxiety, to keep his goddamn mouth shut about his suspicions.

Of course, another part of his brain, the one that can’t stand to see people mistreated, needs to know before he goes and says something else he regrets to his employer back in the car.

“Styles. Is he—? Are you—?” He hedges, trying to figure out how to word this so he doesn’t give anything away but does find out the extent of Zayn’s dickishness. “Please tell me I’m missing something here, and your boyfriend didn’t just crash your birthday and treat you like that.”

To his credit, Harry’s smile doesn’t flicker. At first. But it grows even tighter, like the muscles of someone straining to the point of exhaustion while lifting weights (alright, yeah, Louis sometimes sits in the gym with a bag of McDonald’s to torture Liam, so he knows a thing or two), until it drops off his face altogether, and Harry looks away.

“So yeah, we’re not really together, but everyone is supposed to think we are.”

“And if he did, what would you do about it?” Harry mutters, looking down at his two-tone pink Gazelles. One of them had somehow gotten muddy in the shuffle, and he’s doing a poor job of trying to rub it off with the other.

“The thing is, if this works out, I won’t actually be single. But I won’t be with Zayn, either.”

Louis feels his mouth silently opening and closing as he tries to think of something to say that isn’t outright admitting what he’s just remembered, and that certainly isn’t the sort of comfort Harry had sought from him on that night a month ago.

“Well, I’d… I’d say you don’t want to go out with another dickhead, do you?”

+HARRY+

“Well, I’d… I’d say you don’t want to go out with another dickhead, would you?” is what Louis says, but what Harry hears is, “Hey, you said it first, right? What was the phrase? You’re not going to go out with a dickhead, are you?” as though they’d time traveled to an entirely different kitchen.

The look in his eyes is so, so clear, so intense, like he’s trying to say something without saying it. Harry doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he wants so badly for Louis to remember, to know that what just happened wasn’t normal, wasn’t a real relationship. He can’t just go blabbing the truth again right here and now, though, so a trail of incoherent um’s and er’s leave his mouth instead.

Apparently, that isn’t enough to satisfy Louis.

“Please tell me I’m remembering things correctly, Styles,” he ventures, his voice low and drawn out like he’s talking to a small child or issuing a threat. “Because if I’m not, and he’s acting like this…”

Louis’ eyes are blazing, reminding Harry that the hottest part of a flame is blue. His arms are crossed across his chest, and he seems at least a foot taller, but, oh, right—he’s a big brother. Of course, this is what he’s like in the face of presumed injustice.

“I think… you might be,” Harry finds himself stammering. “But you can’t— Even if—”

“Fine. Fine, you’re right,” Louis abruptly concedes, letting out a defeated-sounding breath, unfolding his arms, and shaking his head. “Forget I said anything, yeah? Whatever’s going on, it’s none of my business.”

“Louis,” Harry starts. He doesn’t want Louis to look defeated; he wants him to know, regardless of how ill-advised that is. “I’m sorry if I’ve been acting like— it’s just after New Years, I—

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re not as subtle as you think you are, Styles.”

Louis’ eyebrows are creeping up to his hairline, expectant, and his eyes look so understanding and hopeful that Harry thinks, fuck it, this is it. He just wants it all out in the open again. He wants…

All he wants for his birthday is someone to fucking talk to.

But then the swinging door to the kitchen bangs open, and Niall is shouting, “For fuck’s sake, Hazza.”

Saved by the bell in the form of an overprotective Irishman.

“Zed just texted me to say they’d dropped you off,” Niall exclaims, opening his arms as he approaches Harry. Harry can’t help himself; he automatically sinks into them, folding himself down into the hug so he can tuck his head onto Niall’s shoulder.

Louis is looking at Niall appraisingly, almost like he’s wondering if he can trust him. His eyes scan over Niall’s hold on Harry, meeting Harry’s in the process. He must find what he’s looking for there because he visibly relaxes, slouching against the wall behind him.

But Louis’ phone goes off the second his back hits the wall, so he pushes off of it again, pulling the phone out of the back pocket of his black joggers.

Harry can hear Paddy through the speaker, telling him that they’re waiting further down the block so as not to draw attention and that they need to get going.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks mate. Be there in a mo,” Louis tells Paddy before slipping the phone back into his pocket. “You’re handling this, Horan?” he asks Niall, and something about the way he says it makes Harry feel like he’s a baton or a baby being passed around.

“I’ve got this one now, thanks Louis.” Niall’s arms squeeze slightly around Harry.

“Alright, see you lot around.” Louis nods at Niall, then Harry, unwaveringly holding eye contact until Harry feels himself compelled into nodding back, like he’s reassuring Louis of something. That he’s okay, he supposes.

“Happy birthday, Styles.” Louis gives Harry one last meaningful nod before turning and sauntering out the door.

“I like him, bub,” Niall whispers.

“Huh?” Harry mumbles. The adrenaline rush of the whole ordeal has abruptly worn off, and he feels like he’s about to fall asleep on his feet.

“Louis,” Niall explains. “He’s a good egg. I may be angry at Zed right now, but I’m glad he has Louis to look after him so I can look after you.”

“Thanks, Ni.” Harry twists in Niall’s hold to fully wrap his arms around him, tucking his face into his neck and trying not to cry from the adrenaline crash.

He’s still snuggled into Niall when the door bangs open a moment later, and Niall greets the newcomer with a terse, “Anika.”

“What. The. Fuck. Was that?” she demands.

“Nik…” Niall warns.

“What? Why are you using that tone on me? I’m just trying to check on my friend here after that atrocious display,” she declares.

“Harry’s fine,” Niall reassures as Harry peels himself out of the hug.

“I am. I’m fine,” Harry adds. “It was stressful and unexpected to deal with a crowd like that, but I’m okay.”

She waits, eyebrows raised, although he’s not sure what for.

“And you’re both just, what, hunky dory about how Zayn waltzed in here and treated you?”

Harry can’t help but look at Niall for guidance and is surprised to see Niall’s mouth set in a thin line.

“I’m not going to bring his name into this,” Nik threatens. “But I just want to make sure you’re not making the same mistake again, schatzi.” Her face is softer than her words, and her eyes are so like molten honey that Harry starts thinking about how she and Zayn would look more the part of a couple.

“It’s not the same thing,” Niall answers first.

“I’ll leave it to Harry to answer that,” she retorts coolly.

Harry longs for the moment of relative peace with Louis before the Aries and the Leo moon started bickering.

“It’s not the same thing at all, Nik. Swear,” he insists, trying yet again to get someone to understand something without telling them anything.

“Alright,” she rolls her eyes and flounces slightly in frustration. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, so let’s just get this over with. Give me my NDA. I know you churn them out like a PEZ Dispenser, Niall J. Horan, Esquire.”

As bullish as she’s being in this exact moment, Harry feels his heart leap into his throat at the idea of Nik knowing, but Niall just clicks his tongue. “No can do, Niki.”

It’s Nik’s turn to make a clucking noise, one of deep offense and frustration.

“I’m sorry,” Niall lectures, “but I’m not exactly in the mood to give more information to someone who just geotagged Harry’s location in real-time on Instagram, which got shared with TroisToi, which resulted in a gaggle of fucking fans and extra photographers showing up in addition to the sole pap that was called. I get that’s not a big deal when you’re an influencer with a handful of politely behaved local fans at best, but it is for someone like Zayn. And now for Harry. So, I love ya, Anika, but you need to learn how the next level works before you get an all-access pass.”

Nik’s jaw starts to drop somewhere around “TroisToi,” and it’s basically resting on her gold foil riding boots by the end of Niall’s speech.

Harry knows by now not to try to argue with Niall in moments like this, and so apparently does Nik. She looks at Harry, then Niall, then wordlessly storms back into the dining room. Harry tries and fails not to roll his eyes. He knows that she’ll be profusely and sincerely apologizing by the end of the night once the shame of having unintentionally fucked up wears off.

There are eight people in that dining room. Five of them know the truth, but the one he wishes he could talk to about it doesn’t.

So yeah, fuck up or not, his birthday wish would’ve been to just let Nik sign the bloody NDA.

He sighs, letting Niall lead him back into the dining room.

At least there’s still sheep’s milk ricotta.

+LOUIS+

Everything has happened too fast for Louis to wrap his brain around, but he has no choice but to jump into the Escalade that’s double-parked half a block from the restaurant. He slides into the seat nearest the door and slams it shut behind him.

He’s good and ready to ask Zayn what the fuck that was all about, but when he glances back, he sees Zayn leaning his head against the window, his palms pressed firmly against his eyes. His chest is heaving, even if Louis can no longer hear his breathing.

“Best to leave him alone,” Paddy’s voice startles Louis. “He’ll be alright.”

“Ace, what about everyone else?” Louis snaps. Remembering what he has, and having it mostly confirmed by Harry Styles’ face’s inability to properly lie, has lowered Louis’ hackles somewhat, but he’s still not really okay with any of this.

“Sorry,” Zayn mutters from the backseat.

“Sorry?!” Louis cries as he whips his head around. “You think sorry is enough for all of whatever that was?”

Zayn doesn’t answer, but Louis can see him slinking down until he’s lying on the bench.

“He does think it’s enough, huh?” Louis directs the question to Paddy.

“No, he just needs to sleep it off.” Paddy murmurs, focused on the road. “He’ll apologize properly when he’s…back to himself. That’s the best I can explain it.”

That’s a bit too cryptic for Louis’ liking, but all he can do is lean back in his seat, close his eyes too, and try to fucking process.

Alright, what does he know for sure? He knows that Harry and Zayn aren’t dating, which casts a whole different light on what he just witnessed.

He knows that he fucking hates being kept in the dark about things. But that’s a personal trigger dating back to childhood, and it’s really no surprise that it’s come up in a gig covered in NDAs. It probably can’t be helped despite how twisted and crunchy it’s making his stomach feel.

He knows that he never thought he’d be Team Harry Styles about something, but it’s quite possible he’s had a change of heart.

Thanks to today, mostly.

Watching his sisters’ birthday message to Harry had dislodged something in him, something uncharacteristically caustic and gnarled, like a rusty can floating to the top of a pond.

For years now, Louis has been hating on Harry for a bit of a laugh. It had all seemed like innocent fun at the time—Harry wasn’t real; he was a stranger who would never know about or be impacted by Louis’ opinion. He certainly wasn’t someone Louis ever expected to meet.

But in the last month—and especially in the last thirty minutes—it’s become unavoidably and painfully clear to Louis that beneath the persona he plays on social media, Harry is an actual human being.

An actual human being in Louis’ life who helps people and changes their lives.

People like Louis’ sisters if their heartwarming message was anything to go by.

People like the hundreds of others in the comments under Harry’s birthday post that Louis had gotten sucked into when he’d messaged Harry that morning.

There were parents of queer kids in small towns thanking Harry for being a role model for their kid’s confidence and self-expression, fellow creators thanking Harry for inspiring them to start their own YouTube channels and Instagrams, students thanking him for encouraging them to go to fashion school, digital nomads saying they’d started traveling after seeing the places Harry had been, yet others saying they’d used one of his tutorials for their wedding makeup, or they’d felt less alone after losing a parent, and, and, and…

When Zayn had called Harry’s content vapid earlier, Louis had honestly been at a loss for words. Until earlier today, perhaps, he would’ve wholeheartedly agreed (and he’ll leave a change of heart on Harry being a filmmaker for another day), but now he thinks he might feel differently.

He might want to defend the lad.

Liam has always said that he DJs to bring people joy, even if just for an hour or two, and Louis has always thought that was very noble of him—but leave it to Liam to make drunk people grinding sound poignant and noble.

And now, with his mind spinning with the events of the day, Louis thinks Harry and Liam might have a thing or two in common.

All of this is making Louis feel that much worse about how Harry’s birthday has gone, although there’s not much more he can do about it.

Still, he takes out his phone and opens the Instagram app, determined to reply to Harry’s message this time.

tommotakesphotos: Cheers, mate, you’ll make *their* birthdays for a year at least.

He copies in links to the girls’ account, and then follows up with another message.

tommotakesphotos: I’m sorry again for how tonight went down. I think Zayn is too, and I’m sure he’ll apologize soon. Hope you’re doing alright, and enjoying the rest of your party.

Much sooner than he expected, there are typing bubbles and then a message.

It’s a picture of a fork in a ramekin of tiramisu with a capital H and an S decorating the top. Between the letters is a blown-out pink candle.

Louis hearts it immediately.

Harrystyles: whoops! Meant to post that to stories just now.

Harrystyles: Thanks Louis. And I’m sorry about how I’ve been acting too. It was immature and unnecessary, and I was taking things that have nothing to do with you out on you. I was hoping that maybe we can start over?

Before Louis can reply, they arrive at the airport—to the general departures of… JetBlue?!, not some private terminal.

Zayn hops out of the opposite door, pulling a hoodie on to cover his face even though there are no cameras and no one’s watching; it’s just a bunch of normal travelers struggling with their luggage at the late hour.

Louis locks his phone, climbing down onto the sidewalk and finding himself turning in circles. He’s unsure what to do until he sees Zayn at the back of the SUV helping Paddy unload their luggage like a normal fucking person.

So, obviously, Louis goes to join them.

Paddy must’ve noticed his confusion because he shouts, “Think fast!” and feigns tossing Louis’ camera bag at him from several feet away.

Paddy and Zayn erupt in laughter while Louis just tries to catch up to what’s happening. “Got ya,” Paddy winks, stepping forward and carefully handing the bag over. For a beat, Louis can only cradle his bag in his hands and mentally plot revenge on the both of them. By the time he snaps out of it, Paddy’s left the duffel with his clothes and the hard-sided roller bag with the rest of his gear on the curb.

Zayn pulls his own wheeled designer bag onto the sidewalk and nods towards the revolving doors.

They skip waiting in line once they get inside, though, joining an almost nonexistent First Class/Business Class queue.

“Passport,” Zayn states flatly with his hand out as they wait.

Louis dutifully pulls it out, still dumbfounded that they’re going through the whole ordinary routine like it’s the normal thing for a multi-millionaire pop star to do.

Maybe it is? What the fuck do you know? Louis thinks.

As if reading his mind, Zayn sighs as he explains, “I can usually convince everyone to let me fly commercial as long as Paddy is with me.”

“Is he…coming?” Louis asks, confused yet again because he’s pretty sure Paddy had just left them there.

“He’s flying out with Taryn tomorrow. I managed to convince him to let me go alone; he agreed as long as you were with me.”

“Me?” Louis laughs. “What difference would that make?”

“He said I’m far less likely to attract attention with you than with someone as imposing and obviously a bodyguard as he is,” Zayn snickers, shooting Louis a sidelong glance up and down.

Louis probably shouldn’t feel as insulted as he does, but he has no time to reply because they’re being called to the counter, placing their bags on the scale.

The check-in agent is handing back their passports and printed boarding passes when Zayn snaps, “He’s not in economy.”

“I’m sorry, sir?” He looks confused and sounds impatient.

“I upgraded him weeks ago,” Zayn explains, blatantly frustrated as he hands the boarding passes back. “Not that my assistant makes mistakes, but I did it personally.”

“Zayn, I don’t care…” Louis stops talking when Zayn’s glare is briefly directed his way before he turns back to the agent.

Louis winces. Here they go again. Zayn is about to go off on the underpaid customer service agent like the diva Louis has tried to convince himself his new boss isn’t…

But Zayn takes a deep breath before calmly adding, “Is there anything you can do? I’m fine with sitting in economy if we’re seated together, mate.”

“I’m not sure what the mix-up was, Mr. Malik.” He clicks around on the computer. “But don’t worry, we have room for both of you in Mint. We had you in a suite in the first row, but is it okay to put you both in the fourth to accommodate your friend?”

“That’s fine,” Zayn replies, glancing at the agent’s name tag. “Thank you, Billy.”

As the agent clicks around, making the changes, Louis bites his tongue instead of expressing worry over Zayn changing his usual seat because, well, Zayn might think he’s a nutter for being superstitious about things like that.

When he’s done, Zayn slides what looks like two one hundred dollar bills to the agent before he wordlessly scoops up their passports, shoving them both into Louis’ hands and turning quickly to head for security.

“Thanks, mate!” Louis calls over his shoulder at the bewildered agent before he catches up with Zayn.

They make their way through the expedited security line in silence, even as Louis is called aside to have his two bags of gear thoroughly searched. He’s on the verge of apologizing profusely for the hold-up, but Zayn’s quiet patience is reminiscent of Liam in similar instances.

That’s surprising. But then again, so was turning up to fly commercial like normal people. And so was Zayn's generosity towards the ticket agent and his anxiety attack in the car. And, well, for all Louis has started giving Harry the benefit of the doubt today, he thinks there might also be more to Zayn's behavior than he'd originally realized.

By the time they reach the gate, first class is being called to board; Louis has already forgotten that includes him until Zayn nudges him forward.

Once onboard, Louis isn’t thrilled that he has to put both his camera bags in the overhead bins, but there’s certainly no shortage of space for them, and he supposes the lie-flat seat is worth the hassle. He’s usually out like a light on flights anyway, but who’d ever complain about having an actual bed?

They settle into their seats. Louis survives the awkwardness of the attendant carefully explaining how all the buttons work like it’s just that obvious that he’s never sat in first class before, he manages to turn down the offered welcome drink before takeoff (mostly because Zayn does), and put in his order for an actual three-course dinner service (thank fuck because that fish and chips was a lifetime and two joints ago).

By the time he gets a chance to text Liam, they’re already announcing that everyone needs to turn off their phones.

L: In my seat. Strapped in. Have to turn my phone off now.

Even though he and Liam are usually on flights together, they have certain rituals when they aren’t.

DJ GBBO: *photo of Louis and Liam hugging taken by Louis’ mum with the first camera she’d saved up to buy for him*

Louis has become somewhat of a nervous flier since his mum’s passing.

Liam was the first of the two to fly without the other after that and admitted that saying “I’ll text you when I land” felt too ominous, so they used this photo that Louis’ mum had taken of the two of them to send each other off when they weren’t traveling together.

Maybe it doesn’t make a lick of sense because Louis’ mum hadn’t died in a fucking plane crash, but Louis is grateful that Liam understands, and it always calms his nerves the second it comes through.

As the plane rolls away from the gate, Zayn is already leaning against the curved shell of his window seat with his eyes closed. (The window is, admittedly, Louis’ usual seating arrangement that Liam has no choice but to allow him, but Louis wasn’t about to argue with his new boss about it, let alone now that he’s learned how intimidating Zayn can be.) It’s hard to tell if he’s actually asleep, but he certainly looks more relaxed than he has all day, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks under the dim cabin lighting.

Louis thinks about how good this moment would look in the intro to a behind-the-scenes video, regretting that his cameras are captive in the overhead bin and he only has his phone to capture Zayn sleeping while the twinkling city lights grow distant in the background as the plane takes off.

Photography is always the best distraction, though an undercurrent of tension remains coiled beneath Louis’ skin throughout the takeoff, and he feels like he can only finally relax when they reach cruising altitude.

Meanwhile, Zayn is still calmly leaning against the seat, his arms wrapped around his torso.

Once he sees others around him fetching their bags, Louis takes his own down, pulling out his DSLR and taking a few photos and seconds of video on that as well.

Zayn must be sleeping, considering he has no reaction whatsoever, so Louis figures he’ll get some work done to distract himself from both his nerves and all the questions he knows he can’t ask even if Zayn were awake.

He opens his laptop and glances around the cabin, debating whether first class is a private enough space for yet another pass on the behind-the-scenes montage of the video shoot, or if he’d be better off working on some things for Liam.

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles suddenly, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“What?” Louis jumps slightly at the unexpected interruption, closing the laptop halfway.

Zayn tugs the cuffs of his hoodie over his hands and presses the button that raises the footrest to his seat, pulling his feet onto it and wrapping his arms around his knees. “I was a complete asshole earlier.”

“I…” Louis closes his laptop entirely now. “I don’t know what you mean. You upgraded me to first class and all.”

Zayn narrows his eyes before smiling wryly, leaning his head against the side of the seat and then glancing out the window into the darkness. “You know I meant back at Harry’s birthday.”

“Do I?” Louis bluffs.

Zayn snorts but continues staring out of the window. “I fucking hate all the PR stunt bullshit. I don’t know how much you know about all that rubbish. Everything with Harry and me is new, but we still have to— I’m not even out yet, and it’s all being pushed too hard and fast.”

Louis half wants to admit to Zayn that he knows it’s not even a real relationship, but one hundred percent doesn’t want to explain how he knows, or cause Harry any trouble by admitting he’d told him as much.

So this is pretty much Louis’ worst nightmare, trying to keep a secret in a metal tube thirty-six thousand feet in the air that could be his grave if it doesn’t land in—he taps the screen in front of him to check—the next five hours and twenty-seven minutes.

Louis feels a tiny morsel of relief when Zayn continues. “I’m apologizing to you because I shouldn't have dragged you into any of it, whether I selfishly wanted the moral support or not. I owe Harry an apology because I ruined his fucking birthday, and I feel like shit about that. It’s not his fault that everyone was pressuring me to go and make a scene, but they just wouldn’t stop, and I fucking lost it. I get these, like, panic attacks, mate.”

“Harry seems pretty understanding. I’m sure he’ll accept your apology when we land.” Louis doesn’t know what else to say, especially because of the aforementioned trying not to admit to knowing anything.

“He’s actually the kindest person I’ve ever fucking met, which makes me feel even worse that all of the bullshit made me act like a complete asshole.” Zayn sighs deeply.

Louis snorts. “Yeah, well, ‘treat people with kindness’ is his literal motto and all. Good to know he lives up to it.”

“In all honesty,” Louis continues, trying to figure out what to say to just inconspicuously make Zayn never talk about Harry ever again. “Your relationship with Styles is none of my business, you know what I mean? You really do not have to make any excuses to me. I can imagine getting to know each other must be hard with all of the eyes on you, and I don’t want to get in the middle of—I mean advise on—your relationship,” Louis coughs. “I’m just worried I’ll be asked to document you two when everything between you two seems… complicated. I’m only here to follow you.”

There. That sounded okay, right?

“I don’t want you to have to do that either.” Zayn laughs ruefully. “I swear.”

“You also don’t need to fly me first class or put me up in the penthouse suite. I don’t need any of that.”

“Well, I’ll admit I wanted your company just now,” Zayn looks back out the window. “That was obviously the plan, and I probably wouldn’t have put up much of a fight over the mix-up, but I did want to apologize for everything. And you’re staying in the suite in LA because it has three rooms, so it’s less wasteful to have you there, yeah? Unless you enjoy the idea of your own space, no matter how wasteful it is…”

“Well played, mate.” Louis rolls his eyes.

“I mean it,” Zayn rolls his head away from the window to look at Louis. We can get you a solo room if you want it; I won’t hesitate. But after faffing around all those useless parties, I thought it might be fun to smoke up and watch TV with some takeaway to feel a bit more normal before it’s time to pass out and do it again.”

“Ta,” Louis laughs. “You’re not wrong.”

The plane jolts suddenly, bouncing from turbulence, causing Louis to grip his armrest.

Zayn is unfazed by it. He leans back to reach into one of his seat's many cubbies and tosses a small plastic bag onto the tray beside Louis’ laptop. “These help,” he says.

Louis realizes it’s a bag of weed gummies, so he pops two in his mouth, grinning at Zayn in thanks before he turns to figure out which buttons will make his seat a bit more comfortable.

Chapter Text

+ZAYN+

“I can’t do this anymore.” Zayn leans against the wall, no longer giving a fuck about the condition of the embroidered roses on his Valentino bomber jacket, and takes a long drag of his cigarette.

Louis snaps a few photos of him—which is fucking weird, as usual, but Zayn does his best to ignore it—before lighting up his own and asking, “The parties or the overall being-a-famous-millionaire thing?”

Yeah, Zayn is pretty sure that Louis is just as exhausted and slap-happy as he is. They’re running on two hours of sleep and are an hour into their fourth event of the day, which is a sunset pool party at the Hollywood Roosevelt, where no one will dare ruin their hair, makeup, or Swarovski-studded bikinis by actually getting into the pool. (Zayn probably shouldn’t judge, given that he can’t even swim, but it’s a reminder of just how absurd it all is.)

They’ve just ducked out through a gate in the hedges between the pool and the main hotel to stand in a service passageway near the driveway to smoke and have a moment of peace with Paddy standing guard. Employees hurry back and forth, talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. They’re probably exhausted from their own long days and being treated like shit by a bunch of rich assholes. Zayn sort of wants to pass out cigarettes as a kind of penance for his fellow celebrities whom he’d rather not be associated with at all, but obviously, no one has asked.

(Or maybe it’s just the guilt that he’d been one of those assholes last night that’s getting to him.)

And shit, his pack is empty anyway.

“I can and will say fuck off to the party part more easily.” Zayn turns his attention back to Louis and grins. “Paddy! How fast can you pull the car around?”

“How long can you two stay out of trouble?” Paddy volleys back.

“A thousand cash if you pick us up before we get into trouble?” Zayn raises his eyebrows, pulling out a pre-rolled joint and whipping off his cravat before Paddy even replies.

“Accepted,” Paddy laughs as he heads around the corner towards the valet, who Zayn knows will deliver the car quickly. (Call him a diva, but he gladly has Paddy tip them extra—a lot extra—to keep the car easily accessible for a quick exit.)

“We can’t just leave, can we?” Louis looks alarmed, as much as he’s trying to hide it.

“You can’t document it,” Zayn replies, tossing his cigarette onto the ground, lighting the joint before taking a drag, then offering it to Louis. “Or you can, but I get final approval. But yeah, I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

That is generally far from true, but Zayn will gladly take advantage of these moments whenever they present themselves.

And it has been a fucking long day.

Taking the red eye meant they’d landed too early to make Zayn’s usual soothing first stop upon arrival. And without Paddy, they were picked up by a hired car, so he and Louis barely had time to finish their cigarettes before their checked luggage materialized in LAX’s private terminal, and they were all but shoved into the back of a Lincoln Navigator.

The car had taken them straight to the hotel, where Louis was even more wide-eyed than usual during check-in. Zayn didn’t have the energy to poke fun at him, though, as the bellhop loaded their bags onto a golf cart and whisked them over to Bungalow 1, which had been reserved for their early arrival.

Once inside, Zayn and Louis hadn’t spoken—just nodded blearily at one another before heading to pass out in their respective beds for a couple of hours before a glam team and one of Caroline’s assistants barged in to prepare Zayn for the first party that afternoon.

Because, right, in LA, parties start in the middle of the bloody afternoon.

Next, Taryn arrived to go over the weekend’s schedule just as Zayn finished getting ready, and Paddy was right behind her to drive them to the nearby ASCAP Grammy Brunch in the Garden—a “brunch” at which no one ate anything.

After that was a mixer disguised as a “talk and conversation panel” in West Hollywood, followed by the MusiCares Person of the Year ceremony downtown at the LA Convention Center. This year’s honoree was Jon Bon Jovi, whom Zayn doesn’t have anything against but also not much interest in. He isn’t sure why he was invited, much less why he’d been forced to attend when he could be napping before the next party.

That one was the RIAA Industry Reception, which Zayn had actually wanted to attend. He’d fought for the invite in the hopes of rubbing elbows with the type of people he wants to be taken seriously by regarding his plans to launch his own independent label.

But it probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he was largely ignored by that crowd, which left him dreading the poolside afterparty, also known as the one they’re about to ditch.

Louis had looked vaguely frantic all day as he did his best to keep up with capturing the whole process. Zayn had to respect his professionalism in getting up to document him getting ready when he could’ve blown that off to get more sleep, but he couldn’t help but laugh to himself that Louis assumed they’d get a lie in tomorrow. Apparently, he'd missed the part of Taryn’s schedule breakdown that mentioned the nominees’ awards brunch.

Meanwhile, Zayn has just been trying to remain calm amidst countless photo ops and superficial conversations with other artists and various industry heavyweights that he knows damn well are usually talking shit behind his back—and sometimes to his face on Twitter.

He’s also been ignoring endless calls from Clint and Amorette, who probably want to debrief the disaster that was the night before. Eventually, they’d given up on calling, and emails started flooding in, which were easier to ignore, especially when his backup phone finally died.

Paddy finally pulls up in Zayn’s custom black Escalade—fitted with tinted windows and a bright red interior—just as Louis takes a long drag off the joint. He looks baffled by what to do next, holding the joint in the air until Zayn pushes him into the car with a chuckle. “This isn’t a rental; you can smoke in here.”

It isn’t a long drive from the Hollywood strip back to Beverly Hills, but it’s enough time for Louis to squint at Zayn with questions dancing behind his tired eyes.

“What?” Zayn smiles and shrugs.

“It’s really alright for you to just… leave?” Louis shakes his head as if he already regrets the question. Like the answer is obvious.

And, sure, in a lot of ways, maybe it is. At the same time, it’s also more complicated than Zayn being rich and famous and doing whatever the fuck he wants.

So much of his life is more out of his control than he can easily explain. It’s taken him the better part of a decade for him to even understand what he can and can’t control, and it’s still a struggle most of the time.

But Louis is his photographer, not his therapist. So he dials back all those thoughts for a simpler explanation.

“Truthfully?” Zayn takes the joint back. “I shouldn’t have left. Clint and Amorette will give me shit about it if they find out, or they’ll make Niall give me shit because they’re either cowards or just honestly believe he can get to me more than they can. And, well… they might not be wrong about that, but Niall also cares about what’s best for me. And he knows that sometimes I just… can’t be bothered.”

That’s a thinly veiled translation of the undeniable fact that his anxiety gets the better of him at times.

He’s still outwardly calm right now, but he’d rather bail than risk having a public meltdown to match the previous night. He’s felt the uneasiness seeping under his skin for a few hours now, and he knows it's best just to get away while he can.

“Sure.” Louis looks confused, like he’s mulling it over. “I guess in the world I’m used to, Liam and I can’t just leave something.”

“You two work with people who care about you and have passion for things that matter.” Zayn bites his lip. “And in this world, everything is a fucking game.”

Louis snorts skeptically. “I hate to break it to you, but not so much, mate. S’more like—if we leave a gig early, or show up late, or summat, we probably won’t get paid. It’s hard enough chasing down some promoters and event managers to fork over the cash while doing everything by the book.”

Truthfully, that’s a part of the job Zayn has never personally had to worry about—it’s been in the hands of managers and handlers since the beginning, which is not to say he hasn’t had his struggles to get his cut. In fact, that’s part of why he has a lawyer like Niall who works directly for him now rather than someone assigned to him through the label. But none of that bullshit has ever affected his everyday life.

“That fucking sucks, man. Makes sense, though. I shouldn’t have assumed that people, I don’t know—have morals? Suck less?—outside of the bubble of privileged douchebags that I deal with. But just know, it doesn't matter to me if you’re ever running late or need to duck out. And I wouldn’t even know how to dock your pay.”

Louis snorts again, appreciatively. “Alright, thanks, mate.”

“Anyway, realistically, I’ve shown my face more than enough for one day. I got photographed walking into that party, and I won’t be missed.” Zayn tries not to think about the months ahead, where he’ll be expected to be photographed arriving and leaving with Harry at every event. This shit is stressful enough without adding another person into the mix.

He flicks ash from the joint out the window, seeing the familiar Beverly Hills Hotel sign come into view, along with a small cluster of paparazzi camped out near the entrance to the private driveway.

“You lads hungry? I’ll go back out for the usual, yeah?” Paddy asks as he slows down to turn into the property.

“Yes, please! Thanks, Paddy,” Zayn calls as he ducks down, leaning over Louis’ seat at the sight of the paps.

Louis looks surprised by Zayn’s sudden closeness but quickly gets it, laughing at Zayn using him as a human shield against the flashing lights and raising his arm to flip off the photographers, though they won’t be able to see him on the far side of the SUV.

The car finally rolls to a stop in front of the main entrance, and Zayn hops out. He tosses the finished joint into the gutter and grabs one of Louis' camera bags, throwing it over his shoulder.

“What’s the usual?” Louis asks as they climb into a waiting golf cart.

“In ‘n’ Out. It’s an LA staple. Burgers, shakes, and fries. You’ll like it,” Zayn assures as he nods thank you to the driver, who he always slips a twenty to even though the drive takes thirty seconds. “Unless you’re into kale smoothies and healthy living shit?” (Louis might have been placating him with the fish and chips the day before, who knows.)

“Naw.” Louis scrunches his nose as they wander down the path towards Bungalow 1. “Not in a million years, mate.”

Zayn carefully hands the bag he’d carried to Louis and tosses his jacket on the floor as soon as they step inside.

“Four wardrobe changes since the fucking plane landed. What the fuck is this life?” Zayn shouts over his shoulder as he drops his trousers, heading to his bathroom to get to his skincare routine and change into joggers.

+++

Zayn doesn’t get an answer until he’s curled up on the sofa, and Louis wanders back into the main living room from his own connected suite.

“I'm just glad I don’t have to keep up with the wardrobe changes myself, mate. S’bloody absurd.” Louis was apparently just as eager to take off his suit, having already changed into track pants and a T-shirt. He flops down onto one of the curved armchairs and swings his legs over the side to face the TV.

“I still haven’t apologized to Harry,” Zayn admits. The solitude of washing his face brought those thoughts roaring back to the forefront of his mind. “It’s been so nonstop since we landed, but I know I need to.”

He’d been so caught up in the incessant pressure from everyone to attend Harry’s birthday yesterday that when he’d finally relented, he hadn’t stopped to consider what it would feel like for Harry. And by the time that thought fully registered, while Zayn had desperately wanted to run back inside and apologize to everyone, the cameras were already flashing, and a panic attack had taken hold…

“That's none of my business, mate.” Louis shrugs, avoiding Zayn’s eyes.

That’s fair. Of course, Louis doesn’t want to get involved in what he thinks is his boss’ romantic relationship.

“I know. Sorry.” Zayn sighs, grateful to avoid talking about it but disappointed to be reminded that Louis is here professionally, and he’s not actually Zayn’s friend.

Zayn tries not to let that bother him, though, turning on the sixty-five-inch flatscreen that’s hanging over the fireplace. “You know what’s better than nature documentaries?”

“Classic films?” Louis laughs when Zayn switches to Turner Classic Movies to find The Women well underway. “You’re into that?”

“I recorded my first album out here when I was just a kid.” Zayn gulps, not ready to get into too much detail. “I was going through some shit, and I got into old movies. Hotels didn’t have Netflix, but there always seemed to be a channel playing something in black and white, and it was a good distraction from everything else.”

“Mhmm,” Louis nods, focused on the screen. Zayn’s not sure he’s even listening, but he’s not bothered as he settles in to enjoy the movie.

“There’s a name for you ladies, but it isn’t used in high society. Outside of a kennel. So long, ladies!”  Joan Crawford’s curls don't move a millimeter as she flounces offscreen.

Louis is doubled over in laughter, and maybe that’s the effects of the weed, but Zayn will take it because he could watch old movies all night, and he hasn’t had many people to share that with.

Or any people.

“Oh Joan, you beautiful, stone-cold bitch,” Louis sighs affectionately as he slides down further in his chair. “If I were into women, she’d be the one after my heart.”

“You know Joan Crawford?” Zayn is a little surprised, even if he should’ve figured that a filmmaker would be into classic cinema.

“Not personally.” Louis puts a hand to his chest and glances up mournfully. “Sadly, she was gone before me time, mate.”

“Dick,” Zayn snorts, scrunching his nose and reaching out to whack the side of Louis’ chair.

“I’m more shocked that you know Ms. Crawford,” Louis punctuates with a flick of his wrist toward the screen, “the legend. Are you even aware of the history of this very hotel?”

“Of course I am.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “That's why I love staying here.”

“Lads!” Paddy calls, knocking once, before barging in and depositing several familiar white bags with red palm trees onto the coffee table. “Provisions have arrived!”

“Thank you!” Zayn and Louis simultaneously chime as they dive into the bags like starving teenagers rather than fully grown adult men; Paddy nods and slowly makes his way back to the door like a cautious zookeeper with his own bag tucked carefully under his arm.

“This place is legendary.” Zayn shoves a handful of piping hot fries into his mouth. “How could I not know that?”

“Nothing personal. I just didn’t know you were aware or cared. Lots of people wouldn’t.” Louis narrows his eyes as he gestures around, a cheeseburger in hand. “You want to do a photoshoot here or summat?” he asks, looking almost sheepish about it.

“God no.” Zayn slides off the couch to sit on the floor in front of the vintage brass coffee table to tuck into his food. “What kind of dork wants to recreate that stuff? I just love the vibes of it all.”

“Not as inspiring as Scarface, then, eh?” Louis tilts his head back to look at Zayn, raising his eyebrows. His lips twitch into a teasing grin.

“Smartass,” Zayn mumbles as he pulls up the schedule on the screen. “Oh shit, The African Queen is next. Katherine Hepburn would be my woman if that’s what I was into.”

“Probably telling that we’d both be into notoriously queer women if we were into women at all,” Louis cackles, throwing his head back.

“Oh shit, you’re right.” Zayn laughs into the back of his hand before scrambling to his feet and wandering into the other room to find a fresh joint.

“I don’t know that I've seen this one,” Louis admits when the next movie starts, and Zayn passes him the joint from his spot on the sofa. “Love ‘em, but the accents do kill me in these old films, you know what I mean?”

”Isn’t it that mid-Atlantic hybrid thing?” Zayn agrees with a snicker. “Wasn’t that a made-up Hollywood accent? Like it melded accents into something that sounds nothing like how anyone from anywhere actually talks?”

“Exactly.” Louis looks lost in the film already, even though they haven’t made it past the opening credits playing over a cheesy painted backdrop. Or maybe Louis is just high, if the satisfied groan he makes after biting into his cheeseburger is anything to go by.

“I probably sound ridiculous even theorizing about it,” Zayn shrugs. “I never went to school for that stuff—or for anything. I think I heard about the accent thing on QI.”

“Well, I did,” Louis scoffs. “Go to school for it. And no one needs to pay for an education to understand that shit. Hollywood was just trying to erase regional accents as much as colonialism and capitalism usually try to erase any indication of individuality.”

Zayn can only think that he agrees, honestly impressed and intimidated by the short rant.

But before Zayn can say as much, Louis laughs nervously and quickly launches into impersonating a stiff, old-timey American newscaster accent. “I’d like an iced coffee, and no further questions, please.”

“That was good.” Zayn giggles before attempting a 1950s American newscaster accent of his own. “Reporting from Hollywood, but sadly, my chickens are not here to respond. I hope you will stay with me.”

Louis twists in his chair to offer Zayn a fist bump through his laughter before sliding down again to perch his bare feet on the coffee table.

Zayn lights another joint, which they pass back and forth in comfortable silence while picking at the remnants of their greasy dinner.

As much as Zayn admires Katherine Hepburn, this is not his favorite movie of hers, so he nudges Louis. “What do you think?”

“Well. Admittedly, it’s well-shot for the time. But fucking hell, those greenscreens are atrocious, though what else could they do back then? And regardless, Bogart and Hepburn deserved better material than this rubbish.” Louis shakes his head in disappointment as he takes another drag. “I thought awarding trash was new, but it clearly goes back to the early years.”

“Oh, it most certainly does.” Zayn finds himself sitting up straighter on the sofa. “I don’t know that the Grammys have been bullshit for nearly as long as the Oscars, but it’s all a load of fucking rubbish.”

”Did you know that the Oscars started because the studios wanted the actors and everyone else to compete rather than band together to unionize and fight them and their ridiculous contracts?” Louis sits up to face Zayn, tucking his feet underneath him and taking a deep breath. “Sorry. I may have done a bit of studying on all that and fancy myself a socialist at the end of the day. But I know this is the world you live in.”

“I’m not offended, Louis,” Zayn reassures him as he takes another drag and props his feet up on the table, briefly mesmerized by his own socks. “The Grammys are a fucking joke. I’m not nominated because I’ve not released anything in the eligible window. But because I’m about to release something and I’ve won before, I still have to be here and play the game and smile along when I would rather put my music out on fucking SoundCloud and never make another dime performing in this ridiculous circus.”

“Really?” Louis’ eyes widen as he listens to Zayn ramble.

“To be fair, that’s easy for me to say because I’ve already made enough money for a lifetime for both myself and any hypothetical future children, but,” Zayn chuckles, then sighs heavily, handing the joint back to Louis, “I can’t even tell you how much I hate all this shit.”

“Right.” Louis eyes Zayn skeptically as he takes a drag. “Well, in my opinion, it’s all just a distraction. No offense, but you pretty, rich people get bags of stupid shit worth months of rent to the rest of us, and we’re supposed to just clap and admire it.”

“I don’t know if you’re expecting me to argue, mate,” Zayn cackles, taking the joint back. “But you’re not wrong. The gift bags are just fucking compensation for our labels and managers literally paying for awards with “confectionary baskets,” he air quotes because, honestly, the gifts sent to the mostly old, white, cishet, male voters are more often expensive watches and season tickets to the Lakers. ”And, you know, actual checks, of course.”

“I fuckin’ knew it!” Louis hops up to his knees on the chair, smiling maniacally and pointing accusingly at Zayn.

“I think it’s bullshit.” Zayn laughs and hands the joint back to Louis. “I don’t approve of it.”

“I know you don’t.” Louis rubs his eyes and takes a drag. “You’re alright for a rich bloke.”

Zayn wants to argue that point because part of him still feels exactly like a poor teenager from Bradford, but he’s not anymore, so he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

But just when he’s starting to feel like a privileged shithead and turn in on himself, Louis reaches over to smack his arm enthusiastically.

“You know what? No. I actually fucking love it. You’re a working-class Yorkshire lad who’s done well for himself. A queer brown Muslim man at that. You’ve probably had the whole world against you at times, but you’ve kept going despite it.

“I’ll admit I didn’t know what I was getting into when I took the job, but I’m all fucking in now. I’m here to support you coming out, and I hope it fucking shocks the world into seeing yet another way to be queer. And I’m here for you sticking it to all these controlling industry clowns. I mean, really, I’m just here to document it all, but I think this could be something…”

“Thanks?” Zayn clears his throat, touched—but in a way that feels a bit overwhelming, where he doesn’t know how to respond.

“I promised you that the world would see that you’re human,” Louis clicks his tongue, “but there’s so much more to show them.”

That statement is more than a bit overwhelming, if comforting. Zayn looks over to see Louis smiling so hard his eyes are squinted closed. “Like I said, ‘m all in, mate. ‘S bigger than I’da thought, yeah?”

“Your Donny accent is coming out right now, mate.” Zayn laughs around the straw of his melting vanilla shake as he recalls their earlier conversation.

“Happens.” Louis laughs, unashamed and apparently far more willing to discuss his past than Zayn is. “I left Doncaster, fuck, fifteen years ago? Moved to Wolverhampton when me mum met her second husband. That’s where I met Liam.”

Zayn probably visibly perks up at the mention of Liam, but Louis detailing his background is genuinely interesting, and the lad seems lost in his story anyway.

“Who could’ve predicted that he and I would become best friends? We're so different. Fucking hated each other. But we did, and… fuck, am I boring you?”

Zayn shakes his head quickly as he stubs the joint out in a half-eaten tray of cold, soggy fries. “Not at all, go on.”

“I don’t believe you, mate.” Louis rolls his eyes, and Zayn rolls his right back.

“Fuck off. Go on.” Zayn bites his lip. “About meeting Liam.”

Zayn is genuinely curious. Obviously.

Louis eyes Zayn skeptically before he continues, curling back into his chair. “We clashed a bit at first, but once we landed on common ground during a forced group project, we realized how well our personalities complimented each other. Then we became inseparable.”

Zayn recalls having a few close friends at that age, but the bond had never been that strong. Not even close.

“We both wanted to come to America and then we both got into NYU. Fucking hell, we were so happy to be able to go together.”

Zayn curls up in the corner of the sofa, listening. That had been his dream when he was young, as well.

He's immensely proud to be from Bradford now. Age and wisdom and all that. But growing up, nothing felt more stifling than the thought of being stuck there.

He had yearned to attend NYU specifically—but mostly to get as far away from his hometown as possible and pursue a degree in English. To live in New York, write, even teach—just have a normal life, though it had sounded plenty glamorous at the time.

And then he’d been forced into this life because his friends had made a YouTube video that had gotten some attention.

Okay, a lot of attention.

Those friendships weren’t anything like what Louis is describing.

Zayn had thought they were, and then he’d left them all behind, not just because his life had changed so completely and so quickly but also because he hadn’t wanted any of it to begin with. And he maybe hadn’t recovered from the betrayal of that video being posted against his wishes.

It had gone viral so fast, back when that was a fairly new thing. His silly little adolescent online world had turned into something else overnight, and soon, it wasn’t just Zayn’s friends who were ignoring his protests about all the attention he’d never wanted.

It was American men in suits arriving at his modest childhood home and his ambitious mother encouraging it all. His baba had argued that it was ridiculous—but apparently not ridiculous enough to stop his mum from signing his life away while Zayn begged his baba not to let her.

Even after all this time, after all the success… all of it is still too overwhelming to think about; it fucking hurts if he dwells on it too much.

And that’s what he’s doing right now, so, great, two panic attacks in two days after he’s done so well for over a year.

“You alright?” Zayn looks up to see a wide-eyed Louis hesitating momentarily before reaching over and gently squeezing Zayn’s shoulder—like the protective, perceptive older brother he apparently is.

“I’m fine.” Zayn insists a bit too forcefully before taking a deep breath and sitting back up. “Please, just go on, seriously.”

“You’re sure?” Louis tilts his head, clearly concerned, and keeps his hand on Zayn’s shoulder.

“Yeah, really.” Zayn blows out a slow, calm breath. “I’ll feel better in a second. It’ll help if you keep talking.”

“I guess me accent’s just faded a lot since I’ve been here so long.” Louis continues as he clears his throat, moving his hand but not taking his eyes off Zayn. “I never intended it to. I was never ashamed of it, but it certainly helps Americans take you seriously if you have an English accent, but like, the kind they expect, you know?”

“I had coaches hired to train me out of mine when I was a kid.” Zayn forces a laugh, feeling much calmer because out of everything in his fucked up life, that much he’d managed to resist. He’s pretty proud of how the “training” never took.

”That’s fucked.” Louis looks genuinely angry.

“Tip of the iceberg, mate.” Zayn shrugs.

Louis looks at Zayn like he has something to say. Then he bites his lip and smiles reassuringly.

“Alright, how the fuck is yours still so thick then, lad?” Louis gets up to flop onto the other corner of the sofa, laughing as he throws an arm over his eyes, relaxed again.

“I guess because I don’t talk to anyone, really,” Zayn chuckles. “Other than my chickens.”

“Well, that’s pretty sad, mate.”

“This life can be a lot lonelier than people realize.” Zayn clears his throat. “Not that I feel sorry for myself. I don’t mind the lack of friends. And I quite like the company of my animals.”

“I’m sorry. Not for the money and endless accolades, but everyone needs some fucking friends, mate.”

“Well, maybe I don’t have any because I’m a dick,” Zayn states flatly, tucking his legs under himself and staring at the screen. “Isn’t that what everyone says?”

Isn’t that what my behavior last night displayed? is what Zayn wants to say, but he knows Louis isn’t interested in talking about it. And, right, Zayn is also trying not to think about it.

“Fuck the tabloids.” Louis uncovers his eyes. “Though I might have thought you were a dick last night before the flight.”

So Louis is willing to say that much.

“And now?” Zayn isn’t sure why he asked the question, but some part of him hopes Louis understands after his brief explanation on the flight.

“Now I think there’s more to you than that,” Louis shrugs. “I think we Englishmen can have problems opening up.”

“I told you about the panic attacks—I mean, you witnessed the first one I’ve had in ages. The threat of one just now, too, fucking hell. The truth is, I have horrible anxiety.” Zayn isn’t sure why he’s admitting this as he sinks into the cushions, but he can’t stop talking. “I grew up thinking it's how everyone’s mind works because when I’d have panic attacks as a kid, my parents just told me to calm down. Scolded, honestly.”

“I bet Joan and Katherine would have words with anyone asking them to calm down.” Louis smiles sympathetically, but there’s a steely glint in his blue eyes. “It’s not a kind thing to say; no offense to your parents.”

“‘Course not, but they’re from a different time,” Zayn dismisses. “They used to get so embarrassed if I had an episode in public that they’d tell people I had asthma because that was, like, more socially acceptable or summat?”

“Well, that’s fucked up.” Louis sniffs and sits up in the corner of the sofa, facing Zayn. “Not to get all soppy on you, but before me mum died, she stopped saying any kind of judgmental shit.”

“I’m sorry, Louis.” Zayn realizes Louis has lived a lot of life, too, which was obviously very different from his own. He hadn’t even taken the time to consider it, and here he is, feeling sorry for himself again.

“It’s alright,” Louis laughs, but it sounds forced. "I lost her a long time ago. I’m not over it, and never will be, but… I consider myself lucky that she understood me in the end.”

“I haven’t been through anything like that,” Zayn mumbles.

“S’alright,” Louis assures him with a smile. “Trauma is not a competition.”

“Well, you’re only obliged to document my life, not listen to my shit,” Zayn argues.

“I’m not gonna hug you or hold your fucking hand.” Louis stares at Zayn intensely. “But I think we’re friends now. You could obviously use someone to talk to who isn’t laying eggs in reply. So you can tell me what’s on your mind, mate. Like why you felt like panicking.”

“I don’t think I know how.” Zayn laughs awkwardly because he’s not sure what the fuck to say, as much as he appreciates Louis’ words.

“Liam is me best mate. He’s the nicest guy on the planet.” Louis lays his head back on the arm of the couch. “When me mum got sick, he supported me on my darkest days, yeah? It took him a while to confess he felt guilty for having happily married, healthy parents, and the kind of childhood I never knew.”

“Mine are, too,” Zayn admits. “Healthy and happily married.”

“Right,” Louis sighs. “But that still doesn’t make life idyllic, does it? Liam’s dealt with other shit. It’s not my place to say what, but I’m sure you’ve been through plenty of your own shit. So I’m just saying you can tell me if it’d help. Because we’re fucking friends.”

“We are?” Zayn’s voice practically cracks from how pathetic it is to question Louis’ proclamation.

“Bonding over legendary gay icons seals the deal, mate. No one told you that? I’ve got to get you an updated LGBTQIA+ handbook.” Louis shakes his head dramatically. “I know you’re not out yet, but you’re still entitled to a copy.”

“Thanks.” Zayn laughs, trying to hold back the unexpected watering of his eyes.

“And I don’t know about you, but being friends will make following you around with a camera far less uncomfortable. For me.” Louis points at Zayn and clicks his tongue. “So, out with it. Friend to friend.”

“Sometimes I have to force myself to do the shit I’m told to do.” Zayn is determined not to cry. “Like Harry’s birthday. I did it, but who benefited from that? No one. And I still feel like shit about it.”

“You've brought that up twice now.” Louis smiles, but clears his throat and looks away. “I don’t know anything about your relationship, but clearly, you want to apologize. You’re busy; he must be too, so he probably understands that. Just…go apologize, yeah?”

”Your simple and straightforward advice is probably correct.” Zayn stands up.

“Probably?” Louis scoffs sarcastically, grinning with his eyes squinting closed again. “Of course it is.”

Louis must think he’s advising Zayn on his “relationship” with Harry, and Zayn’s content to let him think that because their conversation has made Zayn feel much better about other, more important things.

“I do win, though,” Louis giggles quietly as his eyes drift shut, and he stretches his legs across the sofa.

“What?”

“If trauma was a competition.” Louis turns over, burrowing into the cushions. “I’d win.”

Zayn is sure he’s not wrong, tossing the blanket resting on the back of the couch over Louis before retreating to his room because he needs some fucking beauty sleep before tomorrow.

+++

Zayn feels wide awake as he settles under the duvet, a bit hyped up on having a new friend. It feels strange to admit that—possibly because he’s been dismissing Niall’s insistence that he needs one.

And in Niall’s opinion, that new friend was supposed to be Harry.

Niall had said as much before they’d signed the contract, had brought it up at Nando’s, and then again back at his apartment after Zayn’s birthday party.

Niall kept saying he was so sure Zayn and Harry would get on.

That prediction couldn’t have been more wrong, and it’s sinking in how much Harry probably hates Zayn right now.

Harry is just so charming and full of life, and people seem to adore him. He’s comfortable in his own skin—in his queerness—in a way Zayn envies, to the point that he just can’t stand to be around the guy.

None of that is Harry’s fault, of course. Zayn should be capable of doing better, and now his mind is wandering… and wondering where it had all gone so wrong.

He falls asleep replaying the first night they’d met…

+NEW YEARS EVE+

Taking photos with Harry couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, but every second was uncomfortable because Zayn isn’t exactly the type to dance around like an idiot—let alone on camera.

(It might have been more than a decade ago when that particular activity backfired on him, but he would never forget it.)

Harry had also seemed hesitant at first, but after a minute or two, he threw himself into it, and his over-the-top enthusiasm coaxed a genuine laugh out of Zayn by the end of it.

But as grateful as he may be that Harry is also a shit dancer, after that painfully awkward bit of playing pretend for the camera, all Zayn wants to do is to check out DJ Payno’s set in peace.

Of course, Niall had strongly suggested that Harry join him—apparently, he hadn’t picked up on how infatuated Zayn already is with the fit DJ, thanks to meeting his gifted photographer, despite the two of them being all Zayn had talked about since his smoke in the stairwell.

Zayn had already missed enough of the set that he didn’t feel like arguing, so here he and Harry are, standing on the edge of the crowd together.

People are giving them a wide berth, but subtly glancing over for sure, the strobe lights sparkling off an equal mix of rubbernecking gaudy light-up NYE headbands and very real Swarovski tiaras.

Harry is ignoring them and using his phone to record the DJ as he does his thing, so at least he’s interested in the set as well?

“So, Zayn…” Zayn apparently had that thought too soon because Harry’s slow drawl is echoing in his ear, raised enough to be heard over the music. “Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

Of course Harry is that guy.

Not that there's anything wrong with… bettering yourself, or whatever, if that’s what you’re into. But Zayn’s only resolution is to make fun of Niall more, and Harry seems too earnest to find the humor in that.

“Not really my thing.”

“That’s no fun,” Harry pouts, his lips pressing together and turning down at the corners like a dejected Ninja Turtle.

Zayn has a feeling he’ll be hearing that a lot in the next year because it does not seem like he and Harry have the same idea of what “fun” is.

And apparently, he’s taken too long to reply for Harry’s liking, because he follows that up with, “Come on. Tell me about yourself?”

Despite making conversation, Harry is pointing his phone camera at himself, posing, which makes Zayn wonder if this is the behavior he can look forward to from Harry side-stage every night of Zayn’s first full headlining tour, and just like that, anxiety hits him like a brick.

He’s instantly transported back to the first day of grammar school, the familiar uneasiness rising like bile in his throat as he struggles to come up with words to answer such a sweeping question.

He still doesn’t have a chance to reply before Harry elaborates, “Like… What are your goals? In a perfect world, what would your life look like?”

Is this really how people get to know each other these days? Who just asks someone they’ve just met shit like this?

Zayn doesn’t know what to say—especially because it prompts an even more triggering memory.

This time, he’s fifteen years old and sitting on the sofa in the small, cramped living room of his childhood home while Clint asks a similar question.

At the time, he was a complete stranger, looking imposingly tall beside a record label rep Zayn had already met a handful of times.

Zayn didn’t have an answer then, either, but that didn’t matter because his mother had been all too happy to speak for him.

Zayn shakes off the memory along with his mounting anxiety.

“Just want to get the new record out at the moment,” he finally offers, surreptitiously wiping his sweating palms on his stomach.

“That’s it?” Harry is smiling, and Zayn’s sure he’s sincere, but that doesn’t make this conversation any more comfortable.

It certainly isn’t helping that they’re basically shouting to hear each other, and despite his questions, Harry seems more interested in getting footage for his socials, as he’s now moved on to filming the crowd with quick, sweeping motions.

“I got nothing, mate.” Zayn forces himself to smile and shrug nonchalantly. “Sorry, just trying to enjoy the set.”

Harry’s smile in return is far more genuine and a little bit goofy.

It helps, and Harry is quiet for a while, occasionally filming the performance and the crowd between taking selfies, adjusting his hair, and holding his fingers up in a peace sign while beaming at the camera.

Zayn finds himself thinking about how he’s more of an awkward thumbs-up guy because those are the kind of strange details that come to mind when the anxiety is running high.

He tries to focus on the performance, finding himself so enraptured by the DJ—Liam—that he manages to forget for a few moments that Harry is even there.

Until, “Do you always dress so…”

Zayn immediately cringes. Something in Harry’s tone is causing the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle.

Harry takes so long to complete the thought that Zayn begins to relax again and wonders if he’s decided not to say anything.

“Conservatively?”

Zayn’s heart sinks.

That’s the last thing he wants to be called, especially by the beloved, flamboyant gay role model playing the role of his partner on the arduous, nerve-wracking journey of coming out to a judgmental world watching their every move.

But Harry had taken so long to find the word that maybe that’s not even what he meant. If he’d been avoiding saying “boring” or “basic,” that wouldn’t have helped all that much, but…

“I mean…” Harry’s still speaking so slowly that Zayn’s hair might go gray before he gets out whatever he’s trying to say. “I know you don’t always. It’s just very subdued for New Year’s Eve!”

Zayn knows it’s not the most elaborate outfit, but his trousers and shoes are vintage Yves Saint Laurent, and he can pull off a lot more edgy looks when he feels like it.

He knows he can. That’s not a question.

He just felt like keeping it simple tonight, knowing the start of this whole thing with Harry would be enough to deal with.

Anxiousness is bubbling up in his throat again, and he finds himself growing defensive.

He certainly could never pull off a full suit of glittering pink sequins—but it’s not like he would even want to.

How many Pride Parade floats had to die to make the outfit Harry’s been gallivanting around in, he wonders, then bites his tongue, remembering that Niall never has an uncharitable thing to say about Harry.

That Harry is notoriously kind.

So maybe Harry is nervous, too? Zayn’s celebrity can have that effect on people, as much as he wishes that wasn’t the case.

But regardless, he’s been working on his anxiety and knows it’s best to step away when triggered if the circumstance allows.

“I’m going to wander around a bit. Check out the rest of the party.” He nods cordially. “Nice to see you, Harry.”

Harry’s face falls, and he looks genuinely dejected. A Ninja Turtle whose pizza is being taken away. “Oh. Sure. Good to see you, too. Happy New Year?”

“Yeah, Happy New Year, mate.”

Chapter Text

+ZAYN+

Zayn thinks his phone may have been ringing for a solid five minutes before he's finally awake enough to answer it. He knows Taryn put in for a wake-up call, but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t meant to be when it was still pitch black out.

“What time is it?” He asks in lieu of hello as he rubs his eyes.

“It’s half past seven in the fuckin’ mornin’ my time, and I’d rather be getting my beauty rest than calling your sorry ass on a Sunday,” Niall’s voice answers, abnormally harsh and impatient.

“Fuck,” Zayn groans as he drags himself up to rest against the headboard. “Listen, I’m sorry about Harry’s birthday. I’ll apologize to him. I just haven’t had time. And I’d rather do it in person anyway.”

Zayn is honestly surprised it took Niall this long to call with a lecture, and he’s even more surprised he’s chosen to do so at this ungodly hour.

He’d also expected Taryn to scold him yesterday, but instead, she had apologized for her role in pushing him to go. She’d also assured him that the results of his antics had been interpreted by the media as Harry staring at Zayn wide-eyed and smitten, happily being whisked away from his birthday dinner by his potential "beau."

Shudder.

Zayn guesses he should be used to having facial expressions ranging from annoyance to abject horror being mistaken for genuine delight by now—it’s happened to him enough times over the years. He and Harry weren’t even close to each other for more than thirty seconds after emerging from the restaurant, but people see what they want to see—or what so-called journalists tell them to see.

It makes him a bit nauseous to think about, but at least he hadn’t completely blown their cover, so hopefully, Niall isn’t going to lay into him too hard.

“Paddy called me after he dropped you and Louis off, and he told me you were having a panic attack.” Niall’s voice is much calmer now, as sympathetic as it gets. “Taryn said she'd encouraged you to go to the party, and so did I. So I apologize for my part in all that—and the apology you definitely owe Harry can wait. Besides, whatever you said before you dropped him off must have helped because he came back a lot calmer, and we were able to salvage the night.”

“Before I dropped him off?” Zayn rubs his eyes again and tosses off the duvet that’s sandwiched between crisp white sheets. “I don’t think I said anything to Harry then.”

When he was much younger, Zayn had fully blacked out more than once during a panic attack. But in this case, he remembers everything—if vaguely—from signing autographs, to Paddy ushering him into the car, to arriving at the airport.

Louis had been the one to go back inside, while Zayn was in the backseat trying to calm his breathing…

“Well, Louis looked pissed enough to have destroyed the one ring to rule them all with his eyes, but maybe he said something that calmed Harry down. That’s not the point right now, anyway, mate.” Niall sounds exasperated and tired. “You should consider yourself lucky my gut’s been telling me something wasn’t right in my meetings with Clint and Amorette all week. That’s why I’m calling.”

What? God, maybe something has surfaced that Zayn had missed. He hasn’t yet charged his work phone, so who knows what Amorette and Clint are on about now, but it sounds more serious than being scolded for leaving the Hollywood Roosevelt pool party on Friday—or walking the carpet of the Clive Davis pre-Grammy gala and leaving without going in last night.

”Alright, what is it then, Bilbo Baggins?” Despite his attempt at a joke, Zayn’s stomach is sinking as he pulls on a fluffy robe embroidered with the Beverly Hills Hotel logo and lights a cigarette.

“Well, usually, I give you the option of good or bad news,” Niall sighs. “But you always ask for the bad, and in this case, it’s far more urgent.”

”Fuck, alright,” Zayn wipes his hand over his mouth. “Out with it then.”

“I’ve got a contract here that I’m meant to forward to you.” Niall clears his throat forcefully. “It seems Variety is determined to get the exclusive on you coming out. At least, they want it more than anyone else. I’ve been on Zoom with Clint and Amorette all fucking week, and they neglected to mention the bidding war they’ve been inciting for the exclusive.”

”What the fuck?!” Zayn can feel anxiety flooding his body, so he stalks into the living room to pace.

Maybe that bit of information is somewhere in Amorette’s many voicemails and emails, but if she’d been keeping it from Niall, Zayn seriously doubts that she’d have mentioned it to him.

And as fucked as this all sounds, it relaxes Zayn somewhat to learn that Niall’s irritation is directed at the situation rather than at him.

He takes a deep breath before quietly wandering outside to the patio, putting out his cigarette only to light another. “Okay, so what does that mean?”

“It means,” Niall grunts, clearly annoyed, “that Vanessa Jones from Variety has been offered the opportunity to ask you point blank about the rumors that you’re planning to come out. And she wants to do that tonight, on the fucking red carpet.”

“No way I’m fucking doing that.” Zayn stubs out his smoke after no more than three drags because he needs to breathe fresh air to calm himself.

“Obviously. I certainly wouldn’t advise you to,” Niall states firmly. When it comes down to the serious shit, Niall always has his back. “That’s why we’re talking.”

“Okay, so what can we do?” Zayn asks, still trying to control his breathing. He’s not exactly being quiet, but he knows the seclusion of the bungalow is enough to leave nearby guests undisturbed at this hour.

He hasn’t had this many anxiety attacks this close together in years, and this one has him on the verge of tears.

But he guesses he should’ve fucking known that coming out would be… triggering, to say the least. Go figure.

“First of all, I’m not even forwarding you the contract that Clint wants you to sign agreeing to it. I’ve already started an outline of a proposal for Duncan Mercer,” Niall goes on. “You trust him, right? He’s been an ally since before I even knew you. When we first met, I remember you telling me that he was your favorite person to sit down with for interviews. If you agree to make a statement on his show, maybe we can do it while you’re in London for Fashion Week? We can even see if they’d agree to something prerecorded and not live if that would be more comfortable. If it’s already sorted, then we can tell Clint and Amorette to fuck off with this shit tonight, yeah? I’ve got your back, Zaynie. Always. What do you want to do?”

“Yes. Tell Clint and Amorette to fuck off.” Zayn forces a laugh as his panic subsides at the thought of Niall’s Plan B.

“I have professional ways of doing just that, as you know,” Niall laughs genuinely. “And I can negotiate whatever you want if you’re not feeling my suggestion either. I just went to work on it because I figured you might be comfortable with that. And whatever you want to do, it has to happen soon because we—not just me, Clint, and Amorette, but also you—have set things with Harry in motion, thanks to the other night. And I know you’d prefer to make a statement before anything with Harry goes public, so I’m just trying to do this the way you want to, Zed.”

Thank god for Niall.

“I don’t deserve you, mate,” Zayn sniffs. 

”Well, it’s a Sunday, so my rate is double,” Niall tsks goodnaturedly. “Actually? This early? Triple.”

”Make it quadruple.” Zayn smiles as he settles onto a patio chair and gazes up to watch the sky turning from gray to pink between the palm fronds overhead. “I’ll do it with Duncan. In London. Fashion week. I’ll be ready.”

“Live?”

“Can I get back to you on that part?”

“Take your time,” Niall offers.

Zayn jumps as the glass door slides open behind him; he looks back to find Louis standing there with squinted eyes and an unlit cigarette dangling precariously between his lips.

“Bitch, it is four-thirty in the fucking morning. What is the fucking fuss at this hour?”

“Is that Louis?” Niall cackles. “He’ll like the good news, too.”

“Fuck, I forgot there was good news,” Zayn laughs as he waves Louis over and puts his phone on speaker. “I sort of figured that was a ruse to soften the blow of the bad.”

“What was the bad news?” Louis sits beside Zayn, fussing over his messy hair as he punches another cigarette out of his pack, lighting it before offering it to Zayn.

“Doesn’t matter.” Zayn accepts the smoke, realizing his current pack is empty after all the nervous chain smoking. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Am I on speaker?” Niall snorts. “Fucking hell. Are you lads sure Marilyn’s bungalow is that secluded?”

“We’re fine. Go on then!” Zayn feels much calmer, having settled everything else, buzzing with the anticipation of something that presumably will make him feel better.

“Alright, while you two have been living it up at parties and eating In ‘n’ Out, I assume…”

“It’s not bad!” Louis shouts towards the phone, bumping into Zayn’s shoulder. “The chips suck, though!”

“I knew I liked ya, Louis! They’re awful!” Niall shouts back. “Soggy and—Zed, we’ve gotta take Louis to the Nando’s in Baltimore.”

“There’s a Nando’s in Baltimore?!” Louis tilts his head at Zayn.

“Fuck off! The good news, Neil, c’mon!” Zayn needs this, whatever it is.

“Right, well, while you’ve been living the City of Angels life, I’ve been on endless boring Zoom calls to convince Clint and Terry—that’s Zed’s booking agent, Lou—that Liam is the perfect fit to open the North American leg of the tour. And after a lot of charming on my part, and many of Louis’ videos sent—along with bottles of Veuve that I will bill you for…”

“Niall?!” Zayn grabs Louis' forearm, and Louis squeaks uncharacteristically.

“They’ve agreed,” Niall finally confirms.

Louis leaps enthusiastically out of his chair, throwing his arms around Zayn’s shoulders, and Zayn nearly drops the phone onto the glass table in front of them.

Louis quickly grabs it out of his hand, shouting into the speaker, “Are you serious, mate?! Can I tell him now?!”

Niall’s cackle echoes from the speaker. “Well, I already have enough work to do on a Sunday, but Liam will have an official offer by end of the day tomorrow. You can tell him to expect it.”

“Thanks, Ni.” Zayn pulls the phone from Louis’ hands to take it off speaker and thank him genuinely. His hands are shaking with the excitement and gratitude surging through him that's offsetting the underlying adrenaline of the previous news. “For securing Liam for the tour and everything else.”

“Yeah, well, that other shit I have to go deal with now. But it’s worth it for you, you beautiful arse,” Niall laughs. “Love ya.”

“Love you, too.” Zayn fights against getting choked up. “Get some beauty rest, yeah?”

“I hope to. I’ll be watching tonight—both Shawn and I.” Niall hangs up.

“Can we call Liam?” Louis is pacing now, practically clapping his hands, looking as giddy as a toddler on Christmas morning. “I’ve been bloody dying since you told him the plan, and now that it’s real, I cannot wait.”

”Sure?” Zayn shrugs, nonchalantly even, though he’s also dying to see Liam’s reaction himself, standing up to follow Louis back into the bungalow. “Will he even be awake this early?”

Zayn would prefer to be properly dressed and not a sleep-rumpled mess before calling… He hasn’t even washed his face…

But it’s too late for any of that because Liam has already answered Louis’ FaceTime call.

”Lou?” Liam appears on screen, wiping sweat from his face and panting heavily on what looks like a jogging path along the water. “What’s up? How’s LA?”

“Lima! I have news you will not fucking believe.” Louis’ eyes squint closed as he beams at the screen.

“Hey, I want to tell him!” Zayn argues, forgetting any insecurity about his face and messy hair as he bumps into Louis’ shoulder to claim the phone like Louis had earlier.

“Remember what I told you on my birthday, babe?” After he’s said it, Zayn realizes he probably shouldn’t be using that particular term of endearment, but fuck it.

”Zayn?” Liam’s eyes widen as Zayn’s face comes on the screen. “I…uh, I remember you said a few things?”

“You’re opening on the North American leg of my tour this summer.” Zayn grins at him as he falls onto the couch, holding the phone up in front of him. “If you want. Niall is sending you the offer tomorrow.”

“What?” Liam’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Is this a prank? Where’s Louis?”

”It’s true! You’re coming with us, Lima!” Louis shouts as he lays across Zayn’s lap to squeeze into the frame, narrowly avoiding elbowing his bollocks, but Zayn is laughing too hard to care.

Zayn swats Louis’ shoulder, shoving him to sit up while smiling at a gobsmacked Liam on the screen. “Hope you’re ready for it, babe.”

Okay, using the word twice might have been a bit much because Louis looks at Zayn curiously before his lips curl into a smirk, and he turns back to his phone. “Niall just told us. He’s sending the formal offer tomorrow, babe.”

Louis knocks into Zayn’s shoulder as he emphasizes the nickname, and Zayn rolls his eyes.

It’s probably a good thing that Louis is teasing Zayn about it rather than judging him, considering it’s probably coming off flirtatious, and Louis thinks Zayn is with Harry…

Zayn should probably work on that.

“Okay.” Liam looks pale, glancing over the water before turning back to the screen, nervously running a hand through his sweaty hair. ”Don’t you guys have to get ready for the Grammys?”

”We do, but this is monumental news, lad! Louis laughs back.

“I might need a minute or a week to process.” Liam finally smiles at them with a flustered giggle.

“The paperwork is coming tomorrow, so don’t take too long,” Zayn winks.

He holds back from saying “babe” again; he is a professional.

“Okay.” Even without the term of endearment, Liam has gone from pale to blushing fiercely. “I’ll be watching tonight. Have fun, guys.”

“Byyyye!” Louis hangs up and immediately leaps to his feet. “Guess we’re up now, eh? Coffee?”

Zayn nods, following Louis into the kitchen as he starts the cheap hotel coffeemaker. There's an excited energy radiating off of him, giddier than Zayn had ever imagined he could be.

“He actually wants to do the tour, right?” Zayn swallows. “Like, he didn’t sound all that eager.”

“Of course he does; he legitimately needs to process. Who wouldn’t?” Louis claps his hands together. “I’m just glad you’ve made good on your promise.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Zayn bites his lip.

“Honestly?” Louis crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the counter. “I don’t know what to think about anything anymore. Since this year started.”

”What do you mean?” Zayn is genuinely curious because he knows it must be a big change, but he isn't sure specifically what Louis is referring to.

“Nothing.” Louis turns back to the coffee maker, pouring them each a mug. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Black. Thanks.” Zayn accepts the mug Louis hands over when he recalls something Niall said. “Did you speak to Harry the other night? When we dropped him off?”

“Harry? On his birthday?” Louis clears his throat and begins wiping the immaculately clean counter and coffee maker down with a random dish towel before he turns back to Zayn and pulls the cuffs of his hoodie over his hands. “No. I mean, I helped get him into the car when Paddy was focused on you, and got him back into the restaurant. But we didn’t talk, no. Not… erm. Not really. Why?”

He’s almost rambling and definitely avoiding Zayn’s eyes.

“Forget it.” Zayn is beginning to wonder if he’s missing something, but he has too much on his plate to care about it right now.

“Forget what?” Louis laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

”Forget everything you’ve ever known about anything because we have,” Zayn glances at his phone—and ignores an alert that Liam Payne has just posted on Instagram with an iron fucking will, “three hours until this suite is full of people fussing over me for tonight.”

”That early? Jesus.” Louis shakes his head and yawns.

”Welcome to Hollywood.” Zayn laughs. “Smoke?”

+HARRY+

It’s still dark when Harry wakes up to his watch gently buzzing to alert him that it’s six thirty a.m. He slips off his silk eye mask, blinking to adjust his vision, and stretches under the crisp white sheets of the king-size bed. Opposite the bed, an enormous bank of windows displays the twinkling lights of Los Angeles stretching to the Pacific Ocean in the pink haze of dawn.

A rush of glee shoots through him as he thinks about how perfect his time-lapse is going to look. That motivation propels him out of bed, in and out of the en-suite bathroom, and into a pair of hot pink swim trunks and a hoodie. He quickly snaps a shot of the view with his phone, then grabs his gear on his way out of his room, followed by a cup of coffee from the Nespresso machine in the kitchen.

By the time a sliver of neon orange peeks over the eastern horizon to highlight the cluster of downtown skyscrapers, his camera is on its tripod on the pool deck, and the time-lapse he’d planned is underway.

He curls up on a lounge chair to sip his coffee while looking out over the infinity pool, the rolling canyons, the city, and the ocean beyond. He doesn’t care how cliché it is—this is what #blessed looks like.

This is twenty-eight, he whispers to himself, feeling like he might need to pinch himself that this is his real life.

He’ll never understand how, on Novum-sponsored press trips like this, his travel companions and temporary housemates can sleep in and miss a moment of the joy of inhabiting beautiful spaces and exploring the beautiful places they’re visiting. He supposes everyone has different priorities, though, and while he enjoys hanging out with his fellow content creators, he wasn’t the last one left standing when everyone was partying the night before.

Plus, on trips to LA, the time change works in his favor to see the sunrise—his favorite.

He takes a selfie with his phone—sleepy but serviceable, then walks to the edge of the pool’s deep end. He stands there for a moment to take yet another photo of his silvery-white-painted toes gripping the edge of the pool.

He returns to his seat to post what he’s captured so far: he adds the words “rise and shine” in white typewriter font and a smiling sun emoji to the view out of his bedroom, captions the selfie “calm before the Grammys storm,” and lastly appends “fave part of LA" to the photo of his feet and the pool. He makes sure to tag Novum, the account of the luxury rental home they’re staying in, Nespresso, and his fledgling account for Pleasing, as needed.

That done, he leaves the time lapse running, slips off his hoodie—a sample design for Pleasing, black with an ivory logo—and walks back to the pool edge, where he hopes his entry will be best captured by the time-lapse. He listens for the shutter, counts down to the next click, bends his knees, and dives.

After a few warm-up laps in the cool water, he sets his watch for a thirty-minute workout.

It’s moments like this when he seriously considers leaving New York.

His little garden is a luxury for Manhattan and all, but a morning swim? That’s heaven.

That’s his last thought unrelated to his breathing, the length of the pool, or the speed of his strokes until his watch buzzes to signify his time is up.

He lifts his head out of the water, shaking the hair out of his eyes and pushing it back off his face, and finds the sun well over the horizon and someone sitting on his lounger with their own cup of coffee.

“Mornin’,” the man announces as they make eye contact.

The very hot man.

“Morning,” Harry replies, and if it’s a little throaty, it’s probably from having water in his nasal passages and not because someone attractive just said ‘good morning’ to him.

He pushes off the wall again, swimming a couple of lazier laps as a cooldown.

Over a dozen people are staying the weekend in the eight-bedroom house in Beachwood Canyon. Harry has met most of them before, though he’s only seen them in passing among the packed schedule of the last thirty-six hours.

Harry, Nik, and Felix were the last to arrive on Friday night; then, on Saturday morning, Harry had rushed off to a fitting with the LA-based designer of the jumpsuit he’d worn to Zayn’s birthday, who wanted to lend him something for Novum’s Grammy viewing party. That excursion was followed by a few hours locked in his room working, a hosted dinner for the group at a new sushi restaurant downtown before a pre-Grammy party on the rooftop of a nearby warehouse, and, finally, Harry bailing on the house bonding session over the stocked basement bar to go to bed early instead.

At any rate, Harry already knows that this particular housemate’s name is Keith.

He’s Australian. A personal trainer, surfing, rock climbing, adventure vlogging type who’d connected with Novum after leading a week-long press trip on the Gold Coast last January.

Harry knows that because he was on that trip.

And he and Keith may have had some… adventures on it.

You shouldn’t shit where you eat, a voice that sounds eerily like Niall echoes in Harry’s head, and Subconscious-Niall might be correct, but well, Harry had tried, okay? He certainly hasn’t gotten involved in the ever-present YouTuber hookup culture. He’d just had a brief fling that he thought he’d left on the other side of the world.

Literally.

In Australia.

The Novum partnerships team must’ve invited Keith into a longer-term collaboration. The girls there probably think he’s too pretty to have less than half a million subscribers.

And, okay, that’s catty and unfair. Likely accurate, but still.

At any rate, Harry doesn’t even know if Keith remembers him; he works with tourists, after all. Maybe he hooks up with all of them, and for once in Harry’s life, he’s actually totally fine with that if it means surviving this reunion with a minimal degree of awkwardness.

At least, that’s how he rationalizes everything before he reaches the edge of the pool, lifts himself out with his arms, and finds Keith watching the process with a knowing smirk and a hungry expression that looks uncannily like he hasn’t yet eaten breakfast.

Alright, so maybe he does remember Harry.

And Harry would be lying if he didn’t admit that, in the right circumstances, he likes being looked at—that’s half the reason for his chosen profession.

So you know what? He’ll take the compliment from a one-week stand. And from someone who makes fitness their niche.

And, okay, so if Harry puts on a little… show, grabbing a towel off the end of a lounge chair to wring the excess water out of his hair while letting the excess water drip down the abs he works hard for? Well, it’s still his birthday weekend, after all.

“Long time no see,” Keith announces. “How ya going?”

Despite the cool early morning temperature, he’s dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts, his long blond hair in a messy top knot—all shoulders and thighs, and sun-bleached curls that are, well, Thor-like.

(“So where is this factory that is producing replica Hemsworths, and how do I invest?” Nik had muttered under her breath on the first day of their tour while Keith introduced himself and explained how to use a snorkel.)

“Alright,” Harry replies with expert levels of nonchalance, dropping the towel onto the chair and heading over to turn off his camera. “You?”

“Not bad,” Keith drawls, “though who knows if I’m awake because the sun is up today or my body thinks it’s dinnertime tomorrow.”

“That’s brutal,” Harry commiserates, frowning with both sympathy and concentration as he reviews the time-lapse, pleased by how it captured his swim and the changing light. “I heard you’re here for longer than just the weekend, though, right?”

“Yeah, staying for a couple of weeks. Doing a bit of traveling while I’m here. You?”

“We’re leaving Monday night—fashion week starts Friday in New York.” Harry collapses the mini tripod into its smallest setting, which he uses for handheld vlogging, and carries it back to the loungers.

“That’s right.” Keith intently watches Harry rest the camera on the lounger and lean over to pick up his coffee. (Harry wonders if he spends so much time diving with sharks that it’s beginning to affect his personality.) “I forgot for a second there that you’re a fashion influencer and not a trainer, mate. You swim at home, too?”

This is ordinarily when Harry would do some cooldown stretching, but that somehow feels like a step too far with Keith’s eyes on him, so he sips his coffee, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “When I can. New York has pools, obviously, but it’s easier—and nicer—to hold off until summer if you don’t want to be in an over-chlorinated gym. I’ve been thinking about joining an open water club for ages, but I don’t know… it’s a little intimidating. Just like most things about New York, I suppose.” Harry laughs wryly, shrugging.

“Ever get back on a board?” Keith raises his eyebrows, a grin twitching on his lips just enough to show a flash of sharp white teeth, acknowledging their shared history of Harry trying—and failing—to learn to surf. It turned out that a board was too close to dry land for him to be anything close to graceful on.

“Nope,” Harry snorts, shaking his head.

“Ahh, shame, mate. If we had more time, I’d offer to take you out again.”

Harry knows that he means surfing, but…

Before he can answer, he feels the buzz of a call coming in and looks down at his watch.

It’s Gemma, his sister, and just like that, he’s crashing back to reality, remembering that he’s no longer just Harry Styles, the relatively successful, famous-only-in-certain-circles content creator making small talk with an, erm, colleague. He’s Harry Styles from the gossip columns who’s embroiled in a fake relationship with an A-list celebrity.

“Shit, sorry to be rude, but I have to take this…” Harry leans over to pick up his phone off the table next to the lounger, and as he watches Keith’s eyes dart to the screen, he wonders, not for the first time, if Keith is acting… interested.

“No worries, mate.”

“Gem?” Harry answers, wandering over to a sectional near the fire pit on the opposite end of the terrace.

Something about being in LA has made the events of his birthday feel like a fever dream, but of course, they had all been real. And every time Harry forgets that, he seems to receive a fresh reminder—from Louis replying to his DM, to Amorette reminding him he’s “on call” while he and Zayn are both in town, to now, Gemma, calling for undoubtedly something other than Grammys party outfit advice.

“Happy birthday, baby bro,” Gemma greets him, and Harry can tell from the sarcastic lilt and that crackling silence that follows that she knows something.

“Thanks,” Harry answers warily.

She sighs, already exasperated, and Harry’s heart rate speeds up beyond what it had been at the peak of his swim.

“You’re really going to make me drag this out of you then?” she huffs.

“Erm…”

“Look, I’m calling because Mum’s friend Genny reads The Daily Mail, so she saw the article with a photo of you leaving your birthday party with Zayn Malik? She called Mum in a frenzy, and Mum Googled, and lo and behold, it wasn’t even the first?! There was also… what was it? Photos on New Year’s and then a mention of you at his birthday last month?”

“Yeah, so, um…” Harry digs his nail into a groove in the armrest of the teak sofa and debates whether it would be better or worse for him to get a word in.

“What the fuck is going on, H? Since when are you, like, red-tops famous? And christ, I don’t know, are you actually dating Zayn Malik? Mum is beside herself thinking you’re finally seeing someone and haven’t told us. You know she’ll never say, though, so here I am.”

“Gem…”

“What?!” she inhales sharply, pausing to breathe and let Harry speak.

“I’m sorry I haven’t said anything to you or Mum.”

She makes a small choking ‘harrumph’ in response.

He decides to go on. He’d been practicing this speech, after all, mostly at night when he’s brushing his teeth, and the anxiety over this aspect of things pops into his head, so he might as well use the words he’s rehearsed.

“It’s new—very new. We’re mostly still, just, like, you know, friends. But there are loads of NDAs, and it’s all very high-profile, which is not exactly ideal.”

Another cross between a scoff and snort emerges from deep in her throat.

Gemma and Nik don’t really get on—too much fire sign energy, Harry has always figured—but he now realizes they make the same exact noises when they’re displeased with him, and it’s possible that Nik may be something of a stand-in for the sister he wishes he saw more often.

Now is probably not the time to tell Gemma that, as much as he wishes he had something to win her over with.

“Interesting,” Gemma murmurs.

That does not sound good.

Harry doesn’t trust himself to reply.

“Is Horan involved?” She asks when he doesn’t say anything, sounding remarkably like she’s auditioning for the role of an MI6 agent.

“Niall introduced us,” Harry answers. It’s both their believable cover story and the truth.

More throat noises from Gemma, which, yup, definitely not good.

Harry wonders if she’ll call Niall next. And if she does, maybe it will end with his sister signing a fucking NDA, and him finally getting someone to talk to.

“If you say so,” she finally says.

“I do say so, Gems,” Harry finds himself sighing exasperatedly now, less at Gemma and more at the whole bloody mess. “Niall introduced us; now we’re hanging out.”

“You and Zayn Malik.”

“Please stop calling him by his full name. He’s literally, like, the only person named Zayn that anyone knows. I don’t even know if he uses his surname anymore.”

“Well, you probably should know that. He’s your boyfriend.”

“He’s not… Okay, you know what, fine.” Harry catches himself as his voice raises on ‘fine,’ glancing over to see Keith has put in a pair of AirPods that Harry can only hope are actually being used and not, you know, a cover for eavesdropping.

“Okay, fine,” Gemma huffs. “I know things too, you know. Sort of hard to be a producer on Radio One without picking up a thing or two about how the industry works.

“Okay,” Harry agrees. He’s had a lot of practice resisting Gemma trying to break him, and he’s learned the hard way over the years that silence is his best defense.

If he gives her nothing, maybe she’ll go to work on Niall next.

“Fine,” she finally concedes. “Guess I’ll call Niall.”

You do that, Harry thinks.

There must be at least a part of her that thinks his relationship with Zayn is real; otherwise, she wouldn’t be acting as though Harry might care that she’s trying to extract secrets from his best friend.

“He owes me one,” she continues.

“Mhmm,” Harry agrees like he always does.

If anything, Harry thinks they both owe him, ever since the summer break when Niall was at his most bisexual, Gemma was visiting New York, and Harry and Connor were forced on double dates for the length of their ill-fated summer romance.

Nearly ten years on, Niall still calls her “the only woman I’ve ever loved,” and Gemma milks that for all it’s worth despite being happily partnered herself.

“Well, if there’s nothing else…” Harry ventures. “I’ll apologize to Mum myself, probably tomorrow because today is quite busy. But feel free to tell her what I said. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you two sooner, Gems.”

“Alright, H,” she sighs. “I do hope you had a nice birthday. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Harry hangs up, glancing across the garden to see that Keith is still engrossed in his own phone. He feels rude for bailing out of the conversation to take a call, but before he heads back over, he checks to see if he’s missed anything else.

There’s a text from Nik and probably some other things he should open first, but he finds himself smiling and clicking on the banner that says Louis has posted to his Instagram Story.

Harry had turned on notifications for Zayn and Louis a few weeks ago. Zayn never posts, so Harry easily justified that keeping tabs on Louis is a very reasonable and necessary way to keep up with Zayn.

Louis has posted a grainy selfie in an unidentifiable location—outdoors with just some palm fronds behind him—which Harry knows to be the Beverly Hills Hotel, grumbling in the caption about getting up at four in the morning.

Harry quickly replies,

harrystyles: Sorry that the A-list has an earlier call time. I got to sleep in until sunrise.

Then he navigates to his own story of the sunrise and forwards it to his chat with Louis.

After he clicks send, he finds himself scrolling up and rereading their last few messages.

harrystyles: Thanks Louis. And I’m sorry about how I’ve been acting too. It was immature and unnecessary, and I was taking things that have nothing to do with you out on you. I was hoping that maybe we can start over?

tommotakesphotos: Fine by me, mate. Feels like I owe you that much as well. But as I recall, I’ve delivered several galleries that I don’t think you want me to take back, so maybe a truce is a better plan?

harrystyles: Fair—one of those galleries got me this to wear to the Grammys party.
harrystyles: *mirror selfie from the fitting of his first choice outfit for Novum’s Grammy’s party*

tommotakesphotos: Good for you. I have to keep Z’s location under wraps on here, but fancy recreating the real deal, Faye?
tommotakesphotos: *pic of the Beverly Hills Hotel pool*

harrystyles: Omgggggg, I wish. But I’m booked solid until I leave on Monday.

tommotakesphotos: S’aright. I don’t think your boyfriend will let me get away for long enough, either. 😉

Harry finds himself frowning again at the last message he’d left unacknowledged. Standing in the hallway on his birthday with Louis feels hazy now, but he’s convinced that Louis had acted like he remembers the truth… But then again, maybe the message is him keeping their cover. Lord knows Harry is with everyone at every turn.

“Hey, Styles,” Keith calls across the yard, dragging Harry's attention back to the present.

“Mmm?” Harry hums in response, peeling himself off the sofa and walking back over to that side of the deck.

“Got a favor to ask you, mate.” Keith proclaims, looking Harry up and down once again.

“Alright…” Harry stretches the word out to cover for his thoughts going into overdrive, trying to guess all the possible hypothetical scenarios—from asking Harry to grab him another cup of coffee to asking Harry to come back to New York with him and crash in his bed for a month…

“I usually post a workout reel on Sundays, and I was wondering if I could tap you to demo a few moves since we have this great view?”

“Oh! Ummm…”

Fuck, fuck, this should not be the kind of thing that takes that long to answer….

Ordinarily, it would be an easy yes, helping out a fellow creator, but Harry can sort of hear Amorette’s voice in his head saying something about optics, and see the contract clause that says, “The undersigned party must not engage in any public activities that could reasonably create the perception that the party is involved in any singular or ongoing romantic or sexual relationships outside of the public relationship with the Client,” which, like, what does that even mean in plain English, anyway?

“H!” a voice is suddenly yelling from the sky, and for a split second, Harry is convinced Amorette is already there, that she's teleported in some sort of public relations TARDIS, just to chastise him for even considering it.

But it’s just Nik on the balcony of her bedroom, shouting about going to the Beachwood Café for brunch, but “could he pretty please make her his signature jet lag smoothie before they leave?”

Before Harry can reassure her with a thumbs up and an ETA on the smoothie, she clocks Keith. If she weren’t wearing sunglasses, Harry knows the glee in her eyes would be half that of a journalist who’s just gotten the scoop of the year and half that of a lioness defending her cub.

She waves at them both and then backs away from the window in such a way that lets Harry know he has five minutes to make and bring her the damn smoothie before she’s downstairs, asking Keith personal questions and making a scene that only Harry will know is a scene.

Thank god she and Gemma don’t get on.

But Harry is a grown-up, and he can make his own decisions. Even when they’re terrible ones.

So he turns to Keith and says, “Sure. Does after brunch work for you?”

+ZAYN+

“Am I allowed to acknowledge that you are sitting in the exact bathroom where the legendary—and notoriously misunderstood and underestimated—Marilyn Monroe prepared for her adoring public?” Louis asks from behind the camera.

Zayn laughs and flips the camera off on instinct, even though that observation does fill him with awe.

“That’s a solid moment, that,” Louis giggles, pausing the recording with a sigh. “I do have to ask, though: how comfortable are you with my referencing gay icons while working? I’m not using any audio without your permission—and I wouldn’t include anything I say anyway. But I don’t know who on your team knows, or how much, and I don’t want to fuck up.”

“Caroline and Zoe know. Obviously, Taryn and Paddy,” Zayn ponders while he finally plugs in his work phone after two days of ignoring it. Thanks to his conversation with Niall, he feels more like he can handle whatever might come up. “The assistants have probably signed NDAs, but I’m not comfortable being that open in front of them.”

“Got it.” Louis leans against the counter, concentrating on his camera.

“Darling!” Caroline calls as she strolls into the bathroom, leaning down to airily kiss Zayn on each cheek. “So lovely to see you!”

“You’re spending too much time in Paris,” Zayn snarks as he stands to pull her in for a proper hug.

“You’re spending too much time dressing yourself,” she snaps back. “Don’t think I didn’t see the pap photos of you mixing a Nike beanie and an Adidas tracksuit a few weeks ago.”

“I was caught!” Zayn cries defensively. “I didn’t call them. The Nike beanie was a last-minute choice because it was fucking cold and the only thing in the car.”

“Is that bad?” Louis asks as he snaps photos of the two. “Sorry. I don't have questions about fashion. I’m just fading into the background.”

“Fuck that! You must be the famous Louis?” Caroline wraps him in a hug that he can’t return because his hands are full of a very large camera; his eyes widen at her immediate physical affection.

“Not famous,” Louis snorts, “Thankfully.”

”Oh, sweetheart,” Caroline laughs. “You’ll be famous amongst Zed’s fans soon enough. I hope you’re ready—or all your socials are private.”

“They were,” Louis groans. “Well, not private but dead and buried, RIP. Or so I thought until I had to spend a day updating and archiving everything when my ancient Instagram was tagged.”

“Oi, that’s not very nice of you, Zaynie!” Caroline smacks his shoulder.

“That wasn’t me.” Zayn genuinely has no idea what Louis is talking about.

“Intriguing!” Caroline laughs. “Tell me everything, Lou. Can I call you Lou?”

“Uhh,” Louis stammers, looking to Zayn for guidance.

Louis really is in for it with Zayn’s team in LA, and maybe he should’ve warned him as much…but then again, maybe Louis should experience the same trial by fire Zayn did before they became two of the people Zayn trusts most in the world.

”Ignore her.” Zayn rolls his eyes before he gets up to greet Zoe, the make-up artist he’s worked with in LA for years.

(The hilarity isn’t lost on Zayn that he has Chloe in New York and Zoe in LA, especially because they’re polar opposites who somehow ended up on the wrong coasts. Zoe is all business, born and raised in the Bronx, and always dressed in a uniform of black designer jeans and a black v-neck with a singular silver chain hanging around her neck, whereas Chloe is all earth child hippy, originally from the OC, and generally covered in colorful bohemian caftans and big stone jewelry to balance her chakras or something.)

Zoe pulls Zayn into a firm, one-armed hug. “I love and adore you, but I don’t know if you’re worth the cavity search out there.”

“I thought Paddy had clearance to escort you both?” Zayn takes a deep breath. “Did security really give you a hard time?”

“Nah, it’s Paddy who gave me shit. I think it’s his favorite way to amuse himself.” Zoe snorts before she spreads her kit across the bathroom counter. “It’s just generally funny how heavily guarded you are compared to most of my clients.”

Zayn knows what she means. He’s so sheltered; it’s fucking frustrating. But also necessary. It’s not ideal, but it’s his life.

“What do you mean?” Louis is filming Zoe as she sorts through everything she’s spread across the counter. “How guarded is he?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Zoe doesn’t avoid the camera as her Bronx accent takes over, but she’s definitely defensive as she glances at Zayn.

“Sorry, I probably should have introduced you.” Zayn clears his throat. “Zoe, Louis. Louis, Zoe. Louis is following me around. Documenting… everything.”

“No offense intended, Zoe. Nice to meet you.” Louis shifts his camera to his left hand and offers his right. “It was a genuine question, but if you’re more comfortable with me fading into the background, I’m happy to do that.”

“You do that,” Zoe turns to Zayn, shaking her head.

To his credit, Louis doesn’t look put out or intimidated in the least as he steps back to film.

“What are we going with for tonight?” Zoe asks brusquely, the question directed at Caroline.

”Zayn, what are you feeling, love?”

Bless Caroline for always giving him a choice when he isn’t sure he has one.

“I think the Christian Dior?” Zayn shrugs.

His work phone chimes just then; the sound alone causes a Pavlovian swoop of anxiety in Zayn’s stomach, and he immediately regrets plugging it in at all.

Louis snickers, though, filming the screen. “‘She Devil’ is calling, mate.”

Fuck.

Well, Zayn might as well get this inevitable conversation over with.

He picks up the phone and recites, “Amorette, how are you?” in his terrible American news anchor accent, which, to his delight, causes everyone to howl with laughter.

“Cut the bullshit, Malik.” Amorette clearly doesn’t have their sense of humor.

God forbid Zayn actually has any fun.

“What’s up?” Zayn feigns nonchalance, rolling his eyes and smiling at Zoe, Caroline, and Louis.

“You know what’s up,” Amorette snorts. “You’ve heard my voicemails and seen my emails, you complete pain in my ass.”

“Have I?” Zayn laughs, waving Louis closer, even if he knows this footage will never see the light of day.

He admires Louis’ professionalism as he moves forward but remains expressionless.

“Niall may have told you you’re off the hook, but you’re not. And that stunt you pulled with Harry the other night didn’t help matters,” Amorette insists through the speaker.

“Niall also told me you’ve been shopping my coming out to the highest bidder,” Zayn answers coldly.

The air is sucked out of the room by the statement, but Zayn doesn’t regret saying it in front of people he trusts.

“Niall has made arrangements to your liking regarding that.” Amorette doesn’t sound remotely apologetic, which makes Zayn wonder whether coming out had been easy for her or if she’s just that good at compartmentalizing. “But I want to talk about your continuous failure to make your relationship with Harry the least bit convincing.”

Zayn panics when she starts in on the particulars, waving Louis off and retreating into the adjacent walk-in closet (the irony), clicking the door shut behind him.

“We’re only supposed to be friends right now, yeah?” Zayn scoffs quietly. “I know you like to send things through Niall, and he sent that memo.”

“You’re supposed to look like friends who could become something more any day now.” Amorette is obviously trying not to raise her voice.

“You’re right.” Zayn bites his lip as he paces the space. “I'll rewatch your wedding videos. Take notes.”

It’s a low blow, but after Niall had told him that Clint and Amorette had plans to sell his coming out like it’s a bloody can of Coke?

Zayn doesn’t really give a fuck.

“This isn’t about me.” Amorette is too heartless to be offended, which Zayn should know by now.

“Well, then I’m done with this conversation unless there’s anything else?” Zayn is on the verge of hanging up either way.

Amorette’s smug cackle confirms that she’s got the upper hand, but Zayn doesn’t know what cards she’s metaphorically holding yet.

“What is it?” Zayn clears his throat.

“You went off script the other night, and quite frankly, the social media interaction we had planned for Harry’s birthday would’ve been more convincing than the dog and pony show you created by calling the paps. The media ran the story we wanted them to run in the first place, with ‘insider sources’ saying that you and Harry had left together to quietly celebrate before Grammys weekend, which we’ve officially responded to with no comment. Your fans, on the other hand, aren’t buying anything sold to them by pap photos. Even that delightfully organic crowd of legit fans that Harry’s girlfriend accidentally rustled up is being labeled as bought and paid for.

“What?” Zayn chuckles nervously. “Are you checking Tumblr or summat?”

“I’m checking everything, Zee.” Amorette barks. “I’m ready to play the ‘privacy’ angle if you fucking insist, but I would highly, highly recommend that you and Harry, you know, interact, if you want your fans to buy this. And, might I remind you, them buying it is about getting them on board so they’re ready and waiting should you want to be in an actual relationship down the line. All of which would be highly preferable to them shipping Harry and your photographer.”

“Wait, what?!” Zayn balks.

“They had some exchange on Instagram after your birthday, and some of the fan photos from Thursday on Twitter—sorry, X, jesus christ,” she grumbles, “aren’t exactly helping sell the romance of Zarry.”

“Zayn?” Zoe knocks loudly on the closet door, and Zayn nearly jumps out of his skin. “You’re literally my favorite client, but I have others today.”

“Heard that?” Zayn is grateful for the excuse to end this confusing conversation.

“I did.” The grit of Amorette’s teeth is unmistakable. “The interview with Duncan Mercer is scheduled while you’re in London. Learn how to read your calendar or answer your phone in the meantime.”

“Gotta go.” Zayn hangs up on Amorette and tosses the phone onto the large ottoman in the middle of the closet.

He doesn’t know what to think about anything Amorette just said, and he doesn’t really care to dwell on any of it, either.

Niall had mentioned Louis might’ve helped salvage Harry’s mood, and quite frankly, if he had after Zayn was such a mess, then Zayn would be more grateful for Louis than ever.

Louis looks like he feels the opposite as he blinks wordlessly at Zayn, his camera held between his hands and dropped below his waist. “Everything alright?”

Right, Zayn returned to the bathroom, pale as a ghost and staring at Louis in confusion. He wonders if Louis is aware of what Amorette had just told him, and is maybe nervous that Zayn would be upset about finding out. But the last thing Zayn wants or needs is any tension between them because it’s all public speculation and bullshit, and none of that even matters.

So Zayn winks at him and smiles encouragingly, nodding at the camera. Louis must get it because he clears his throat and doesn’t question Zayn's behavior as he resumes filming.

“I’m not keeping you?” Zayn raises his eyebrows at Zoe, shrugging teasingly as he settles into a chair they’d pulled from the dining room into the bathroom.

“Happy to help,” she winks because she’d clearly saved him from that call intentionally.

“Thanks, babe,” Zayn sighs in relief, ready to focus on the day ahead for right now.

”Okay, we know what you’re going to wear, the Dior.” Zoe rolls her eyes and begins brushing primer over his cheeks, chin, nose, and forehead. “I’m impressed that you’ve managed to look presentable all week without my help. But this is the big night. I can do your foundation, but do you want anything extra? That’s my only question.”

Louis is leaning against the counter where Zoe has spread orut her brushes and powders, filming everything.

“I know the answer is no, as always,” Zoe scoffs sarcastically as she mixes two Dior foundations to match Zayn’s actual skin tone on the back of her hand before she grabs a brush and gets to work, starting on Zayn’s forehead.

”What do you think, Louis?” Zayn bites his lip, looking straight into the camera.

He knows that will annoy Louis because Zayn is not supposed to keep breaking the fourth wall and acknowledging him or the cameras.

So he wiggles his eyebrows to emphasize doing just that.

If there is any tension between them, or Zayn is just being paranoid, he'd rather joke around and make sure Louis is still comfortable.

“I’m just the photographer, mate.” Louis huffs, focusing on the screen on the back of his camera, avoiding Zayn’s eyes.

”I thought we were friends?” Zayn teases. “That’s what you said on Friday? Come on, what do you think?”

”Alright, you asked for it, mate,” Louis taunts back as he continues taking photos, then sets that camera aside and begins filming. “I think you should hit the red carpet with eyeliner. Go big or go home, yeah?”

Caroline and Zoe erupt in laughter at the standoff, mainly because they know that Zayn used to wear eyeliner now and then when he was a teenager—until some particularly nasty comments had been made in the press and on Twitter.

But he’s not that insecure kid anymore...

“Well, is kohl out of the question?” Zayn looks at Zoe, feeling his lips lifting at the corners at the idea.

“I mean,” Zoe glances between Zayn and Caroline. “I don’t have any in my kit. Not in the traditional sense.”

Taryn wanders in just then, greeting Caroline and Zoe with hugs before yawning and flopping on the ottoman in the adjacent closet, phone in hand, and not even giving Zayn a second glance as she scrolls what’s probably several day's worth of emails from Clint and Amorette.

“T, can you send someone out for kohl?” Zayn feels like an ass for asking, but it is what her job entails. “I’ll give them cash. A hundred?”

He can hear Louis’ chuckle from somewhere behind him.

Taryn rubs one of her eyes and produces a Sephora bag she tosses on the counter. “Can I keep the cash?”

Zoe opens the bag and cackles as she spills the contents over the counter.

Taryn is almost as psychic as Caroline, confirmed.

+++

As always, Zayn feels ridiculous as he slowly walks the red carpet, stopping when his name is called by photographers, shifting on his feet, brushing his hands together, and tugging at his rings in various awkward poses for the flashing lights. He tries not to flash any embarrassing thumbs-ups, but it’s a nervous twitch at this point.

The red carpet is secure enough at an event like this that Paddy isn’t at his side, but Zayn knows he’ll be waiting by the entrance to the theater when Zayn is done with this shit.

Zayn's equally grateful that Louis’ pass allows him to follow behind as long as he adheres to the strict instructions not to obscure the various entertainment news outlets’ cameras or otherwise get in the way. (As if these events aren’t full of staff and camera operators scurrying around without distracting viewers from the loaned jewelry and designer gowns worn by world-famous musicians being poked and prodded into vapid, emotionless interviews.)

Zayn takes a few steps further along, forcing another smile as he shifts side to side on his feet again, giving another inadvertent thumbs up before he runs his thumb over his lip, his mouth ajar.

He’s been doing this long enough that he knows how to pose to get the attention he’s supposed to.

But that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.

He definitely prefers it when it’s fans who are corralled behind the barricades. He’d much rather pose for selfies with them, sign autographs, and literally make someone’s day—even if he doesn’t quite understand why they care so much.

Red carpets are a different beast—and yet another necessary evil he has to contend with in his life.

But at least he’s mastered the art of avoiding E! and Extra! and ET! as he navigates what’s less a “carpet” and more a survival course of raised platforms containing the pre-show shows conducting their aforementioned 'interviews.' Thankfully, Amorette has stopped booking him on them and stopped even trying to convince him to do them because he’s gotten very good at being very uninteresting for the cameras.

So he continues shifting on his feet, waving below his waist at the cameras with more dumb thumbs-ups, and trying not to glance back at Louis just to reassure himself that someone who doesn’t suck is nearby.

He’s totally zoned out during the monotonous shuffle closer to the doors until he catches himself waving with wiggling fingers at someone clamoring for his attention, momentarily forgetting that he’s on an actual red carpet and not just here to greet fans.

A bright flash reminds him of where he is, but by then, it’s too late because he’s already moved closer to the guy he thought wanted an autograph, and a small microphone is being shoved in his face.

”Where’s your YouTuber friend tonight, Zayn?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate,” Zayn laughs it off, looking back at Louis—he probably shouldn’t, but it’s instinctual.

Louis looks annoyed, like his protective big brother instincts are kicking in, even if he’s too far away to hear anything.

Zayn turns back to the reporter, and that’s when he realizes it’s someone from TMZ, some guy who’s been low-key trying to out Zayn for a scoop for years—all while Zayn has managed to avoid even learning the asshole’s name.

“He’s in LA,” the guy adds. "He's attending Novum’s viewing party across town. Maybe you’ll meet him back at the hotel?”

”I really don’t know who or what you’re on about.” Zayn smirks and steps back, then sideways to another mic in his face, which he notices has the Variety logo wrapped around the hilt.

He feels mildly panicked, but it’s not the blonde woman that Niall mentioned had wanted the exclusive. Instead, she has brown skin and heavily made-up, warm brown eyes; she might also be Pakistani or Indian.

Fuck it. It’s too late to move away from whatever she plans to ask without looking like an asshole. (That's exactly the kind of maneuver that’s helped the public to already believe Zayn is an asshole.)

”Hi Zayn, what are you wearing tonight?” She smiles appreciatively.

Thank fuck for that completely normal question, one that’s already been shouted at him half a dozen times.

“Christian Dior,” Zayn laughs gratefully.

”It looks great!” She replies just as a handler grabs Zayn’s shoulders to guide him away—which, of course, they only do when he’s actually comfortable with the conversation. “I love the kohl!” she shouts after him as he goes.

Zayn knows she gets it, turning to smile and wave as he keeps moving.

He’s relieved to reach the literal end of the carpet and find Paddy and Louis waiting for him at the entrance of the Crypto.com arena—formerly LA Live, but there’s no time for an anti-capitalist meltdown at that stupid name change. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” Zayn sighs, waving hello and goodbye simultaneously as an usher directs him away from Louis and Paddy and leads him to his seat in the front row.

There, he’s sure to be captured on camera all night, his every reaction broadcast in 8K to a world waiting to analyze every minuscule twitch of his face.

Zayn is truly terrible at being a celebrity because he’s already biting his lip to keep from laughing at the stupidity of it all.

But he has to fake a lot in the coming months, so his fake smiles and laughter right now are just practice for everything that’s ahead.

Chapter Text

+HARRY+

Harry’s gotten a window seat in the shuttle on the way to the party venue, which he ordinarily hates because you can never participate in conversations from them. Especially when your seatmate turns their entire body away from you and somehow blocks you from being seen by everyone in the surrounding seats even though said seatmate is five-foot-three and has arms like spaghetti noodles; thank you so much, Nik, for including me in the conversation, Harry thinks.

It’s fine, though. He needs to do his daily Instagram engagement and check his email because he spent two hours that afternoon helping Keith film videos instead of doing either of those things.

But, of course, the second he opens the Instagram app, Niall starts texting.

Da Pimp Is Ere: Good news for ya, Hazzle dazzle!

Harry expects the typing bubble to appear to indicate that the news will be in the next message, but nothing follows.

This is how Niall bills by the minute, Harry thinks as he presses the message bubble, selects the question mark, and waits.

Finally:

Da Pimp Is Ere: I know you’ve been stressed about NYFW, so here is your solution. Shawnie invited Liam over to watch the Grammys, and it turns out he'll be out of town next week, so he’s offered his place!

Harry: Liam, as in Louis’ friend? He really doesn’t need to do that…

Da Pimp Is Ere: That Liam. Doorman bldg in Hell’s Kitchen. 1br with a gym, laundry in unit, and far more central for all the shit you’re attending since you live in Canada, just like my loverrrr used to. ;P All yours gratis for the wk. Ig he looked into Airbnb, but that’s illegal now or s/t, so he’s just happy for someone to house sit while he’s away!

Harry: Sounds like your matchmaking skills extend to properties now as well. But I guess I can’t turn this down. I’ll pay him, though - it’s only fair.

Harry’s making quite enough these days that he’s not about to freeload, and also, maybe a tiny part of him doesn’t want Louis to think Harry’s taking advantage of his friend.

Da Pimp Is Ere: Not sure he’ll let ya mate, but you can try!

Da Pimp Is Ere: And, while I have you - friendly warning - bc I know if it comes from Amorette, it’ll be less than friendly. If any journalists/gossip bloggers/etc are hanging around tonight, you might get questions, and you should try not to answer them. Without telling you anything that you could inadvertently tell s/o else, let’s just say interested parties are making the rounds that want certain info on Z to go to press with, yk? It’s been decided that info will NOT be revealed until a specific interview during LFW. So until then - you are friend-zoned, casanova.

Harry: Okay, got it, thanks. And I have marching orders from Amorette about what I should post tonight.

Harry: Congrats to him, if that’s appropriate. And you. For locking that down.

Da Pimp Is Ere: Thanks, H. I’ll let him know you said as much.

Harry: Also… Can I just ask? Was he acting like that on my bday bc I laid low at his party? Amorette mentioned there aren’t enough photos of us together - maybe I should apologize for that? I was just expecting his party to be a lot smaller. Like at your flat small. :/

Da Pimp Is Ere: Hell no. Z will apologize to YOU. ASAP. I promise.

Harry wants to say more, but they’re pulling up the Rolling Greens complex in the Arts District, so he just adds a thumbs up and leaves it at that.

He automatically goes to slip his phone into his clutch when he remembers it's a Judith Lieber microphone bag, which he specifically pitched them to let him borrow because it perfectly fits his tiniest vlogging camera, a DJI Osmo Pocket.

He pitched them on borrowing it, of course, but they’d sent him a custom black clutch with HARRY emblazoned on it in hot pink crystals, and he’d just about died.

The camera is the only thing that fits in the crystal clutch, though, so tucked into the pockets of his oversized burgundy sequined suit are a compact, lipstick, a billfold of singles for tipping bartenders, and his inhaler. (Because if anything is going to trigger his asthma, it’s the thought of carrying around a $5,000 clutch—some habits die hard, and not having grown up with that sort of disposable income is one of them.)

As he steps off the minibus, running through that mental checklist to confirm he has everything and wondering if now is the right time to extract the camera from the clutch, he hears Keith’s distinctive twang to his right.

“Wow, you really are a fashion influencer, eh? Defo haven’t seen you dressed up like that before.”

Harry looks up to find Keith dressed in a well-tailored grey suit and a white shirt, open at the collar with no tie, looking at him with… Well, something other than the thinly veiled thirst that’d been evident when Harry was demonstrating squats for Keith’s TikTok followers earlier.

Harry’s stomach turns over—and not in a good way—but he refuses to admit to himself what he’s suspecting, not unless Keith says something that makes it real. So he resigns himself to walking together as the group slowly makes its way from the drop-off point to the green ‘red carpet’ set up at the entrance of the enormous warehouse.

“Um, no, I don’t tend to wear sequins in the outback,” Harry replies. And, okay, that was maybe a little too snippy, but he’s felt on edge around the guy all day.

It had become apparent when Harry had helped him out earlier that the dynamic that had seemed easy enough when Harry was on Keith’s turf, snorkeling and playing beach volleyball, feels awkward and strained now that Keith’s on Harry’s. And regardless, whatever Eat, Pray, Love crisis Harry was going through last winter has now been replaced by a totally new one that doesn’t have room for a clueless jock who doesn’t seem capable of making a move beyond an intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” Harry backpedals. He doesn’t want to insult Australians en masse just because one person has got his hackles raised. “I know we weren’t actually in the outback last year. It just made more sense as a statement than saying, like, the Gold Coast.”

“No worries,” Keith laughs, but it sounds as uncomfortable as Harry feels. “I just wanted to ask if you needed a hand taking any shots tonight. Not that I really know what I’m doing when taking fashion photos, but I sure owe ya one!”

“Thanks, but I’m all set. I took some earlier.” He had; he already has all the OOTD shots he needs, plus extras for the designer, thanks to Felix and the view off of his and Nik’s balcony.

“I’m sure you’d be fine,” Harry tacks on, shrugging, trying to say, “It’s me, not you,” in a way that will make Keith drop it. “But I’m a bit of a control freak, so it’s easier to take most photos myself.”

Luckily, Nik chooses that moment to interrupt them, shouting, “H! Come over here!” and waving Harry over to where there’s a reporter with a camera and a small microphone talking to Nik and a couple of the other women on the red carpet.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Nik says to the man as Harry gets closer. “Everyone loves Harry. Judith Lieber loves Harry so much that she’s gifted him a microphone clutch, just like Taylor Swift. H, darling, show the man this crazy bag.” She reaches her hand out for Harry, grabbing his forearm once he’s close enough to pull him into the circle.

“He is such a—what’s the word?—workaholic that he has a small camera inside it,” Nik continues, laughing like it’s ridiculous (which, yes, okay, it is ridiculous; that was sort of Harry’s point), but the reporter does not seem to be finding it whimsical and amusing.

“Hey, Harry,” he finally greets him. “What a shame you’re over here, though, when your friend Zayn is at the actual ceremony.”

It feels like every conversation in a ten-foot radius has just gone as quiet as a golf tournament, and Nik’s grip tightens on his forearm enough that Harry can feel the points of her almond-shaped nails pressing into his skin.

Alright, calm yourself, he thinks defensively. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting this.

“Zayn is a good friend and massively talented, and I wish him luck tonight.”

There. That sounded like just the sort of vague and professional tone you hear on award shows all the time.

Harry smiles graciously at the guy, waiting for him to look pleased with the sound bite he’d obviously been fishing for. But he just looks confused, and that’s when Harry remembers that Zayn hasn’t released music in years and couldn’t possibly be nominated, and oh, he is a bloody moron, but he manages to play it off, giggling, “I mean, I wish him luck that he looks good. But he doesn’t need it, right?”

Somehow, magically, Nik and the other girls burst into complementary titters, and then her pointy nails are threatening to break his skin again, steering him away from the reporter and towards the entrance to the party.

This might be a longer night than Harry had mentally prepared for, and he’s torn between chugging the first champagne flute he sees and staying stone-cold sober, so he doesn’t fuck anything else up.

+++

Inside the warehouse, there is a sea of banquet tables surrounded by large screens and elaborate floral installations that make Harry wish he was visiting Rolling Greens for a flower-arranging workshop, not a Grammys watch party. Once they finally locate their spots, Harry breathes a sigh of relief to find his place card near Nik and Felix, with Keith on the far side of the large round table.

As they settle in, someone pops open the champagne bottle on ice in the center of the table, filling flutes and passing them around, so Harry takes a moment to check his phone. (It’s acceptable in his circles to be glued to his phone, but he tries to be reasonably polite about it—it’s also just nice to be present when he has the chance to hang out with people since so much of his time is spent answering messages and editing things alone in his apartment.)

Amorette’s prior warning that he’s ‘on call’ while in LA has been low-key stressing him out all weekend because he has control issues and likes to know what’s going on at all times. (At least that’s what Charlene has gently insinuated in her special therapist way, all while making it feel like his own realization.)

And, sure enough, he has a notification that Zayn has posted to IG and a text from Amorette herself, which he opens first.

It instructs him to like Zayn’s post and leave a “plausibly flirtatious” emoji as a comment. Also attached is a reel of Zayn on the red carpet that’s been posted by Vanity Fair, which he’s supposed to share on his Stories.

That seems straightforward enough, so he opens the post, which shows Zayn’s tattooed hand flipping through a stack of coffee table books on Marilyn Monroe. Harry double-taps and drops the word “iconic” and a burning heart emoji in the comments.

Next, he posts the video clip—thanking the Meta overlords for closed captioning because he can’t hear a thing over the music and chatter in the ballroom—and adds a line of text over it that simply reads, “I like the kohl too 🖤.”

There, that wasn’t so bad, Harry thinks. As soon as he does, his phone screen flashes with a call, and the ID says, ‘Z—Amorette.’

He starts to excuse himself but realizes no one is paying attention, so he gets up from the table, ducks his head down, and answers with a quiet “hello” as he scans the perimeter of the room for somewhere quiet.

“Styles? Fuck, it’s loud, is that you or me?”

“It’s me, it’s me,” he half-yells over the din, finally finding the hallway to the bathrooms, which is blissfully insulated by comparison. “I’m here, sorry, sorry.”

“Okay, well, that's not bad for the first apology of the night,” Amorette snarks. “Now, where do I start…”

She sighs heavily.

“All right, just know that for as annoyed as I am with you—I’m far more annoyed with that twatwaffle from TMZ.”

“I’m sorry?” Harry apologizes reflexively, despite having no idea what’s gone wrong this time. “The what?”

“The gentleman—” she enunciates the word in a way that makes it clear she means the opposite, “whose question you so eloquently answered about twenty minutes ago. The video has already been posted in a matched set with a similar clueless comment from Zee, who only did marginally better ignoring that dill weed. God, if only I were living in an era where the only people who knew about lavender marriages were hairdressers and red carpet news was spread via carrier pigeon, so crises took whole hours, if not an entire fucking news cycle, to materialize.”

She sighs again, and Harry wonders if a stiff drink, a hot tea, or a nice vacation would help.

“At any rate, both your answers could’ve been worse, but you also could not have made an appearance doing deep lunges in hot pants on a hot Australian trainer’s socials this morning, Styles.”

“Is that, erm, a problem?” Harry asks. He can’t deny he’d sort of had a feeling it might be, but, well, it also didn’t seem explicitly not okay.

“Is that, as a choice of activity on your own time, a problem? Of course not. Is that, in a world where we want our core fourteen-to-twenty-four-year-old demo to see you as an acceptable suitor for our beloved hero, a problem? Yeah, it kind of is. It’s just not great optics to be hanging out with other hot guys, Harry. Or to be flirting with Zee’s photographer on Insta—who is also, theoretically, hot.”

“Wait, what?!” Harry yelps. He’d hardly call tagging Louis once flirting, but Amorette doesn’t seem to care about what Harry is or is not confused about.

“Look, from a certain perspective, if everyone thinks you’re hooking up with every guy you talk to, then great, they’ll think the same about Zee, which is exactly what we want. On the other hand, as sympathetic as I am to the ‘all gay men are fucking each other’ stereotype that’s happening here, it’s not something we can afford in this situation. The general public wants their queer people—especially the famous ones—to fit into nice, understandable, clean-cut mono-normative boxes, so from now on, let’s avoid broadcasting the hot, single friends on main, Styles.”

“Erm, right, okay,” Harry agrees, although that seems like an awfully broad statement to agree to in his line of work.

“People are paying attention now thanks to that assclown of a reporter, but to capitalize on that attention, I need it to look like you and Zee are at least friends, so your delightful deflections come across as a plea for privacy and not a sign that you don’t know each other’s middle names.”

Harry bites his tongue before he can blurt out, “Javadd,” because he knows that was a figure of speech, and not what is actually needed in this situation.

“I have other clients to deal with tonight; I don’t have time to teach you assholes how to date each other, so I’m trusting you to fix this, Styles,” Amorette commands. “Go post something of you watching him, then get your ass over to his hotel later, pout in a selfie, and make it seem like we are inhabiting a universe in which you could possibly be boyfriends. Or even just friends. Jesus. I’m putting your name on the list for security, and I’ll tell Zee to expect you to stop by.”

Click.

And just like that, she’s hung up.

Harry wanders back to his seat in a daze, vaguely concerned that someone will notice his shell shock, but they’re all wrapped up in the broadcast, their starters, and each other, so they don’t. He chugs half a glass of champagne, then remembers New Year’s Eve, and slides it away from himself as he watches Zayn occasionally appear on the screen while he wonders what to post.

Finally, he settles on a simple shot of the screen showing the star-studded crowd applauding one of the winners, with Zayn shown front and center. He doesn’t tag or mention Zayn, just captions it ‘front row seat for the front row seats’ and tags Novum, the venue, and a couple of the most prominent sponsors.

“What are you doing?” a throaty voice asks, and then a pointy chin digs into his shoulder, looking down at his phone. “Ohh, it’s the boy,” Nik murmurs teasingly, just loud enough for Gabi, who’s seated on his other side, to hear. She immediately perks up, chirps, “A boy?!” and leans over.

“Oh my god,” she whispers when she sees the photo of Zayn, “that’s for real?!”

“It’s new,” Harry mutters. “We’re keeping it quiet, but, you know, it’s the Grammys.”

Thank god he’s had constant fake conversations in his head practicing all of this, Harry thinks, glancing around out of paranoia to see if anyone else is paying attention.

He catches Keith’s eye for a second, reassuring himself Keith’s too far away to have heard any of that, before slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket and finally extracting his vlogging camera from his crystal clutch to ask Nik and Gabi their opinions on the best looks of the night.

+ZAYN+

As predicted, there are cameras on Zayn throughout the broadcast, eagerly awaiting a reaction to something, anything, that might become a story tomorrow morning—or better yet, a meme on Twitter before the credits even roll.

But somehow, Zayn retains a painfully neutral facade through it all. If he were a deli meat, he would be bologna. No—blander than that. He’s the Wonder Bread it’s served on, the kind that makes plain mayo seem spicy. He is not even vanilla yogurt; he is plain yogurt. He’s not eggshell white paint; he’s the primer beneath it.

He smiles and laughs politely through the host's predictable, mediocre jokes at his expense. The topics include his reclusiveness, AKA how he’s gracing the public with his presence for once; how his numerous tattoos will soon cover his face, which is unfortunate because his face is his only real selling point; and, finally, his rumored purchase of Michael Jackson’s famous cryogenic chamber.

What fantastic material the middle-aged white writers have provided the young Black comedian, Zayn muses sarcastically, wishing Louis were there for him to mutter it to.

Instead, he keeps on smiling and applauding, biting his lip when he randomly remembers that Liam said he’d be watching.

But mostly, he thinks about the cozy joggers waiting for him back at the hotel.

He keeps his cool even when the cameras focus on him during any mention of the two female nominees he’s been connected to in the press over the past few years.

He’s never actually dated either of them—for PR or otherwise. But he’d been linked to one of them, Tamra Thomas, after he’d stopped to congratulate her at a random event last year because she’s genuinely talented, and he’d loved her debut album.

She’s way too young for Zayn (which the press had probably relished), even in a world where he’s straight. As he’d been shown the headline, he’d kicked himself for allowing such a blatant slip-up. He should know better in this world where even the most innocent and brief conversations can be spun into something they weren’t.

Tamra had never indicated she was interested in Zayn either, which makes it all the more annoying, if not enraging, that the cameras focus on him rather than her when it’s announced that she’s won Best New Artist.

Zayn remembers all too well how the moment had been taken away from him when he’d won the same award.

He was young, naive, and giddy, clambering to the stage in an ill-fitting suit because he’d barely eaten in the two weeks since it had been tailored. Despite being petrified and shaking, he thanked his managers and his label exactly as instructed, followed by his family and friends, before he was played off the stage.

Sitting in the same room at the same event makes the decade-plus-old memory feel like yesterday.

It should be a happy one, but now he can’t see it without the stain of how Twitter had blown up afterward, calling his award the equivalent of affirmative action because the Academy had recently been criticized for not awarding enough brown people.

To be fair, Zayn now recognizes that his first few albums were trite shit, so, yeah, there was probably some truth to that assessment.

And he now knows that all these awards are bought and paid for.

But knowing that doesn’t take away how much it hurt to be bombarded with criticism when he was just seventeen. No kid deserves to hear the things that were said by the press—that it was a pity win, that Zayn was a flash in the pan and a joke. Every single publication agreed that his music was a cash grab on the part of his label to satiate a market clamoring for bubblegum pop.

He was an industry punching bag then and still is now, but he’s here. He’s survived all the criticism and the endless jabs, found his own voice, and forged his own path. He knows the game now, and it doesn’t affect him as much, but it still stings.

But this is Tamra’s moment to enjoy, so Zayn forgets all that, jumping to his feet and clapping enthusiastically, even if he runs the risk of being asked about it later. He genuinely wants to whistle his approval at her much-deserved win, but there’s only so much of a display he should make (the press may speculate and criticize no matter what he does, but life is easier when Amorette and Clint don’t agree with them), so he keeps it simple and quietly sits back down as she makes her speech.

+++

The second the ceremony has wrapped, Zayn is ushered back to his car. There, Zoe has a few minutes to touch him up before she jumps out to go to her next client. As they drive, Zayn changes into a new suit in the back while Louis films him, cackling in amusement as Zayn flips him off repeatedly.

All of that makes the ride to his label’s afterparty at a soundstage in Hollywood feel far too short, like he barely had a chance to catch his breath before he has to walk a shorter but somehow equally hectic red carpet.

Tamra Thomas will obviously be at the official Grammys afterparty, so he doesn’t have to worry about any interactions with her being photographed and scrutinized, but he’s still worried someone might ask about his reaction to her win.

At first, he just hears his name being called to look at various cameras, so he goes through his usual poses while mentally preparing as neutral an answer as possible, which will no doubt still be picked apart and judged…

However, he quickly forgets that potential concern and moves on to an entirely different one when he hears that tosser from TMZ yelling “Zayn!” again.

At first, Zayn automatically ignores him, but something makes him stop and consider his options. It’s not the ideal situation to improvise in, but maybe it’s better to entertain TMZ’s tactics and come out on top.

“Yeah, mate?” he replies, turning back towards the man.

Zayn just might have the upper hand after all because the guy nearly drops his camera in shock. He manages to recover enough to shove his mic in Zayn’s face a millisecond before Zayn’s about to say, ‘Never mind,’ and walk away with an eye roll.

“Is it true that Harry Styles is meeting you here?” TMZ asks.

“Harry Styles? Oh, is that what you meant by my YouTube friend before? Nah, he’s not. I don’t know, he might also be coming to the event, though. I’m not sure.” Zayn answers calmly with what he hopes is a charming smile. “Have a good night, man.”

“Zayn!” He tries again, fumbling to readjust the camera, but Zayn just waves as Paddy moves behind him to usher him inside.

“Bloody hell, how do you deal with all this?” Louis asks as he secures his camera in his bag before handing it over to Paddy with a nod. He doesn’t have a press pass for this, but Zayn asked him to tag along because the whole thing will be less painful with some company.

“I usually just don’t,” Zayn shouts over the music with a shrug and a laugh. “I actively avoid it.”

“Think they’ve got Red Bull?” Louis carefully adjusts the short fringe hanging over his forehead.

Zayn points at the Red Bull banners and Ketel One displays flanking every bar throughout the space. “It’s not so much a party as a living advertisement, innit?” he jokes.

“Want anything?” Louis nods toward the closest bar.

“Naw,” he tells Louis. “I’m going to make the quickest polite round, get the obligatory photos over with, and then we can get the hell out of here.”

“And you needed me to come along, why again?” Louis rolls his eyes.

“So you could enjoy the free booze,” Zayn gently shoves Louis’ shoulder and gets a middle finger in return as Louis takes off.

Zayn goes to straighten his tie and realizes how crooked he left it in the haste of changing in the car. Great, now he can anticipate people saying how disheveled he looked on his way to the afterparty, probably along with speculation that he was drunk or on pills.

Such is his life; he should’ve thought to straighten it before hitting the red carpet if he isn’t going to drag around a stylist to do it for him.

An official event photographer pounces in no time, asking for a few shots. Zayn obliges, even after the woman waves over a younger guy Zayn’s never met but recognizes a bit. The two exchange pleasantries that Zayn can barely hear over the music before posing for the camera like old friends then immediately going their separate ways.

Zayn gets through a few similar encounters quickly and finally ducks back into the VIP section when an arm is slung over his shoulder from behind.

“Zayyyn.”

Fuck.

He turns to the woman and hugs her back, praying none of this is being photographed since they’re no longer in the area designated for event photographers.

“Rubi,” Zayn smiles as generously as he can muster through his discomfort. “How are you?”

He’d been set up with the model—the daughter of a retired sitcom actress and a second-generation Italian real estate mogul—by Amorette a few years ago. They hadn’t made it past a few pap walks before Rubi had complained to her daddy that Zayn was an asshole; meanwhile, Zayn hadn’t exactly protested at getting out of a bearding contract that easily.

“So good,” she slurs, which explains why she’s bothering to talk to him right now because, well, he had been an asshole to her.

That had been for his own reasons—namely, his annoyance at needing a beard, and nothing personal.

Although to be honest, he hadn’t been all that fond of her either, partly because he found it difficult to relate to people born that rich, and also because of something else that he’d never been able to put his finger on.

“Great,” Zayn replies, growing increasingly uncomfortable as she leans closer. She may be so drunk that she’s forgotten that she hates him and is looking to try things again. “Glad to hear that.”

“How are you?” She narrows her eyes, and never mind, yeah, the disdain is still apparent.

“Just ready to head back to my hotel at this point,” he chuckles nervously. He glances around to see if he can spot Louis, but the place is too big and crowded, and he’s basically cornered and wishing Paddy was here and not waiting in the car.

“Oh, so your new boyfriend is waiting there, not showing up here tonight?” She rolls her eyes and stumbles forward.

(So there really is a rumor that Harry is showing up. Well done, Amorette.)

“Do you need some water?” Zayn steadies her by her elbow, surprised by her words but finding it easy enough to ignore them when she’s obviously off her face.

“Oh, so you’re, like, nice now?” she spits. “I guess coming out suits you.”

She’d signed NDAs years ago, but Zayn isn’t about to confirm or deny anything to her. Her level of intoxication is genuinely more concerning than any of that right now, anyway.

“Come on, let’s sit down.” Zayn looks around and spots an empty booth nearby.

“I’m fine.” She tugs her arm out of his reach. “I’m just not sure why faking it with me was so much worse than slumming it with a fucking influencer.”

“Excuse me?” Zayn might not be Harry’s biggest fan, but that was uncalled for.

“Even if you’re actually into the guy because he’s hot, and you’re, you know,” she waves her hand at Zayn, shoving past him to sit in the booth, “like that. We’re legit A-list celebrities, and he’s… social climbing trash.”

Zayn can’t believe she’s doubled down on her implication that Harry is somehow “unworthy,” and he finds he’s not okay with any of that.

“I think you should drink some water and think before you say something else you’ll regret,” he clenches his jaw, “considering what you just said is fucking disgusting.”

He grabs a bottle of water from the center of the table and cracks the lid off before sliding it in front of her.

Now it’s coming back to him why he’d been an asshole—she wouldn’t stop babbling about her ‘celebutante’ status and ‘their combined powers’ and how all of it could take them both to the ‘next level.’

The only benefit to that set-up was that it made Zayn look straight. Maybe she would’ve gained some followers to advance her career, but Zayn is already on the next level, thanks.

And that was without well-off parents to put him there.

Alright, maybe that’s arrogant of him, but Zayn doesn’t give half a fuck right now.

“I guess you’re really in love then.” She adjusts the slinky straps of her dress over her shoulders. “There’s no other reason for you to embarrass yourself being associated with him and his YouTube channel.”

“Maybe you should call your driver and sleep this off.”

Zayn declines to mention that she herself is a glorified influencer whose parents literally paid for her followers, along with her modeling career, whereas Harry built his platform from the ground up with his easy-albeit-awkward-charm and hyper-focused attention on providing his followers content they enjoy.

Apparently, Rubi has decided to heed his suggestion because she grabs his arm to steady herself as she attempts to stand. “Can you help me call Dimitri? I don’t feel so good.”

Ugh, for fuck’s sake, Zayn is in no mood to be vomited on, but he does his best to hold her up and pull out his phone to call Paddy, nearly crumpling under her weight as she lets herself go limp.

“What the fuck is going on!?”

Zayn’s head whips up at the question, panicked, then lets out a sigh of relief when he sees it’s Louis and not some random person about to accuse him of something awful because there’s a woman nearly passed out in his arms.

“Call Paddy and tell him Rubi needs Dimitri to pick her up. Now.” Zayn grunts as Rubi shifts to hold onto him. “I’ll explain later. We’re getting the fuck out of here, too.”

Louis pulls out his phone; Paddy must answer right away because Louis immediately repeats Zayn’s instructions word for word before helping Zayn lift Rubi between them.

They manage to half-carry her to a back exit through a corridor devoid of cameras, and her bodyguard is there before they even see Paddy.

Dimitri doesn’t even question Zayn’s presence as he lifts Rubi in his arms. “Thanks for looking out for her, Zayn.”

“You still have my number?” Zayn exhales, relieved to have that unexpected ordeal over. “Let me know she’s okay, alright?”

“I will, sir,” he states in his thick Russian accent with a nod before he deposits Rubi in the backseat of an SUV and pulls away.

“What the fuck,” Louis lights a cigarette and offers one to Zayn as he glances around the alley, “was that all about?”

“Long story.” Zayn takes a deep breath before he lights the cigarette Louis handed him.

“I’m not going anywhere but back to the bungalow with you, mate.” Louis raises his eyebrows. “So tell me about that, the reporter stalking you, and Niall’s bad news that we never got back to. I’m guessing the last one is related to what you said to ‘She Devil’ about being sold out to the highest bidder?”

“Yeah, um…” Zayn isn’t the most open with his thoughts and feelings, but after what just happened, it feels like he needs to get some of it out, and Louis is probably a safe option after their talk the other night. “Let’s just get back first, yeah?”

Before Louis can answer, Paddy pulls up in the Escalade, and they hop into the back with their cigarettes still lit.

“Where’s Rubi?” Paddy asks as he navigates the post-awards traffic, which is probably driving the locals bonkers and keeping them confined to their homes.

“Dimitri was there. He got her,” Zayn answers with a resigned sigh. “She’s safe, at least.”

“She a model or summat?” Louis blows smoke out of the cracked window.

“Yeah, she is,” Zayn says without bothering to direct his smoke out of the window. We were set up for a contract that never worked out.”

“A contract for what?” Louis turns back to Zayn.

“A beard. It’s a whole thing.” Zayn looks out of the window.

“I know what a beard is, mate,” Louis snorts, pulling out a camera and scrolling through the image previews.

“Yeah, well, one benefit of coming out is not having to do that shit anymore, I suppose.” Zayn laughs humorlessly as he leans his head against the cool glass.

He never would’ve guessed he’d be quick to leap to Harry’s defense, but Rubi’s words put him on edge so fast that it was like a veil lifting to reveal that maybe doing this with Harry wouldn’t be so bad…

It certainly couldn’t be as bad as the set-ups Amorette had attempted in the past.

“Right,” Louis laughs, coughing on an inhale of smoke. “You and Harry, finally the real deal for you, mate.”

“Yeah. Right.” Zayn clears his throat and finds himself thinking about Liam’s bashful smile and nervous laugh on FaceTime earlier. “Finally.”

By the time Paddy pulls up to the Beverly Hills Hotel, Zayn’s drifted off, jolting awake as Louis rolls up his window to shield them from the paps flanking the driveway to photograph the outsides of blacked-out SUVs. He may be half asleep, but he thinks he sees the fucking guy from TMZ there again. If not, he’s either dreaming or just suffering PTSD from years of that stalker looming in the background of his worst moments.

+HARRY+

Harry did his best to focus on his friends and document the rest of the ceremony and the dance party that followed it; he probably even looked like he was having fun, but his mind kept drifting to what he needed to do next.

Niall said Zayn was planning to apologize, so that helps, and who knows, maybe Louis will be around and willing to take a photo by the pool like he’d offered…

Still, Harry would prefer to head back to the Novum house to slather on a face mask, maybe hang out in the pool for a bit with a few of the others, and then go to bed.

Half of his group is about to do just that—while the other half makes after-after-party plans for more drinking and dancing—so Harry sighs and figures it’s time to extract himself. He tells Nik where he’s going in a whisper, makes her promise not to tell anyone, and is almost out the door when he hears someone calling him.

“Harry!”

He turns around and sees it’s Keith because, of course, it is.

“Hey man, sorry not to say good night,” Harry starts. “But I need to—”

“Go see that guy?”

Um, okay. Guess Keith is done beating around the bush. (No pun intended.)

“You could’ve told me you were seeing someone, Harry,” he goes on. “Didn’t have to let me make a fool of myself all day.”

“No, I, uh, you were, what?” Harry stammers. It’s not like he didn’t realize Keith was flirting, but it’d been a year since they last saw each other, and the last thing he was going to assume was that they’d pick up where they’d left off.

It wasn’t like they’d had some epic romance. They hadn’t even followed each other on Instagram.

“Yeah, alright, I get it,” Keith shrugs. “It was just a holiday thing. Look, I wasn’t dead set on anything. Just, when I saw you again, I thought—it was stupid of me to assume. I get it.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Harry begins earnestly because he is sorry. He certainly hadn’t meant to lead anyone on, but he also couldn’t just come out and say he’s ‘seeing someone,’ and, christ, why is all of this so hard?

“It wasn’t just a—Look, if it weren’t for—” Harry tries to explain, but unpacking their… dalliance isn’t exactly something he wants to do in the lobby of a greenhouse surrounded by harried servers and tipsy influencers—or at all.

“It’s alright, you’re probably not my type anyway,” Keith cuts him off.

Well, then.

Here it is, after all. Exactly what Harry’s been expecting all day.

And he’d been so close to just getting out the fucking door.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks calmly, but he can already feel himself deflating and inflating simultaneously, the shame and rage circling in a boxing match between fight and flight.

“Just, um, all the, you know, fashion stuff,” Keith stutters, looking uncomfortable at being asked to spell it out.

“You’re literally on a press trip sponsored by a fashion brand right now.” Harry rolls his eyes because passive-aggressiveness is the middle ground between his warring survival instincts.

“Look, I don’t have a problem with it,” Keith hedges. “Just, uh, I guess I’ve always figured that was more a thing for the girls. I didn’t realize that you… When we met, you were the sort of bloke who was, you know…”

“Right,” Harry huffs. “Well, fashion is not just for ‘the girls.’ And I am the sort of bloke who likes fitness, sport, and wearing sequins. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

(Harry is not about to mention how he sometimes doesn’t feel like much of a bloke at all.)

“Yeah, yeah. Defo.” Keith looks mildly chastised. “Guess that’s what you and him have in common then, huh?” He adds after a beat that Harry spends staring at him and wondering how none of this came up in the week they spent together, or if he was just able to ignore it better then, or what…. “Knowing what designer you’re wearing and all that, even if you’re, you know, so different?”

“Different, how?” Harry asks, again with the sinking feeling that he already knows the answer. At this point, he might as well label that feeling a micro-aggression detector.

“You know, like, different cultures,” Keith offers, so fucking cis white man clueless that it makes Harry wish that someone, anyone, were here to witness this, so he wouldn’t feel like he’s losing his mind.

“Different cultures? He’s from Bradford, mate. We grew up an hour away from each other.”

Keith does not look sufficiently impressed by this fact. “Yeah, but you know, he’s, like, Indian or something, right?”

“His father is from Pakistan.” Harry sighs, this close to giving up and walking away. He feels like he shouldn’t, though, like it’s his responsibility to do something to educate the macho white millennial who doesn’t know he’s mildly transphobic and racist, who thinks he’s gets a pass because he’s queer, and doesn’t realize he still has a fuck ton of unlearning to do.

“If I recall correctly, your mum is from England. Does that mean that other Australians should struggle to relate to you?” Harry tries.

“That’s not what I meant,” Keith replies, sullen as a toddler and metaphorically digging in his heels.

Harry just nods. He’s gutted that flight is winning out over fight, but he just can’t do this right now.

“Right. Well, I am sorry for the misunderstanding, but I have to go; I have somewhere to be.”

He turns and walks out the door. He can wait for his uber outside.

+ZAYN+

As soon as they’re safely back in the bungalow, Zayn strips out of his suit and heads for the bathroom to wash off his makeup.

He watches the water dripping down his clean face as he stares in the mirror, mentally planning his apology to Harry for his behavior on Harry’s birthday while grappling with the urge to also apologize for the awful words Rubi had said that Harry hadn’t even heard.

He’s lost in those thoughts when his work phone startles him with a chime.

(Taryn must’ve plugged it in before they left earlier; she’d probably debated pestering Zayn to bring it along before deciding not to bother because she knows him.)

He checks it in case it's from Dimitri, which it is, saying that Rubi's okay and thanking Zayn again.

There are also a dozen missed calls from Clint, all from before the ceremony had even begun. No voicemail.

No missed calls from Amorette, but there’s also a text.

She Devil: Do you ever check your goddamn phone? He’ll be there in half an hour if he’s better at keeping his word than you are.

Zayn doesn’t know what she’s on about until he scrolls up to her previous message.

Her previous long message.

She Devil: I’m not bothering to call because I know you won’t pick up, but this is a courtesy head’s up. I just told Harry to get his ass over there tonight because, long story short, he decided to be the fuck up today. I’d love to tell you about it, but maybe he can fill you in while you catch up. Take some selfies, or “accidentally” get your tattooed hand or your fucking elbow or a goddamn loose strand of your hair into one of his fucking photos. I’m really at my wit’s end with you two. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. That’s both a threat and a promise.

That seems a bit dramatic, especially as Zayn’s sure whatever she’s calling Harry a fuck up for is not a big deal.

It doesn’t matter anyway because Zayn knows he’ll be asleep within the next half hour.

So, with that very valid excuse in mind for when she yells at him tomorrow, he adds a thumbs-up to her last message before silencing the phone and setting it aside.

He flosses and brushes his teeth, finishes his skincare routine, and puts on fresh boxers and a robe before walking back into the living room.

Louis is leaning against the chair he’s spent the last two nights curled up watching movies on, with his arms crossed over his chest as he glares from under his hood.

If only he were in a cheap suit with a clipboard in hand, Zayn would think he’d just walked into an episode of To Catch a Predator.

“Come on then,” Louis narrows his eyes. “Out with it. The stalker pap, the passed-out starlet, Niall’s bad news? I’m listening, mate.”

“I explained about Rubi, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright.” Louis makes a tick mark in the air. “The rest?”

Zayn notices Some Like It Hot is playing on the TV, which is comforting. He pulls the robe tighter around himself and settles onto the sofa. “The rest might be somewhat related.”

“Okay?” Louis nods patiently.

“Niall’s news was that my publicist and manager had been engaged in a literal bidding war to out me. As in, the highest bidder could’ve either asked me off guard on the red carpet or just published it as fact from ‘highly reliable sources’ if I didn’t sit down and give them the exclusive.”

(Those details Zayn had gleaned from some emails Niall forwarded earlier.)

Louis pushes off the chair to his feet. “What in the actual fuck?!”

“It’s unfortunately pretty common.” Zayn appreciates Louis’ indignant response even though he’s too tired to feel that way anymore.

“That doesn’t make it alright!” Louis huffs as he paces, then stops abruptly. “What about the stalker guy? With the shit camera and kiddie mic?”

“He’s from TMZ,” Zayn explains with a heavy sigh, digging his toes between the cushions. “That guy’s been trying to out me for years. I don’t even know what made him suspicious in the first place, but he must feel the walls closing in that he won’t be the one getting credit for it.”

“I say this very well knowing the answer,” Louis flops onto the couch, his fingertips pressed to his eyes, “but what the fuck is wrong with people?”

“I’m just dollar signs to my management and the press. I’m not a human being; I’m a brand. A commodity,” Zayn recites, feeling nothing but exhaustion as he says it. “My worth can only be measured by the money it makes.”

“Fuck that.” Louis sits up, his eyes boring into Zayn’s. “Please tell me you don’t actually believe that. You are a human being. You deserve autonomy, and dignity, and privacy. You deserve to come out how, when, and only if you choose to.”

“Well, that’s not what I get,” Zayn shrugs.

“Fine,” Louis snorts. “I can’t argue that or tell you you’re wrong because this has been your life for a long time. All I can do is know my mission in following you around this year.”

“Yeah?”

“To show the world that you’re human, mate.”

Zayn laughs, and Louis looks over at him with narrowed eyes.

“I believe you can do exactly that, and I’m glad, man,” Zayn insists. “It’s just the other stuff…”

“Let me stop you right there.” Louis rummages around the coffee table to find one of Zayn’s half-smoked joints and lights it with a grin. “Do you have a plan for coming out officially?”

“Niall sort of set something in motion…”

“The details, if I may ask?” Louis raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“A radio interview with Duncan Mercer. During London Fashion Week.”

“Wait? The Duncan Mercer?” Louis’ eyes widen, and Zayn would be amused at the possibility of Louis fangirling over the famous DJ if he hadn’t schooled his expression so quickly.

“Well then, I’ll be there.” Louis laughs as he takes a drag.

“Obviously.” Zayn steals the joint to finish it, putting it out, then stretching out on the sofa on his back. “I’ve sort of hired you to be.”

“Eh, consider this a moment of your life not tied entirely to contacts for once, then.” Louis is smirking, but his jaw is clenched determinedly. “I told you, mate. I’m all in.”

“I know you mean that,” Zayn yawns, stretching his arms over his head. “And I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, okay, right,” Louis laughs skeptically, turning back to the TV. It looks like tonight's line-up is a Marilyn marathon. A Maril-athon?”

Zayn is chuckling at the bad joke with his eyes closed when the room phone explodes in a piercing ring.

“Shit.” Zayn rubs his temples, opening his eyes enough to tilt his head toward Louis. “Amorette said Harry is coming over. Would you mind getting that? And him? S’probably the front desk saying he’s here and needs to be collected…”

“He’s coming here for what?” Zayn’s too tired to read Louis’ expression, but he sounds somewhere between worried and annoyed.

“Pictures? For social?” Zayn yawns again; he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. “I don’t know, really. He can probably tell you more than I can.”

“Okay…”

If Louis says anything else, Zayn doesn’t hear it.

+HARRY+

The designer kitsch of the Beverly Hills Hotel is a very different sort of glamour to the sleekly modern Novum house, Harry thinks as he steps out of the car and wanders up the red carpeted walkway to the entrance.

The ornate circular lobby is as busy as one would expect after a citywide event. Harry knows he’s meant to be here—the guard at the gate had his name, after all, and he blends right in with the after-Grammys crowd in their formal wear, but he still feels out of place milling around.

He wonders if he’s meant to meet Zayn there or if he ought to try to find the bungalow that he’s staying in. He has Zayn’s number—Niall insisted they swap on the first day—and he’s beginning to wonder if he should use it when he hears:

“Styles.”

He turns around to see Louis striding across the lobby. He’s dressed down in black joggers and a black hoodie with silver details and the hood up, but somehow looks more at home in this place than Harry.

Harry feels his entire body relax at the sight of him. Until the anxiety drained out of him, he hadn’t even realized how tense he was at the prospect of seeing Zayn without a buffer person because it was all jumbled up with how rattled Harry was after that triggering, erm, conversation with Keith.

“Sorry,” Harry starts apologizing before Louis even reaches him. “I meant to get here earlier; I got, um… held up.”

“S’okay,” Louis shrugs, turning and gesturing for Harry to follow him with a tilt of his head, his hands jammed in his hoodie pockets. “Sorry that it’s me and not Zed to greet you. He fell asleep. It turns out he’s bloody impossible to wake up, but you probably already know that, sooo…”

Harry does not know that.

But, despite how that statement had sounded ever so slightly… leading, he’s still not entirely sure that Louis knows he doesn’t know, so he mumbles, “Um, sure.”

Ugh. It feels like they’ve unlocked an advanced level of pretending, and it’s already doing his head in.

They wind through several hallways, all millennial pink, vintage green, and palm fronds. Harry sees compositions everywhere, itching to stop for photos (although he wishes he were wearing a color other than burgundy), but he doesn’t want to inconvenience Louis anymore than he already has, so they walk in silence until Louis opens a door that deposits them outdoors into the lushly landscaped grounds.

Harry automatically inhales deeply. The night air is cool, but still smells like bougainvillea and hibiscus.

“So, um,” Louis finally begins as they turn off the main path to approach a little one-story pink bungalow. “Zed said you need to take photos here? Do you want me, um…” he waves his hands around, “to help?”

“Erm, you don’t have to…” Harry stammers. Having Louis take his photo by the pool was the one silver lining he’d been returning to as the night went to shit, but he doesn’t think he can muster up the entitlement to ask for it. “I can just…”

Thankfully, Louis rolls his eyes at Harry’s hesitation. “C’mon, let me just get my gear,” he says as he starts up the terracotta steps. Harry is a few steps behind him when something in the front yard clicks.

He feels his eyes go wide, and his jaw drops at the sight of the ottoman on the left-hand side of the lawn.

“Is that—?” He asks, frozen in the middle of the yard and unable to tear his eyes away from the little white lattice seat that had once held Marilyn Monroe.

“It is, Styles,” Louis turns around, resting his hip on the iron railing and crossing his arms. He’s either rolling his eyes again or he never stopped in the first place. “I’m guessing you want to recreate that photo, too?”

Harry nods, wordlessly.

Louis snorts. “Thought you didn’t know your history.”

“I didn’t know one specific photo!” Harry exclaims, finally finding the words to defend himself—both for right now and the entire time he’d been clammed up at Zayn’s party. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know anything.”

“Alright, alright,” Louis holds his palms up in surrender. “I should’ve figured as much, given that Zed’s obsessed with black-and-white movies.”

“He is?” Harry echoes before he can catch himself.

“Yeah,” Louis replies, tilting his head at Harry. “He hasn’t foisted that on you yet?”

When Harry replies with a shrug, Louis stares straight into his eyes like he’s daring Harry to drop the ruse. When Harry doesn’t, he shrugs himself and pulls a key card out of his hoodie pocket to unlock the door.

“Quiet, mate, he’s probably still asleep on the sofa,” Louis turns to warn Harry in a low voice before holding the door open.

Harry quickly climbs the steps behind Louis, taking the open door and shutting it quietly behind him. By the time he’s done, Louis has disappeared into the bungalow, so Harry follows, and oh, okay, yeah.

Zayn is asleep on a curved white sofa in the center of the living room, snoring softly.

Some Like It Hot is playing quietly on the flatscreen television over the fireplace.

The sight makes Harry think about how strange it is that he’s supposed to be Zayn’s sort-of-boyfriend, yet Louis is the one watching old movies with him while he falls asleep on the sofa.

If Harry really were Zayn’s boyfriend, this would be the photo to post, teasing him for falling asleep after a big night, but Harry doubts that Zayn would approve of that sort of thing, even from an actual partner.

He retreats to the foyer to wait for Louis, touching up his make-up and fixing his hair. He then takes a dozen selfies in the antique foxed glass mirror before flipping through the top book of the stack sitting on the console table—all of them about Marilyn.

The firing of a shutter makes him look up, but by the time he does, Louis has lowered his camera and is scrolling through the settings.

“Ready?” He asks softly, looking back up at Harry.

Harry nods, opening the door for him and the armloads of gear he’s carrying, which he begins to set down in the yard opposite the ottoman.

Before Harry can comprehend what’s happening, two softboxes on stands strategically surround the seat, and an LED light stick illuminates the bungalow.

“Not ideal to recreate a daytime photo at night, but we’ll do our best, Styles. You’ve got the pose?”

Right, yeah, that’s what Harry should’ve been doing while he was awkwardly standing in the foyer, but he makes quick work of looking it up on his phone. Similarly to how effortlessly they worked together at PHD Terrace, after the first five or ten shots, Louis declares they’ve got it, and asks, “Where to next? The pool?”

They pack up the gear as compactly as possible because Louis explains he saw something that said impromptu professional photo shoots were frowned upon in the public spaces. This causes Harry to frown as they backtrack through the gardens to the pool. He’s about to insist that they don’t have to do this—as much as it feels like a “when in Rome” type of adventure, he doesn’t want either of them to get in trouble. He’s been in enough trouble for one day.

But before he can say anything, Louis has started on a different topic.

“Alright, Styles, if you know your history, do you know who else used to hang out at this pool? Because it was pretty much everyone who’s ever been anyone in the pictures, as they used to call them. Joan Crawford. Katherine Hepburn. Lauren Bacall and Gregory Peck filmed a rom-com here. Irving Bernstein came up with the plot of West Side Story in one of the cabanas. It was even Esther Williams' preferred pool.”

“Erm, I didn’t know that. You just… do?”

“Nah,” Louis admits, “there’s a book in the room. Supplemented that with a bit of Googling. I did find one photo of Carol Burnett that we should probably be using as inspiration.” He lightly bumps Harry with one of his bags, and Harry suddenly remembers all of the terrible outtakes of him that Louis included in the gallery from Zayn’s video.

“Heyyy,” Harry whines because he can’t imagine Carol Burnett looking anything other than silly, but he doesn’t get a chance to complain further because they’ve reached a back gate to the pool.

“I was joking, Faye,” Louis says, winking at Harry as he drops his gear onto the ground. “Nothing but glamour for you, I promise.” 

The nickname, combined with the mirth in Louis' eyes, makes Harry's stomach swoop like he's just had the ball of lead that's been sitting there all day scooped out. He can't believe he once had the willpower to look Louis in the eyes and ask him not to use pet names. It was obviously a lost cause for both of them; though Harry's noticed Louis has been sticking to Styles and Harold, he personally wouldn't mind being called Faye all the time and would also like to request that 'love' be returned to the rotation post haste.

Right now, though, Louis pulls out his key card and waves it across the sensor. It feels like they both hold their breath as he does, but it turns green, and Louis turns to Harry and shrugs as if to say, “This is what they get for not locking us out,” as he swings the gate open.

The pool deck is lit up in pink and green, just like the rest of the hotel, and one glance around has Harry’s mind whirring with possibilities.

He looks at Louis and sees the lights bouncing off the million ideas in his eyes like a disco ball, and just like that, they’re off.

They do recreate the Faye Dunaway photos as best they can in the dark with a minimal lighting set-up—or, at least, that’s what Louis keeps grumbling about as they work. Then they move on to some other set-ups, ending up with Harry tucked in a cabana, where the rust and pink palm print coordinate perfectly with his burgundy sequins.

It’s been maybe an hour of nonstop shooting when Harry looks at Louis, takes in the slightly manic expression on his face as he hangs on his tripod, and flips back through the last few shots with his tongue stuck between his teeth, and suddenly feels absolutely horrible about what they’ve been doing.

“You really don’t have to do this!” he blurts out. “Weren’t you up with Zayn at, like, four this morning?! Have you been taking photos for twenty-two hours?” Harry cries, panicked.

But Louis just throws his head back and cackles hysterically.

“No, Harry, I have not been taking photos for twenty-two hours,” he finally gets out. “S’only so many pictures one can take of Zed having makeup applied and tying his shoes, so I’ve been mostly waiting around. Plus, I couldn’t take any during the actual ceremony or the afterparty, which we ducked out of early. I don’t know how much I’ve worked today, but plenty of wedding photographers are out there putting in twelve-hour days for far less money than I’m being paid, and I don’t think I have them beat.”

“Oh,” Harry acquiesces, feeling slightly mollified.

He mustn’t have convinced Louis though, because he continues: “Besides, taking photos is sort of like breathing for me. S’kinda hard to stop, sometimes.” He shrugs, looking sort of… bashful about it, like he’d just admitted to something that was embarrassing for some reason.

“I know what you mean, yeah,” Harry quickly reassures. “I’ve been seeing shots since I got out of the uber.”

“Oh,” Louis yelps. “Well, then, I hope— I didn’t just take over, did I? I’m sorry if I just sort of… insisted on all this.” He suddenly looks as guilty as Harry had felt.

“No, it’s fine…” Harry starts to say.

“I think it’s probably sort of selfish on my part, really,” Louis adds. “I don’t get to do this sort of thing with Liam. Or even with Zayn, yet.” He pauses. “I am sorry if I was a dick about it at Zayn’s party, though. Or tonight.”

“You weren’t a dick. Not tonight. At Zayn’s, you were, erm, sort of insistent? Assertive?” Harry feels a smile twitching on his face, but stuffs it down because he does sort of want to tease Louis about this.

The entire encounter had blindsided him—he was uncomfortable just being at Zayn’s birthday party and playing the part of his… something, and feeling naked in the jumpsuit he thought he’d only be wearing around a few dozen people—but then Louis had swooped in. Harry had been a little annoyed, but it had helped.

Just like it’s helping right now, but, right, Harry was going to tease him, not say any of that…

“Well, you weren’t using any bloody lights!” Louis exclaims, which is very convenient to Harry’s determination to give him a hard time rather than thank him.

“I’m used to that!” he defends.

Louis sighs, catching himself. “Sorry, sorry,” he shakes his head, “I was about to be a dick again.”

“It’s okay,” Harry offers graciously, but he’s definitely smirking now. “I got my revenge already, after all.”

Louis' jaw drops slightly. “Oh, so tagging me neglected Instagram was revenge. Alright, I see how it is.”

He advances into the cabana—to do what, Harry doesn’t know, but the expression on his face looks like he wants to pick Harry up off the sofa and throw him in the pool.

And that’s when they hear the unmistakable creaking of a gate.

Before Harry can even process what that means, Louis kills the light and pulls the cabana curtain over just enough to shield them from the view of the entrance. He quickly mimes a shushing motion at Harry, and they freeze, eyes locked on one another, waiting.

Harry strains to hear footsteps or the jangle of an enormous key ring like they’re in some kind of teen caper, but the sound doesn’t come.

After a few seconds that feel like an eternity, Louis turns around and peeks through a crack between the curtains. Harry hears the gate creak again, followed by Louis sighing.

“It was a security guard. S’gone now.”

He looks back at Harry and does a double take, tilting his head appraisingly. He then goes back to the camera, shifting the tripod slightly and silently gesturing for Harry to turn his head. Harry heeds his instruction while Louis adjusts the curtain until he sees whatever it is that he wants.

After a few shots, he takes the camera off the tripod and sits next to Harry on the sofa, silently passing it over.

Harry flicks through the recent previews. It’s a portrait from the shoulders up, with Harry’s face divided by a sliver of light through the curtains.

It definitely makes him feel something that can’t be explained or encapsulated right here, right now.

But it doesn’t seem like Louis needs feedback because he’s lighting up a cigarette with a casual shrug.

“Zed’s been smoking like a chimney inside the bungalow—I don’t even want to know what that adds to the bill, so really, how much trouble could we possibly get in for sitting beside the pool in the middle of the night?”

“With a portable photography studio,” Harry adds, deadpan.

“With a portable photography studio,” Louis echoes, cackling softly. “Want one?” he asks, holding the pack out to Harry.

Harry shakes his head no, but he watches him inhale, hollowing his cheeks around that little cylinder of taboo and thinks it’s unfairly attractive.

“Those really are terrible for you,” he tries, but it’s half-hearted, more a reminder to himself than to Louis.

“Yeah, but so’s that.” Louis gestures at Harry’s face.

“What?” Harry asks, confused.

“That—” Louis says again, emphatically.

When Harry continues staring blankly at him, he finally reaches out to swiftly poke the furrow next to Harry’s left eyebrow with his index finger.

“Whatever is causing you that much stress,” he explains.

You are, Harry thinks, but Louis is still talking, so he can’t get sucked into ruminating about it.

“Surprised you haven’t botoxed that away, Harold.”

Harry snorts at the frankness. “Nik says the same thing. Don’t know how I feel about all that yet.”

“You’ve got time,” Louis sighs, exhaling smoke and sounding world-weary.

“Right,” Harry snickers at how dramatic that was. “Are you even older than me?”

“I am,” Louis declares. “Two years. Older and wiser.”

Harry just huffs out a laugh again, and turns his gaze to the pool. They sit in silence for a few moments, with Louis smoking and Harry just… zoning out, which is somehow easier around Louis than it should be.

“You’re different than I thought you were, Styles,” Louis says again when it gets too quiet.

“Different, how?” Harry asks. It’s the sort of question that he’d ordinarily dread the answer to, but he notices that he’s still completely relaxed; his body isn’t bracing for Louis’ reply.

“Quieter. More serious?” Louis offers. “I don’t know. You just don’t know how much someone is performing for the camera until you do. You’re good at it. Being in front of a camera. Not everyone is. Not everyone likes it.”

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs, wondering who Louis is thinking of—Liam? Zayn? “I do. Like it, that is. It helps me to stop thinking.”

That feels like too much of an admission, but Louis doesn’t acknowledge it other than to say, “Bet you’re thinking right now that you want to go in, aren’t you?” He indicates the pool with raised eyebrows and a nod.

“What?” Harry asks reflexively, even though he heard the question. “I mean, yeah, sort of, but how did you know?”

“Older and wiser.” Louis taps his temple. “Also, you linked me your Stories this morning, and I gathered you’d gone for a swim.”

“Oh,” Harry exhales. “Right. Yeah, I did. God, was that really today?” He laughs in disbelief. “I guess I’ve already had my swim for the day, so I should be able to hold out—or whatever the Daryl Hannah mermaid rules are. Probably for the best, that.”

“Splash,” Louis laughs softly. “That would be the classic film you reference. Well, I don’t think security would actually fuck with the guests of Mr. Malik, but it’s probably better not to tempt them. Especially since we know Zed wouldn’t wake up to bail us out of hotel jail.”

“Oh, I just meant I don’t have a swimsuit,” Harry says because sometimes he’s the sort of person who just… says things. Logical things. Things that make sense in his head but are not, in any way, the sort of thing he should say out loud.

Louis looks over at him. Well, really, more like, Louis swivels his head toward Harry impossibly slowly until he’s staring intently at Harry’s face as though letting his gaze flick down might turn him to stone.

“I see,” Louis says flatly. “Well, I’m not about to ask what you’re wearing under there, but I’m guessing it’s not trunks.” He looks away, shaking his head and taking a deep drag off his cigarette. “Fuck, this is weird.”

“Why?” Harry asks dryly. “Because I brought up my knickers?”

Maybe if he just starts acting like an absolute lunatic about everything, Louis will admit he knows that Harry and Zayn aren’t together.

“Jesus. Christ. Yes,” Louis grits. “Among other reasons.”

He reaches down to stub out his cigarette on the concrete, then replaces the butt in his pack in lieu of littering before he stands.

“Alright, come on then. Either you jump in that pool fully clothed, or it’s time to get you home. Unless you’re, uh… staying?” he asks, crossing over to his lights and tripod.

Right, because in some alternate universe, staying the night is what Harry would be doing.

With Zayn.

Maybe if he just starts acting like an absolute lunatic, Louis will admit he knows that Harry and Zayn aren’t together, the thought drifts through his head again.

“Let’s call it then, I guess,” he drawls, standing and stretching his arms over his head.

“Figured you weren't about to drench that suit,” Louis taunts, collapsing one of the softboxes.

Harry ignores him, wandering along the edge of the pool, casually bending down to test its warmth, while Louis breaks down his lights and packs up his gear.

The pool’s heated.

Well, that decides it.

Harry’s shoes are already off from the shots in the cabana, so he quickly discards his jacket and vest onto a nearby lounge chair, checks that Louis is still distracted, says a prayer that the designer of his suit will forgive him, and jumps.

The splash is loud enough to get Louis’ attention and incite a string of expletives that sound like “fucking bloody buggering fuck it all to hell,” but he’s putting a zoom lens on his camera and walking towards Harry in the pool all the same.

Harry waits, treading water near the edge until Louis reaches him.

“Alright, you want to be a mermaid,” Louis says, gesturing at the length of the pool, “let’s see it then, Ariel.”

Harry throws his head back with a gleeful squawk and takes off swimming.

The sequins of his trousers weigh him down, but he finds he doesn’t mind because of how they look and feel as he kicks, glittering in the neon lights and swirling behind him just like a tail.

Louis lets him swim in silence; out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see him testing out different vantage points, climbing up on a lounger, and even running up to the upper level of the pool deck.

Eventually, he comes to a stop by the steps in the corner of the shallow end of the pool, waiting with his shoes off and his joggers rolled up to the calves until Harry notices. Once he’s caught Harry’s eye, he beckons him over with a nod.

So Harry swims closer, drapes himself along the side and across the steps for some close-ups as Louis squats on the edge, one foot in the water on the top step.

“Fucking hell,” Louis mutters, almost to himself. “I guess you are a bloody mermaid.”

He lowers the camera, meeting the gaze Harry had been directing at the lens, and Harry swears there’s something there, like there had been on New Year’s, but… more.

Harry doesn’t want to compare, but it’s a much different sort of appreciation than what was in Keith’s eyes that morning.

Because it feels like it might not just be appreciation, his intuition supplies, it might be understanding.

At any rate, if Harry thought he’d wanted to kiss Louis on New Year’s, it’s nothing to how badly he wants to kiss him now, despite the month that’s passed of trying to forget, and behaving badly, and coming back around to… whatever this is.

But he absolutely, definitely cannot, so Harry just grins a very un-mermaid-like grin, hauls himself out of the pool as what feels like several kilos of water pour off the sequins onto the concrete around him, and taunts, “Race you back to the room?”

+++

An hour later, Harry’s tucked into the back of a car, dried off and in a borrowed tracksuit; the driver’s just turned left off Franklin and is climbing into the canyon when Louis emails a link to a gallery:

I’m drawing the line at editing any of this tonight - it’s all yours.

Just don’t fucking tag me.

L

Ps - you left your uh, glittery microphone here. I can have Taryn send a messenger? Text me and lmk? 917-555-2817

Harry looks around the car frantically, as though the Judith Lieber clutch is going to materialize next to the Beverly Hills Hotel laundry bags containing his dry suit jacket and vest and his soaking wet trousers.

He immediately texts: Fuck. That’s a $5k bag with my vlogging camera in it. I should probably have the car turn around.

His phone rings before Harry even saves Louis’s number in it.

Louis starts talking before Harry’s gotten a ‘hello’ out, but he sounds half asleep, so his tirade is hardly menacing:

“Harold, if you turn around now, neither of us is getting any bloody sleep. Tell you what; you need the files off the card, yeah? I’ll upload it to the gallery overnight, and it’ll get backed up to my cloud service at the same time. Then I’ll bring it all back home in my camera bag—won’t leave me sight, and it’s all insured up to the heavens. S'alright if I wrap it in a t-shirt or summat? Then we can do a handoff back in the city, where I’ll hold it for ransom until I get my clothes off you because you’re a pain in the arse, and no reasonable person should own a purse that costs as much as a Z9.”

There’s a beat of silence where Harry makes sure he’s finished.

He feels guilty for needing the favor, but he’d probably be more chastised if Louis hadn’t just offered to treat his handbag like he’s transporting the crown jewels.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry. All of that would be incredible. Please. Thank you. I owe you, like, I don’t know, my firstborn child.”

Louis snorts. “No, thank you. Got enough of me own, thanks.”

“Oh! What?”

“I meant me siblings, jesus.”

“Right, of course, okay. Sorry.”

“Good night, Harold,” Louis emphatically cuts off Harry’s mumbling. “Safe travels.”

“G’night,” Harry whispers, then hangs up.

He navigates back to the email, clicks the link, and bursts into a peal of laughter that he has to apologize to the driver for because—

It’s a gallery of RAW files.

Still giggling, he very responsibly avoids looking at the shots by the pool, figuring they’ll be too obviously shot by a professional for his needs. He can’t post them now—or possibly ever. So he scrolls down to the beginning, thinking he knows what he’ll use if it turned out alright.

It’s the first photo of him in the foyer flipping through the Marilyn biography.

Ironically, it features Harry’s clutch resting on the console table beside the book. It’s slightly blurry, perhaps artfully so, or perhaps because it was meant to have been taken by someone who’s not a pro photographer.

Caught fangirling, he captions it, then uploads it with one of his phone selfies in the foyer. The fans will quickly work out where he was, and the innuendo and three am timestamp will have to be enough to hint at how “close” he and Zayn are.

Harry doesn’t return to the rest of the gallery until after he’s tiptoed through the quiet house, showered, finished his skincare routine, and curled up in bed just as the faint pink light of dawn creeps over the horizon.

All of the photos are as… ineffable as he’s beginning to expect from Louis, but the last set in the pool—artful blurs of him moving through the water, close-ups with just his rings, or the anchor tattooed on his wrist, or a flash of mermaid scale-sequins in crisp focus—are the sort of thing he wishes he had the space to hang as murals in his home.

They may be the best photos he’s ever taken.

He goes back to the email, drafting and deleting about five replies that are too personal to send, before finally settling on—

Thank you. 🧜🏻♀️

—just as his eyes are about to close.

If someone were to take a photo of him now, as he drifts off to sleep with a giddy smile on his lips and his phone in his hand, the caption would probably be the same as before.

Caught fangirling.

Chapter Text

+HARRY+

It's the second-to-last day of New York Fashion Week, and after a full schedule of jetting between three shows, the launch of a new line of nonalcoholic cocktails and spirits he’s pursuing as a sponsor, and a Novum dinner with far more pleasant conversation than the Grammys party, Harry is exhausted and ready to relax.

At least, as much as he can relax while staying in Liam’s flat.

It’s awkward enough to be staying in a stranger’s home—mostly because Liam had insisted Harry needn’t pay when paying would’ve felt more comfortable, like an Airbnb—but knowing that the stranger in question is Louis’ best friend is like…

Well, it’s like Harry can feel Louis' presence.

There isn’t even obvious evidence that Louis spends time here; it’s just something Harry knows.

It's like… hovering around Liam’s meticulously organized belongings and the neatly written notes posted throughout the apartment with instructions on everything from the washer/dryer to the Keurig to the wonky bathtub faucet… there's an aura of Louis.

Or Harry is losing his bloody mind.

It’s been a long week.

Hence, the candles he’s scattered around the apartment, the bathtub he’s just finished filling, and the homemade seaweed, honey, and lavender mask currently smeared on his face.

He’s just washing up the bowl he’d used to make it when the intercom buzzes over the tranquil sounds of his ‘Spa Day’ playlist.

Liam had also left a welcome note with a postscript about two deliveries that he’s expecting. He insisted it wasn’t a big deal to leave them with the doorman, but, of course, Harry won’t be doing that if he can help it, so he hurries to the call box, wondering if he’s going to need to pop downstairs in his sticky green face mask.

There’s a note on the intercom, too: “Press # to answer and * to call down :)”

That seems simple enough, so he hits the pound button. “Hello?”

“Mr. Styles, there’s a Niall here for you? I see that Liam recently added him to his list, but I wanted to check with you first.”

“Oh! Um, yeah, that’s fine. You can send him up.”

That’s a little odd. Harry’s surprised that Niall didn’t call first, but maybe he just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to drop by.

Or maybe he wants to deliver the news in person that you're being fired as Zayn’s boyfriend before you've even made it official because of what a fool you made out of yourself in LA, a very unhelpful voice supplies.

Sure, Amorette had told Harry his posts and interactions on Grammys weekend were “adequate” (so reassuring, that), but she’d also sent an email to both him and Zayn, with Clint and Niall cc’ed, that included clips of their red carpet blunders.

Harry couldn’t find fault with how Zayn smirked and played the whole thing off by saying that he didn’t know what the reporter was on about.

Meanwhile, Harry’s slip-up was downright idiotic.

Seeing it played back in high-res made it clear just how cringe the interaction was, which, of course, had him stressing all over again. Even if Amorette seems to have moved past it, that doesn’t mean it’s actually fine.

Niall might be here to lecture him.

A business meeting. Like everything seems to be these days.

He’s your friend, H. Maybe he’s just here to check on you? A kinder, gentler voice tries to reassure him.

Harry is too distracted by the conflicting thoughts to do anything but stand in the hall waiting for the knock at the door, the seaweed mask melting on his face, forgotten.

But, of course, he remembers it the second he opens the door to find Zayn standing there.

The same smirk that appeared on the red carpet crosses Zayn’s face beneath the camouflage of a hoodie and sunglasses. “Sorry for the ruse, mate,” he announces. “Didn’t want to let on that I was here, so I took a chance using Niall’s name.”

Harry manages to nod.

Niall had repeatedly insisted that Zayn would apologize for being a colossal dickhead (Niall’s words) on Harry’s birthday eventually. If that’s what was happening now, though, it certainly wasn’t when, where, or how Harry had expected it.

“That’s for blackheads, yeah?” Zayn takes his glasses off, stashing them in a pocket, and lazily circles his forefinger at Harry’s face.

“I mean, uh, yeah, it’s hydrating, too,” Harry stammers.

He assumes Zayn’s pointing at him like he’s an alien because Zayn hasn’t had a blackhead in his entire life, whereas Harry is now overcome with the urge to excuse himself for the audacity of his human stress breakouts.

To make matters worse, Harry is standing there like an idiot in his favorite, old, faded periwinkle robe, while Zayn looks like he’s walked off the set of a photo shoot thanks to tight gray jeans and a black leather jacket.

“May I come in?” Zayn asks politely, gazing over the threshold like a vampire who can’t cross it without an invite.

That idea doesn’t seem all that unrealistic right now, so maybe it’s actually Liam who needs to invite him in, if Harry remembers the technicalities of vampire lore correctly…

“Right, um, sure, yes,” Harry mumbles, taking a step back once he’s finished thinking about vampires. “Of course, come in.”

At this point, Harry has seen Zayn enter exactly three rooms, and he’s walked into every one of them like he’s owned it. But right now he steps through the doorway as hesitantly as a rescue dog from The Dodo walking into his forever home.

And Harry, much like the brand-new pet owners in those videos that he’s watched late at night while ugly crying, finds himself afraid to spook Zayn as he follows him down the hall to the open-plan living area.

Zayn obviously isn’t sniffing at things like a rescue animal, but he certainly is cautiously inspecting everything while keeping a safe distance from Harry.

It’s quite odd, but Harry is beginning to suspect that what Niall’s been saying all along is true—Zayn is more shy than ‘mysterious’ like the press makes him out to be.

While reassuring, that thought doesn’t make Harry any more comfortable with the surprise drop-in, so he decides to go scrub his mask off in the kitchen sink before he accidentally makes his internal screams of “Why are you here?!” external.

By the time he’s washed all the gobs of face mask off his face and patted it dry with a towel that he’ll have to launder before he leaves the next day, he looks up to find Zayn sitting quietly on the sofa.

His… aura is back, which Harry decides to blame mainly on the lighting.

Before Zayn arrived, Harry had turned all the overhead lights off, leaving just the candles to help him relax. This is a decision he now regrets now that the flames are casting shadows of Zayn’s impossibly long eyelashes over his stupidly chiseled cheekbones.

Harry knows people think his big green eyes and dimples are adorable, and he’s grown to accept that—appreciate it at times, even, but gosh, if he doesn’t want to roundhouse kick Zayn in the face sometimes for being so inhumanly attractive.

Thankfully, Zayn isn’t even Harry’s type, which is something he’d actually pondered before signing this year of his life away, laughing with Sarah and Mitch and promising he wouldn’t fall for Zayn like they were in a ridiculous rom-com.

And, oh, great, now Harry is thinking about another set of eyelashes that reach to the heavens, above eyes as blue as the sky, and another set of sharp cheekbones…

“You alright?” Zayn’s question snaps Harry back to the moment.

“Yeah, fine,” Harry sighs and risks sitting beside Zayn on the sofa at the farthest distance apart it will allow. “I just… Long day. Distracted. You alright?”

“I’m not,” Zayn answers flatly, pushing his hood off and running a hand through his hair. “I came to apologize—for your birthday.”

“Oh.” Harry tries to hide his relief that Zayn is here for that after all and not to lecture him on how he’d messed up in LA.

“It wasn’t my finest moment.” Zayn looks genuinely remorseful as he gathers a grey blanket from the armrest of Liam’s couch into his lap, then pulls it up to his face.

For a second, it seems like Zayn might be sniffling and attempting to cover his face, but Harry realizes he’s actually just inhaling.

That is… also a little weird.

Maybe the rescue dog comparison wasn’t so far off.

“Are you smelling that blanket?” Harry laughs softly, without thinking, then instantly regrets saying anything because Zayn might need that sort of comfort to get through his apology.

”No,” Zayn scoffs, quickly lowering the blanket and chucking it towards Harry. “It smells more like Louis, anyway.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry pulls the blanket up to his chest and ducks his chin down to stifle another chuckle at how the unflappable Zayn is acting flustered for some reason.

“Nothing.” Zayn clears his throat.

“Okaaay...” Harry humors him, but he knows what he heard, and, shit, without even meaning to, he’s got his own nose buried in the blanket.

Zayn’s not wrong.

One whiff and Harry is mentally back in the kitchen on New Year’s Eve with Louis’ nose grazing his cheek…

“Are you smelling the blanket, mate?” Zayn barks, not even bothering to try to hide his laughter.

“No!” Harry insists, tossing it onto the floor.

He’ll put that in the wash tomorrow too.

“Right…” Zayn shakes his head, that familiar smirk crossing his face before he quickly huffs out a breath, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “Well, I really am here to apologize.”

”You don’t have to,” Harry volunteers gently.

Zayn hadn’t exactly ‘ruined’ his birthday. Sure, his appearance was unexpected, and being dragged out in front of the paparazzi with no warning was unpleasant, but Harry wasn’t bothered by meeting genuine fans. That part was actually really nice and made everything feel worth it for a fleeting moment.

It was also really nice to be spared a few seconds of Louis’ concern and witness his potential recollection of the truth. Louis was certainly still cagey about that, though, which was driving Harry up an entirely new wall…

Anyway, Harry had returned to his party fairly quickly, and it was the sheep’s milk ricotta that had salvaged everything. Obviously.

“I do,” Zayn insists. “I wasn’t myself. I gave in to the pressure from everyone else that I ought to go, even when I knew better. So, I’m sorry.”

Harry really doesn’t understand how Zayn’s mind works—they still barely know each other, after all—but he does want to understand.

“I’m sorry that you were pressured,” Harry offers. “It didn’t come from me, I hope you know that.”

“I know that,” Zayn answers immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s just…the pressure comes from everywhere else and ruins everything.”

“How do you mean?” Harry swallows, uneasiness swirling in his stomach.

Zayn takes a deep breath. “Had you been to Locanda Verde before?”

“Of course,” Harry slowly replies, unsure what’s behind the sudden topic change. “The pesto tortelloni is probably my favorite pasta dish in the city.”

“Right, well… Maybe one day I’ll make you my spag bol. Basic, but better than overpriced pretentiousness." Zayn rolls his eyes.

Harry decides not to mention that he’s vegetarian. And that, personally, he’s pretty sure that unless Zayn is making ricotta and fiori sardo from his own sheep's milk, it’s not going to outrank Locanda Verde.

“My point is,” Zayn continues, “the restaurant was your choice, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“And you picked out your outfit?” Zayn sighs.

“Yes, well, Nik—one of my friends—helped me decide,” Harry explains.

“I assume you asked her to help?” Zayn pulls a lighter out of his pocket and turns it around between his fingers. “Or it’s, like, something you two do together?”

“Yeah, true, you could say it’s one of our things,” Harry nods.

“And she and the rest of your guests were there because you invited them?” Zayn prods. "Do you know what I’m getting at?"

“I’m not sure…” Harry thinks he does know, but he hopes he’s wrong.

“I didn’t get to choose any of those things for my thirtieth birthday,” Zayn clarifies. “Location, outfit, guest list. None of it.”

“I hadn't thought about it that way,” Harry rolls his lip between his teeth, feeling incredibly uncomfortable because Zayn’s come to apologize to him, but now it feels like Zayn’s the one who’s owed an apology—if not by Harry, then by someone.

“I’m aware that I come across as difficult sometimes,” Zayn shrugs. “Or I suppose, when it comes to my team, I am difficult.”

Harry can only nod because he doesn’t know quite where this is going, either, and Zayn isn’t finished with the thought.

“It might have seemed like I originally refused to go because I didn’t want to, but later, I realized there was more to it than that.” He stands up, wandering over to the uncovered windows, which showcase a sea of twinkling lights from other Midtown high rises. “The more everyone pushed me, the more I dug in my heels because I knew you wouldn’t want me there.”

“I wouldn’t have minded—” Harry tries to explain.

“I’m sure you mean that because you’re a nice person, but that’s not my point,” Zayn interjects. “I didn’t want to go so that you could have a normal birthday with the people close to you, not some stranger forced to be there for appearances. You shouldn’t have had to pretend in front of your friends, and it shouldn’t have been a PR event like mine got turned into, you know what I mean?”

“I do, and… erm, thank you. For thinking of me like that.” Harry hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He feels even guiltier because it had never occurred to him that Zayn might’ve possibly been looking after him like that…

“Don’t thank me. In the end, I not only gave in, but I acted completely out of line. The thing is, I hadn’t realized that was why I didn’t want to go.” Zayn starts pacing. “It only hit me when I’d already made an ass of myself, when we were outside, signing things—which is something I’m used to, but I shouldn’t have dragged you into it like that…”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Harry stands up, wanting to comfort Zayn somehow, even if he hasn’t a clue how.

“But it’s not okay,” Zayn startles Harry with his insistence before he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to apologize,” he adds, softer. “I wanted to go back inside and apologize to everyone at the table. But…”

Zayn looks like he’s fighting back tears, his eyes glassy in the candlelight. Harry feels like he should offer him a hug or the blanket that’s still on the floor, but instead, he just asks, “What is it?”

“I…” Zayn breathes in deeply, then sighs. “I had a full-blown panic attack for the first time in years.”

Harry is shocked, but mostly that Zayn is admitting this to him, not that it happened without him noticing. He’d been so caught off guard, just trying to figure out what was going on, then focused on Louis being kind and trying to recover to return to his friends, that he’d barely registered how Zayn was doing curled up in the back seat.

“Zayn—” Harry thinks about comforting him again but ends up flopping his arms awkwardly against his sides.

“It’s no excuse for crashing to begin with.” Zayn clears his throat and steps back. “I’m sorry, and I intend to apologize to all of your guests when I have a chance.”

“You really don’t have to do that, but I appreciate the offer.” Harry smiles, hoping that communicates that he’s honestly over the whole thing. “So thank you. Apology accepted.”

“Good. Thanks.” Zayn glances around again, almost like he’s looking for something specific, but maybe he’s only searching for words. “So, like, we’re all good?”

“Yeahhh,” Harry stretches out the word to stop himself from saying what he’s thinking. “I’m just glad that you don’t hate me.”

Well, that didn’t work.

“Of course, I don’t hate you,” Zayn laughs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ve trusted Niall’s word, from the beginning, that you’re alright and the best person I could be doing all this with. I’m just… wary sometimes. Of people, especially at first. I’m more introverted than you might think.”

“I think, um, Niall’s been trying to tell me that from the beginning as well,” Harry admits, “but I’ve been too wrapped up in worrying you hated me to believe it.”

“Well,” Zayn smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll admit you came on a bit strong on New Year’s, mate, but I should’ve been a bit more open to it.”

“Oh. Shit.” Harry hadn’t thought of it like that. Their conversation that day had faded into the background after everything that happened in the kitchen afterward. “I swear I didn't mean to! I was so intimidated by the whole… thing, that I was probably just talking rubbish. Now I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“It’s alright. Just maybe don’t ask people about their life goals as an opener, yeah?” Zayn smirks.

“Right.” Harry frowns. Now he’s wracking his brain for another way to get to know someone, which feels doubly embarrassing somehow. “Got it,” he fibs.

“Things are only going to get wilder from here on out.” Zayn’s eyes are trained on the floor as he changes the subject. “I’m not just apologizing for crashing your party and causing a scene. I’m also sorry I took one last night of normalcy away from you. I’m the one who's used to it—who should be making sure you don’t have to deal with all the bullshit unless absolutely necessary.”

“I mean, all of that is what I signed up for, yeah?” Harry wishes it were Niall he was asking, given the question’s obvious answer. He squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for a response from Zayn that will almost certainly be far less diplomatic.

“It won’t be so bad,” Zayn offers easily, to Harry’s surprise. “I’ve just been resistant for a million reasons that would bore you to death.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t!” Harry contends, then realizes he’s probably coming on too strong again. “I mean, I doubt they would.”

“They would,” Zayn insists with a lopsided grin. “Anyway, you’re the one who’s been thrown in the deep end, so I should take the lead. I need to do better. So, I swear I’ll be more cooperative when it comes to future stunts and shit, yeah? Provide a little more guidance, and stop leaving you hanging. That’s not really been fair of me or Amorette.”

“That would be nice.” Harry could cry with relief, but that level of dramatics would probably cause Zayn to change his mind. He can hold back. “I spend half the time not knowing what I’m meant to be doing, and like… Amorette will criticize me, but it never feels like she gave me enough information in the first place, you know what I mean? Like, even when she's telling me exactly what to do, it’s not good enough. Her emails are constant, but they don’t clarify anything.”

“Eh, fuck Amorette.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “I’m not exactly thrilled with her methods, but I don’t hold anything against you. Give me your number. You can text me about anything you’re unsure of, even if we’re sitting next to each other, yeah?”

Zayn hands over his phone, so Harry plugs his number in and texts himself. When he checks his phone to make sure it’s gone through, he sees that it’s a different number from the one Niall had given him. He wonders if Zayn changes his number that often, or what that’s all about.

“Thanks, Zayn.” He hands the phone back. “For the apology. For everything.”

“I’ve got your back from here on out, man.” That reply would be shocking enough, but then Zayn’s offering Harry his pinky like they’re thirteen. “I promise that I’ll do better by you. We both signed up for this. We can make it work, mate.”

Harry wraps his pinky around Zayn’s, and is considering whether Zayn would recoil from a friendly hug, when he hears the front door swing open with a thud.

A gravelly “What in the fuck?” followed by a stumble precipitates the sound of several bags hitting the floor.

Somehow, given that he’s standing in Liam’s living room with his little finger wrapped around Zayn’s, Harry is not surprised that Louis is here, and that he’s just tripped over the collection of Harry’s shoes lining the foyer.

Harry watches as Louis rounds the corner and drops one of his bags in front of the laundry closet. His eyes morph from half-closed to comically wide when he registers Zayn and Harry standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room.

“Fuck’s sake.” Louis rolls his eyes, which return to their sleepy state as he mutters sarcastically, “You two kissed and made up, then? About fucking time.”

+LOUIS+

”Louis, you’re back early!” Zayn declares, jumping back from Harry like he’s been electrocuted, a move he likely thought was subtle but was anything but.

“Yeah, I know, mate,” Louis sighs heavily, trying and probably failing to mask his annoyance—at the unexpected presence of both of them in Liam’s flat (what the fuck?!) and at the stupidity of the question. “That was your idea, remember? We have the video pitch day after tomorrow, and Amorette emailed me about The Tonight Show tomorrow, plus needing to film a clip to announce your openers. I can’t leave you to do that on your own when it involves my Lima.”

Louis is far too exhausted from a day of traveling, which culminated in being stuck in a cab in traffic for two hours, to await a response or pay any mind to why ‘Zarry’ is breaking and entering. So he ignores them and opens the louvered door to the laundry closet, which blocks him and his rolling eyes from the rest of the apartment.

It’s probably best that you hide behind a door, Louis thinks as he squats down to unzip his duffel bag to rummage through his clothes. He knows he’s grumpy enough to bring up the obnoxious, pouty selfie that Zayn had sent about his flying home early from a few gigs with Liam in Cancun.

Luckily for Zayn, the message arrived after Louis had confirmed his revised plans with Taryn because he mightn’t have changed them at all if it had come through before he rebooked his flight. He deals with enough guilt trips from younger siblings, he doesn’t need them from the grown-ass man employing him, thanks. Though, to be fair, Zayn is paying him enough to wipe any financially-related pouts off of his siblings' faces for at least several years, so here Louis is.

“Right, yeah, big day tomorrow, then,” Zayn clears his throat from somewhere on the other side of the door. “I, erm, ought to be going. Paddy’s waiting downstairs.”

“Of course, yeah,” comes Harry’s deep murmur in response. Louis absently wonders if it’s an actual human voice that resides in Harry’s throat, or a white noise machine.

Louis’ eyelids feel as heavy as his arms as he gives up the pretense of sorting his laundry and dumps the entire bag into the washing machine. His ears, however, are on high alert, straining for any sort of sound that indicates the exchange of physical affection as part of their goodbye—something like, oh, you know, the disgusting mouth noises of a kiss.

Nada.

All Louis hears is Harry continuing to mumble as they squeeze past Louis on their way towards the door. “Thanks, erm, again for the talk. And good luck tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course. Thanks, man,” Zayn replies as Louis hears the door squeak open. “Night, Lou!” he adds.

“Yeah, mate!” Louis yells after him. The door shuts, every molecule of air in the apartment shifts, and Louis is suddenly acutely aware that he is trapped in a six-hundred-square-foot box with Harry Styles.

Before walking into the flat just now, Louis knew with like… ninety-five percent certainty that “‘Zarry’ isn’t real.” But so much had happened since he last saw them together at Harry’s birthday that he’d started to think his realization might’ve been some kind of Inception-style fever dream of a fever dream.

It didn’t help to spend spent the past few days in close quarters with Liam, unable to bring any of it up, from Zayn’s meltdown at Harry’s birthday, to all the things he’d later shared about his life, to the sketchy shit that goes on at LA parties, to hanging out with Harry in the middle of the night. (And, yes, the photos from that are burning a fucking hole in his hard drive because he was dying to show them to Liam. But Liam would remember the whole “I almost kissed Harry on New Year’s thing,” and he’d probably make A Face that said that Louis taking photos of droplets of water running down his boss’ supposed-boyfriend’s naked torso was potentially unprofessional, and then he’d make Another Face about feeling replaced. So, yeah, it was better not to share them and avoid all of that stress. But that left Louis to ruminate instead on the very unsatisfying response that was Harry’s thank you email, which said… ‘Thank you.’ Oh, right, ‘thank you,’ plus a mermaid emoji. No, thank you, Styles, that complete lack of a reaction was truly invaluable feedback.)

So, basically, Louis had limited his recap for Liam to the celebrities he’d seen in LA and how they all had enormously outsized craniums. They’re like walking bobbleheads, he’d ranted, which he knows is a feature that photographs well, but it was disorienting to see so many together.

Anyway, in the nearly two weeks since Harry’s birthday, Zayn has only mentioned him to Louis in the context of needing to apologize, with nowhere near the sense of urgency Louis would expect from someone who’s genuinely in the first few months of a relationship.

And now Louis has walked in on the two of them surrounded by bloody candlelight, yet engaging in an awkward pinky swear instead of anything remotely romantic.

Bogie and Bacall, they are not. In fact, Harry had looked like a spooked horse and Zayn like he was allergic to human contact.

Louis might be half asleep on his feet, but that was not the behavior of briefly estranged lovers amid a triumphant reconciliation.

‘Zarry’ cannot be real.

In fact, if Louis really thinks about it—which he shouldn’t because he’s been standing there and staring into the drum of the washer for a long time—even the candlelight wasn’t romantic because Harry is so the type to light a bunch of candles when he’s all alone.

Louis’ tired mind drifts to a vlog from years ago. Right around everything with Conner and Harry’s stepfather.

Harry was surrounded by candlelight, similar to what Louis had just walked in on, his cheekbones casting shadows on the divots of his dimples, while the ringlets of curls that he was growing out at the time fell over his face like Michelangelo’s goddamn crowns of acorns, as the flames reflected off them in the dark.

And alright, yeah, there was probably a ring light involved as well because Harry is an influencer and not a complete idiot when it comes to filming, and it had struck Louis as surprisingly well-lit at the time….

But anyway, Harry and his glassy eyes were spouting soppy shit from the depths of the annoyingly flattering lighting about, like, the strength to be had in allowing yourself to cry, which Louis had definitely scoffed at and ignored….

Fuck. He needs sleep.

And, fine, he needs a good fucking cry on Liam’s shoulder because this new life is actually pretty fucking overwhelming, and so is all this information that he’s unsure of, which he can’t tell Liam about, so it keeps bouncing around his head, and… fuck.

He can’t go home to Brooklyn right now.

He’ll die if he has to drag himself back out to Bed-Sty, like a settler fording a river on the Oregon Trail, which is one of those American references that became engrained in him at uni when half his flatshare was obsessed with revisiting their childhood computer game.

It’s fine; Louis just needs to shower and sleep. He can put up with Harry Style’s unexpected presence for the soft, comforting squish of Liam’s sofa cushions.

Besides, it’s not even the first time that Louis has had to deal with Styles after an awkward encounter with Zayn—or even the first time that he and Styles have come close to having a slumber party, and he’s rapidly running out of fucks to give.

Shaking his head, he grabs the detergent and automatically drizzles it over his clothes with Liam’s patented flick method that’s been well drilled into him. He sets the machine, closes the closet door, and returns to the living room to faceplant on the sofa beneath his beloved speckled blanket, but…

Harry fucking Styles is going around snuffing out the candles with a little gold metal snuffer thing.

Louis thinks he might actually scream.

Liam does not own that thing, so Harry must have brought it from home—along with all the candles, actually—and why the fuck is he, and Diptyque’s entire stockroom, even here?!

“What are you doing here?” Harry turns to Louis with a petulant huff, blowing a rogue curl that’s fallen over his eyes off his face.

Louis ignores him, walking over to the sofa, plugging his phone into the cord that’s always there, and making sure his alarm is set for far too early in the morning.

“What are you doing here?” he parrots once he’s done, putting his hands on his hips. “This is my mate’s flat.”

Harry backs down instantly, timidly crossing his own arms over his chest, which is half hanging out of his tatty purple robe. “I mentioned to Niall and Shawn that I was looking for somewhere more convenient to stay for Fashion Week, and somehow, it got to Liam, and he offered his place.”

“Fuck. Well, I don’t know why he neglected to mention that to me. But I’m sorry; I’ll have Lima refund you for the night.” Louis rubs his eyes, sighing the put-out sigh of a destitute farmer who would like to be teleported to the Willamette Valley rather than ford any fucking Oregon Trail rivers.

“Maybe he didn’t mention it because you don’t actually live here?” Harry mumbles sarcastically, but it only takes Louis’ eyebrows ratcheting up a notch for him to abort that tactic, pulling on his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger and adding, “And, well, he, erm… offered it for free?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis groans. “Of course he did, the fucking Boy Scout,” he adds under his breath, turning on his heel. “In that case, I’ll just shower before I bid you goodnight.”

He’s halfway down the hall when Harry calls, “Wait!” and follows Louis to the bathroom, skidding to a stop behind him as a plume of lavender-scented air hits Louis when he opens the door.

“What’s all this, then?” Louis outright fails to stifle his laughter at the state of the bathroom. Harry must have drawn his bath a while ago, if the melted candles on the sink and the flat purple bubbles in the tub are any indication.

Yikes. If Louis weren’t already certain that ‘Zarry’ is fake, he’d be retching at the thought of them crammed in the tub together.

Then he’d have to tell Liam, and Liam would have to burn the place to the ground.

Or move, or use bleach, or whatever.

“What’s wrong with a hot bath after a long day?” Harry protests over Louis’ delirious giggles.

“Nothing, Daryl,” Louis laughs harder at his own Splash reference as he flips the drain stopper lever. “I suppose you need to soak your tail.”

He turns to Harry, who’s frowning vigorously in the doorway, and shoots him what feels like an only-semi-forced magnanimous smile. “Relax, love. Refill the bath with actual hot water. I don’t need a shower as much as I need some fucking sleep. Have at,” he waves his hand at the tub, presenting it like a game show prize until Harry finally takes the hint and steps into the room to trade places with him. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll just pass out on the sofa, easy enough.”

“You can have the bed; I haven’t touched it.” Harry narrows his eyes as he turns the faucet on—apparently familiar with the correct way to wiggle it to get the hot water going properly.

Liam must’ve left a note about that.

“I’ve been sleeping on the sofa,” Harry continues.

”Oh really?” Louis cackles. Somehow, he finds that hard to believe. Harry’s mentioned the yoga he does for his bad back on his channel a time, or two, or six hundred. “You’ve been sleeping on the sofa?”

“Yes,” Harry confirms, nodding confidently.

Louis crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. He’ll wait.

He gets a bit distracted, though, when he notices a chunk of something gooey and green stuck in Harry’s left eyebrow. He wonders if Harry was overpowered by Liam’s professional blender, and it exploded a smoothie in his face.

“You’ve got a bit of a—” he gestures to his own eyebrow, and Harry quickly reaches up—to the wrong one, of course, then ducks his chin in embarrassment when Louis indicates the other side, spinning around to look in the mirror.

“Shit,” Harry mutters, picking it off with his fingers before wiping his face with a washcloth. “Guess that was there the whole time.”

“Guess so,” Louis snorts. “Sorry that you can’t count on your boyfriend to pick smoothie out of your eyebrows.”

He shouldn’t have said that; he shouldn’t have baited. He didn’t mean to do it back in LA, either. It’s just…

Well.

He sort of wants Harry to crack first.

But Harry only stares at him in the mirror, meeting Louis’ eyes as his frown grows impossibly deeper, to the point where Louis is afraid he’ll be on the hook for paying for the Botox.

“Right,” Harry agrees, dryly. Like, so dryly. Dying of thirst on the Oregon Trail dryly.

Louis swallows.

“It was a face mask,” Harry continues, which, oops, yeah, that makes more sense. “Anyway,” he shrugs and bites his lip as he turns back around, “the bed is, um… all yours…”

Nope, not a chance Louis is going to let Harry win this round, no matter how innocent he tries to look while he fucking lies.

“I really haven’t touched it,” Harry insists again when Louis doesn’t reply.

Louis just raises his eyebrows, pushes off the doorframe, and walks into Liam’s room.

He must look sufficiently skeptical because Harry follows him and watches as he whips the end of the comforter off the corner of the bed, dramatically revealing what he knows he’ll find there—

Sloppily tucked sheets.

“Nice try, Styles.” Louis takes a closer look that quickly confirms his suspicions. “Liam has made his bed every morning with precise, sixteen-inch hospital corners ever since he dated a military man right after college.”

“What?!” Harry yelps as Louis salutes him, brushing past him to head back to the sofa.

“Good night, Harold!” he calls as he picks up his blanket off the floor, shaking it out and hoping once more he’s right about ‘Zarry,’ and they didn’t get their joint cooties on it.

As he snuggles in, Louis remembers for the hundredth time that he isn’t supposed to use that nickname with Harry, but he's too close to sleep to apologize.

“Good night, Lewis!” Louis hears as he closes his eyes.

Well, that's good. Apparently, that doesn’t matter so much anymore, if that shout from the smartass was any indication.

Louis can feel a smile forming as he finally falls asleep, hoping he’s not woken up by a mermaid turning Liam’s apartment into a swimming pool.

+LIAM+

Liam is fine.

At least, that’s what he’s trying to convince himself as he wraps up the biggest gig he’s ever had to do without Louis—Louis, who spent the last few days lamenting yet gossiping about celebrities and parties in LA, and not saying much else despite Liam knowing there’s more on his mind.

Whatever that is seemed to make Louis hesitant to leave to go back to his job with Zayn, which shouldn’t have been a question, especially with Liam encouraging him to go.

Even if Louis’ gig leaves Liam behind for now, they’ll be together for Zayn’s tour. Of course, Harry will probably be along for part of that, as well, and watching Zayn and Harry together isn’t ideal.

But it will be fine. Liam will be fine. Liam is fine.

“Vajo con dios! Muchos gracias!” Liam kisses his fingertips and waves to the roaring crowd at the end of his set. “Te amo!”

As he exits the stage, he finds a towel to wipe the sweat off his face, and someone hands him a bottle of water.

That someone is usually Louis, but Liam is doing his best not to be upset about that as he’s ushered into a green room and hears, “Que hotel?” from the driver who’s waiting for him.

“The Hyatt,” Liam replies. “Ziva Cancun.”

“Listo para ir?” The driver asks.

“Si, si!” Liam grabs his things, grateful that Louis had already sorted their payment for the multi-night gig before he’d left.

Liam supposes he wouldn’t notice if he were out partying like the people filling the sidewalks, but as tired and sober as he is, the lights and traffic feel bright and overwhelming as the car winds through the busy streets until it reaches his hotel.

“¡Muchas gracias!” Liam hands over a tip to the driver, knowing the trip was paid for by the club.

The driver is unimpressed, nodding tersely before he pulls away.

Liam knows most people in the resort town speak English, but he tries not to be an arsehole tourist, even if it’s not always appreciated.

“Sacapuntas,” he mumbles to himself—the one word that stuck with him after years of useless Spanish lessons—as he heads inside.

At least he’s back early enough to order ribs from the resort’s American-style diner before it closes.

Of course, when Liam gets up to his room and opens the takeaway box, he finds the ribs charred to dust, which is probably a fitting punishment for being the guy who ordered that close to closing time.

He could call the front desk to complain, or try to order something else from one of the dozens of restaurants still open… or simply declare himself vegan and munch on the side of raw vegetables.

It’s the latter for tonight, apparently. He really doesn’t want to bother anyone, considering the late hour, so he’ll have to make do with carrots and celery for his dinner tonight.

After he’s eaten, he packs up his things, carefully folding all of the dirty clothes before placing them in separate packing cubes from everything he hasn’t dirtied. (Granted, he’ll wash everything when he gets home, but it’s his routine.)

He’s too exhausted to acknowledge his growling stomach or to play with the editing software he needs to learn if he’s going to be on his own more often, so he decides to check out the movies Louis had pirated for him as an apology for leaving.

(It had taken several of Louis’ capitalist rants for Liam to be comfortable with the bootlegged things Louis downloads to his laptop, and it still makes him uncomfortable and nervous at times.)

There must be something on there he can fall asleep to that isn’t the English-language channel playing sitcoms on the hotel TV, but none of the titles are familiar: Bringing Up Baby, The Philadelphia Story, Morning Glory…

Oh, for fuck’s sake, they’re all old black-and-white films. Why can’t Louis just enjoy comic book movies like a normal person?

Liam finally notices a file titled Little Women, which is a movie he’d enjoyed as a kid.

That was because of Christian Bale, long before he played Batman, but still…

This isn’t the one with Christian Bale and Winona Ryder, but he’s willing to give it a shot. And it turns out the woman playing Winona’s character is stunning, with a deep, sultry voice that takes Liam five minutes to realize is Katherine Hepburn’s.

She’s obviously a legend, but one Liam mostly knows from the time Louis was watching Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? on a loop as he smoked weed and procrastinated writing an essay for his Race, Class, and Gender in American Cinema class.

Liam starts laughing at the memory, mentally calculating whether Louis’ plane has landed yet so he can call.

His phone rings then, so he answers without looking, assuming their usual psychic connection is at work.

“Just started watching the old version of Little Women you saved on my laptop.”

“I haven’t saved anything to your laptop,” Zayn giggles breathily. “But given the opportunity…”

Zayn?!

Fuck.

Liam pulls the covers up around himself in a panic, feeling as exposed as he did when Zayn popped into Louis’ FaceTime last week, even though this obviously isn’t a video call.

“I thought you were Louis, sorry,” Liam gulps, trying to get his wits about him. Eating more than carrots probably would’ve helped with that. “How'd you get my number?”

“It’s alright, yeah?” Zayn laughs softly. “Got it off one of the adorable notes you left for Harry. Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Sure.” Liam scrubs his hand over his face, then realizes the implications of what Zayn’s just said. “Are you at my place?!”

“Not currently. Can we FaceTime?” Zayn giggles. “Please?”

“Um, okay?”

While Zayn ends the call and starts a new one via FaceTime, Liam reaches over to his suitcase, which is sitting on the double bed that’d been Louis’, and pulls on a plain white T-shirt.

Liam picks up the call to find that Zayn, on the other hand, has not put on a shirt.

He looks incredible, of course, leaning against a bunch of pillows and holding his phone near his waist so that all the new tattoos on his stomach are on display.

Liam knows that Zayn is an artist in mediums beyond music, and his tattoos only reinforce that.

They’d started small and scattered with no collective meaning, from the yin-yang symbol and a microphone on his forearms, to the smoking skulls, a large snake and a now-covered tiger on his shoulders, then angel wings (originally small outlines that’d been done over dark and wider) on his chest, and words and a revolver on each of his ribs…

But as Zayn grew older, it seemed that more thought was put into each tattoo that filled in the gaps, like everything had coalesced into a proper collection of stories with his body as the canvas.

Liam can’t make out the details of the new ink on his stomach, but he’s sure the fork-tailed demon with a bowler hat and the sword-wielding angel figures over a scaled dragon-like creature covered by red florals tell a story that Liam wants to hear…

Especially because, while the image looks like a war descending between heaven and hell, the word 'Peace' is scrawled over in a font Zayn had to have designed himself.

Anyway, Liam is just relieved to confirm that it’s not his sheets surrounding Zayn because he'd have to get new ones if Zayn and Harry were… doing things in his bed.

And maybe a new mattress, too.

“Liam, you alright?” Zayn laughs.

“I’m fine, just, uh… lots of new ink since I last saw…”

“Since you last saw what?” Zayn wiggles his eyebrows.

“Like, a picture of you shirtless.” Liam bites his bottom lip to shut himself up.

“I’ve had these for a while. You really don’t keep up with me on Insta?” Zayn sighs exaggeratedly, pouting a little, though there’s a look dancing in his eyes like he’s joking.

“Honestly? I mostly just use it to post my own stuff. Or Louis does that. I didn’t think you were that active anymore,” Liam protests.

“I know you use it to post,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen the new ink on your chest, babe. You posted it when I was getting ready for the Grammys. It was a nice distraction from all the chaos.”

“Oh my god.” Liam reddens, feeling more than a little uncomfortable because even if Zayn’s not physically with Harry, it still feels awkward that he’s being outright flirtatious.

“Wait, tell me you haven’t been getting my DMs?” Zayn laughs.

“Your DMs?” Liam’s voice goes up a full octave.

“I’ve been sending them after all your posts!” Zayn shifts, rolling over to prop the phone on a pillow, his chin resting on the hand with the Mandela tattoo. “You didn’t notice?!”

“Oh my god.” Liam almost drops his phone as he slaps his forehead. “ZightsandZounds? That’s you?!”

Saying it aloud, it’s stupidly obvious. Liam really is an idiot.

Not that he could’ve anticipated Zayn fangirling over his Instagram from a private account.

“Obviously,” Zayn giggles. “My finsta. If that’s what the kids call it? I’m not the most social media savvy, but I’ve managed to keep that one private.”

Liam is definitely red enough now that he could blame it on falling asleep on a sunbed, shifting nervously against the pillows he’s propped against the headboard. “I had no idea who it was, but I certainly was, erm… flattered, if a little concerned that someone was trolling me.”

“Not the case, babe,” Zayn grins. “Genuine compliments, the lot of ‘em.”

“Erm, thanks?” Liam sincerely doesn’t know what to say, and he feels guilty once more that Zayn has been flirting in his DMs for weeks, despite his relationship with Harry, whatever it is.

Then again, maybe Liam should get over himself and not assume any of this is genuine flirting.

“So, um…” Liam clears his throat. “What’s up?”

“I just called to say I’m sorry for stealing Louis away from you,” Zayn frowns, looking remorseful—but the sort of remorseful that’s really just pouting.

“It’s alright,” Liam snorts. “I’ll live. You’ve got a lot going on, and Louis would never want to let you down. And not just because you’re paying him more than I ever could, but because he’s a good guy like that.”

“I’ve gathered as much,” Zayn’s lips curl into a pleased smile. “He’s something else. You’re lucky to have one another.”

“Me more than him,” Liam agrees.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Payno.” Zayn glares at him in a sort of ‘mama bear’ way that makes Liam think that if his teenage idol is giving him advice, maybe he should listen. “I’m willing to bet he appreciates you more than you realize. I think he and I are sort of the same, not always great at expressing that kind of thing.”

“Erm, thanks,” he mumbles. Liam is awfully sleep-deprived and hungry right now, so he really doesn’t need to hear things that might make him sob.

“So speaking of apologizing for taking him away from you—”

“You didn’t!” Liam contends.

“Regardless, it was partly so he can shoot me announcing you as the opening act for the tour. We’re planning to post a reel tomorrow on my proper, official Instagram. Probably between the other stuff that's scheduled, but definitely before the bit I’m filming on The Tonight Show.”

“You’re doing Fallon?” Liam thinks he might sound far too excited, because he remembers Zayn doing a beautiful performance there years ago, but skipping any sort of interview portion.

“It’s just a bit. Like, literally,” Zayn teases. “You’ll see. If, like, you care to watch.”

“Of course, I’ll watch. I’ll finally be home by the time it airs.” Liam nods enthusiastically before he can stop himself. Crap, he probably looks like one of those silly toys that sit on dashboards, just bopping away.

“The announcement, though...” Zayn sits up to move to the edge of the bed and flips through what looks like another phone before turning back to their call. “Should post around three or four. Will you watch that?”

“Oh, um, I think I’ll be in the air or just about to land, but I’ll watch as soon as I can.” Liam swallows, mentally calculating flight times and whether he’ll be within range of in-flight wifi by then while he wonders yet again if he’s dreaming.

“That, babe. That’s the other reason I called.”

“What’s ‘that’?”

“Louis said you’re excited about doing the tour, right?” Zayn bites his lip, looking genuinely nervous. “But…like, are you? Really?”

“Oh god, of course I am!” Liam sits up, crossing his legs and staring at the phone. “I’m still not entirely sure that any of this is, well, real, but I… I could not be more excited. You have no idea. I mean, I’m going to be bricking it every night in front of restless crowds who’re just waiting for you, but afterward, I get to watch you perform every night, so that will get me through, I’m sure.”

Liam manages not to slap himself after that completely unnecessary monologue. He truly needs to learn how to shut his fucking mouth.

“You think they’ll be bored watching you?!” Zayn huffs in disbelief.

“Of course.” Liam is glad that Zayn chose to focus on that and not the last part of his ramble. “I’m just standing there twisting nobs and killing time for three to four minutes before I do it again, and they’ll have paid for an actual performance, which I cannot deliver.”

“What did I say about selling yourself short, babe?” Zayn flops back against the pillows again, shaking his head. “First of all, you’re a professional DJ, so I know you sincerely don’t think it’s as simple as twisting nobs…”

“Of course not.” Liam sighs and settles back again as well. “But that’s what it looks like to most people.”

“Well, that brings me to my second point. You must not have watched Louis’ footage of you nearly as much as I have. You, babe, are a fucking performer.”

Liam’s blush returns with Zayn’s praise, as well as his repeated use of the term ‘babe,’ even if the guilt is hovering around again that Zayn shouldn’t be calling him that. “What do you mean?”

“How do I put this?” Zayn rubs his stubbled chin, glancing up at the ceiling. “I tend to close my eyes and go into my head when I perform. It’s the only way I can make it through all the anxiety, and sometimes it turns out fine, and other times I’m stiff and definitely not giving people what they'd paid for or deserve. And before you back out of wanting to support that sort of a mess on tour, I promise I’ve been working on that, and I’m much more confident now.”

“Of course you are,” Liam encourages. “I’d never back out, and I’m sure you’re not a mess either… Zayn.”

Sheesh, now it’s Liam who was about to say “babe.”

“My point is about you,” Zayn smiles. Liam’s sure it's meant to be encouraging, but it’s so adamant and fierce that Liam will probably agree with everything Zayn’s about to say out of intimidation. “You must not even realize how much you fucking perform. I’ve seen you in person twice now, and you put on a genuine show. You engage with the crowd, and you move around in a way that gets people hyped up. Maybe you don’t realize it because you’re in an adrenaline blackout, but trust me, babe. You will never bore a crowd you step in front of. Ever.”

“Well, I hope not,” Liam swallows. “But if they’re expecting you? I’m already picturing people looking bored and checking their phones to see how long until I’m done.”

“I promise that will not happen.” Zayn nods firmly. “You’ll reach them, and they’re going to love you. Especially because I’ll post so much about you that they won’t have a choice.”

“Thanks. But there’s always the threat of that one person just standing there staring at me, even if everyone else is going nuts. That one person can destroy my confidence.”

“Well,” Zayn smiles, pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth. “The person standing there staring will be me. But not because I’m not enjoying your set. Quite the opposite.”

“Oh my god, stop.” Liam fumbles the phone for a second but quickly rights it. “I am not that inspiring.”

“You are to me,” Zayn winks. “My twirling princess.”

“What?!” Liam sputters because, yeah, he knows spinning around is one of his go-to moves when he doesn’t know what else to do, feels nervous, or is just genuinely so lost in everything that it… happens. But it’s never been acknowledged as anything other than silly by himself or Louis. “I really, erm, need to stop doing that.”

“I disagree.” Zayn scrunches his nose. “It’s adorable.”

“It’s really not.” Liam shifts uncomfortably when another thought occurs to him, and this time, he finds himself speaking up. “Should you really be giving me, like, a pet name like that?”

“Why not?” Zayn’s face falls.

“Given, uh, your situation?” Liam swallows. “With Harry?”

“First of all, Harry wouldn’t care.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “Second, you’ve met Niall now, and he tosses around pet names like NDAs. Sorry about the one after my birthday, by the way.”

“I expected it to arrive sooner than three days after you told me, to be honest,” Liam laughs. “But, uh, understood.”

“Good. Call it a nickname if it makes you feel better.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, so, I had another idea, my twirling princess…” Zayn is tapping around on his other phone again.

“Oh… For… what?”

“I’m supposed to do a DJ set of my own,” Zayn giggles sheepishly. “It’s just an online promotion for the album, but you should help me out!”

“What sort of DJ set?” Liam is intrigued, if a little confused….

“It’s for Stationhead, just a few hours of playing songs and mucking about.” Zayn looks at the other device again, then back to the screen at Liam. “It’s scheduled during Paris Fashion Week. I’ll fly you out to help.”

“Zayn,” Liam is flattered but overwhelmed, and... “That’s pretty excessive.”

“What if…” Zayn is still looking at that other phone, typing away. “What if we lined up some DJ gigs for the week? There are a million parties all over the city during fashion week. Are you available?”

“I’m sure they’ve all booked entertainment months in advance.” Liam laughs nervously. “Please don’t put yourself out on my behalf.”

“Can I ask you a question, and you’ll answer me honestly?” Zayn tosses the second phone down and looks back at Liam, his eyes all big and blinking like some sort of anime girl.

“Yes,” Liam nearly chokes at the sight. “Absolutely.”

“I want to fly you out and get you some gigs if possible. And even if my thing is a silly little online gig, I want your help picking songs. Which will mostly be mine.”

”Tough gig, that,” Liam jokes.

“I have been forced to do things I didn’t want to do for my entire life.” Zayn purses his lips, ignoring Liam’s comment. “If I’m ever pushing you into something you don’t want to do, please just tell me you don’t want to do it. Coming to Paris to help, or opening for the tour. Be honest with me, please. Okay?”

“I want to open for the tour, I do.” Liam insists, swallowing nervously. “And… I would love to come to Paris… but I don’t know. What would Harry think about that?”

“Harry?” Zayn splutters. “Oh… well, he’d be fine with it. He knows I pushed for you to be on the tour, and he’s also a big fan after New Year’s. I’m sure he’d love it if you joined us all in Paris.”

Liam doesn’t know what to think about that, but he also doesn’t want this conversation to end with him disappointing Zayn. “Alright, if you can scrounge up a gig or two so Louis doesn’t scold me…”

“Great. So Louis also came back to come with me to Hot Ones tomorrow. Will you watch it when it’s posted?” Zayn giggles, crawling under a duvet—somewhere that’s not Liam’s, where Harry is, which is quite understandable if their relationship is still that new, but it makes the status of it a little confusing, to say the least.

“You’re doing that? The hot wings podcast?” Liam laughs, deciding to get into his bed as well. “How do you think you’ll do?”

“Not bad.” Zayn pulls the duvet up to his chin. “I think I can handle spice, considering I grew up on Indian and Pakistani food. How would you do?”

“Oh, I think I handle spice quite well.” Liam nestles into the sheets, his cheeks heating up from the boast.

“Oh really?” Zayn smirks.

“Or I’d probably get cocky like I did just now and then lose my shit and cry openly,” Liam admits, giggling.

Zayn cackles, resting his cheek on his hand. “How do you think Niall would do?”

“You know Niall better than I do.”

“He wouldn’t last five minutes.” Zayn scrunches up his face.

“Neither would Louis.” Liam laughs. “He’d just shout curse words and demand a beer.”

“Shawn probably wouldn’t last long either,” Zayn snorts.

“Definitely not,” Liam laughs. “He’d probably throw up on the table after complaining about the spice level impacting the mouth feel or something chef-y.”

Zayn snickers adorably for a moment before turning serious.

“Did Louis tell you that my coming out interview is scheduled?”

“On Hot Ones?!” As soon as he says it, Liam realizes that’s too ridiculous to be true.

“No!” Zayn cackles. “Silly. With Duncan Mercer when we’re in London next week.”

“Duncan Mercer?” Liam nearly gasps. “He’s a fucking legend. You might want to watch Louis, though, mate; he’d up and run away with him, given the chance…”

It clicks then what a perfect choice that is, and Zayn notices that Liam has realized it, if his beaming face is any indication.

“He’s a Yorkshire legend. A queer one,” Liam marvels, and his chest feels all kinds of fuzzy when he recalls Zayn being interviewed by Duncan years ago, even if he can’t remember the details. “That’s perfect, Zed. Like, who could handle it better?”

“No one,” Zayn confirms. “I think I finally feel like I can do this if it’s with him. He’s always been very kind to me.”

“Epic,” Liam whispers, grinning at Zayn like a lunatic.

“What version of Little Women were you watching?” Zayn gnaws on his lip. “When I called?”

“Oh,” Liam laughs as he glances at his forgotten laptop screen, “there are so many, right? Louis downloaded the one where Katherine Hepburn plays Jo?”

“Sorry I interrupted,” Zayn shrugs as he bites back a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. But not without telling you she’s my favorite actress.”

“Oh, nice." Liam is a bit caught off guard, but his motormouth never stops. "Mine is probably Grace Kelly.”

”Really? You like old movies?”

”No, not really,” he admits. “But Louis has played enough of them for me to have favorites. He went through a Hitchcock phase in uni, and I adored Grace Kelly in those.”

“You would,” Zayn teases. “A princess for the princess, yeah?”

“Stop,” Liam yawns.

“I’ll let you get some rest, princess. Good night.” Zayn shakes his head. “See you soon. In Paris, alright?”

“Okay, in Paris. Good night.”

Zayn ends the call, and Liam buries his face into the pillows.

+ZAYN+

Zayn walks off the soundstage after leaving a note on Jimmy Fallon’s desk and not speaking a word. The host reads the note to the audience, feigning surprise that he’s announcing Zayn’s album name and release date before producing a mockup of the album cover for the cameras as whistles and cheers erupt from the audience.

Never in a million years did Zayn think the show's producers, much less Clint and Amorette, would go for that idea, but they had, and it's just gone over shockingly well—at least to the studio audience. He isn’t ready to check Twitter, so he’ll wait for Amorette's inevitable call with a rundown tomorrow morning.

With that done, Zayn slips out of his knee-length leather jacket and pushes open the door to the green room. He needs a minute to himself before he has to walk the gauntlet of paps outside.

He also needs a blunt, and thankfully, he has one ready and waiting.

The day had started with an early—but not too early—call for the filming of Hot Ones. The call time had been his excuse for canceling a few times in the past, so he was just glad the team hadn’t held it against him. They’d pushed the filming back to accommodate Zayn’s schedule this time, and for once, his anxiety hadn’t taken over.

He’d even presented the host with homemade hot sauce as a sort of quiet thank you for his patience in finally getting Zayn to sit down with him.

It was a pleasant interview, mostly spent geeking out about his garden and his pets—the only things Zayn enjoys talking about besides music, and even that’s a new development, as he’s become more proud of his work over the years.

He hadn’t done as well with the hot sauces as he’d promised Liam, but it could’ve been much worse than the single tear he’d shed.

Louis had teased him for that while he filmed the crew trying Zayn’s sauce after the taping. Then he’d refused to try Zayn’s sauce himself, confirming Liam’s suspicion that Louis would’ve cussed up a storm and demanded a pint if he’d been the one in the metaphorical hot seat.

A quick and easy photoshoot for Spotify followed, and they’d arrived at 30 Rock early enough to film Zayn announcing Liam as the opener for his North American tour, as planned.

Zayn was probably smiling too much through the announcement, leaning against a counter in the dressing room, surrounded by bare vanity lightbulbs that he found were hilarious to torture Louis with.

Ultimately, though, they’d gotten it done, closing the short reel by encouraging everyone to click through on the tags to Liam’s account.

Now, with all of that done, Zayn flops across the couch in the greenroom while the rest of The Tonight Show hums in the background on a flatscreen.

“Is it early enough that we can go back to the farm? Just for the night? I miss Dobby and the dogs,” Zayn wonders aloud, knowing the answer.

“Doubtful. But if you really want to, I’ll see what I can do.” Paddy shrugs.

“I should be off myself,” Louis supplies as he packs up his gear. “I’ve got laundry to collect from Liam’s before I head home and repack for London.”

“You’re definitely not held to come to Pennsylvania, mate,” Zayn offers him the joint, considering inviting himself along. Just to offer Louis a ride home to Liam’s place. That’s all.

“Thanks,” Louis laughs, declining the weed. “That would be a bit much.”

“We'll still drop you,” Zayn volunteers, picking up his work phone after it pings.

She Devil: Well done, Zayn. I actually mean it this time. I didn’t think you had it in you.

“What the fuck is that about?” Zayn hands the phone over to Taryn as his stomach sinks.

Amorette wouldn’t contact him before tomorrow with anything less than a scolding, and he knows he hasn’t done anything to warrant the unprecedented praise.

“Oh boy,” Taryn mutters as she glances at it, then scrolls through her own phone. “Fuck, Zee. I… It’s my fault.”

“What happened?” Now Zayn is even more confused because Taryn never fucks up. Ever.

“I just asked Louis if I could see it…”

“See what?” Zayn’s head whips toward Louis.

“Shit.”

Now it’s Louis ignoring Zayn to focus on his phone.

“What is going on?” Zayn cries when neither of them will look up at him.

“It’s this.” Louis places his phone face down on the coffee table and picks up a small white box that's sitting on top of his gear.

“Okay, that answers literally nothing, mate.” Zayn is trying to remain calm, but another hit off his blunt is not helping much.

Taryn is clutching her phone to her chest and looks on the verge of tears.

“It’s Harry’s bag. He left it behind at the hotel in LA, and I promised to return it to him.” Louis flips his phone over and opens Zayn’s reel from an hour ago. Louis slides the phone over. “You can see it in the video.”

Zayn can make out the reflection of something black and glittery in the mirror behind him, something with a design or logo in hot pink. “How would anyone even know what the fuck that is?”

The video is muted as it replays, so he focuses on the grainy image, bewildered that everyone is panicking over it.

They wouldn’t be if this wasn’t a big deal, which makes Zayn all the more anxious.

“Will someone please fucking explain this to me before I lose my mind?!” Zayn drops his head in his hands.

“Harry took photos with it before the Grammys… It’s in a lot of the photos at the Novum party… and in that shot that he took at your hotel,” Taryn rattles off nervously.

“And now it looks like it’s with me?” Zayn concludes more than he asks as he leans back on the couch. “And now it looks like he’s with me. Okay.”

“Well, yes.” Taryn hands her phone over.

Zarry is real.

Trending number one on Twitter.

“Am I fired?” Taryn asks as Zayn hands the phone back. He thinks she’s joking until he registers the terror in her eyes.

“What? No, of course not.” Zayn feels uneasy that she would even think such a thing.

“This is my fault, T.” Louis stands and clears his throat. “Zayn, if you want me to resign, like, I get it.”

“What?! Stop!” Zayn almost shouts. “No one is resigning or getting fired. Is that really what you all think of me? Am I that scary?”

Louis and Taryn won’t meet his eyes, but Paddy jovially claps him on the shoulder. “No, sir. You’re as intimidating as a sleepy kitten.”

At least Louis and Taryn loosen up at that, chuckling hesitantly.

Zayn realizes that not only has he been too hard on Harry, but he’s neglected to think about how his stress over coming out and the fauxmance might come across to everyone else. Sure, Louis doesn’t know him all that well yet—but Taryn thinking for one second that he would fire her over this, after all their years together, is making it abundantly clear that Harry is not the only person Zayn needs to be better for.

“I’m not upset with any of you, okay?” Zayn takes a deep breath, calming himself enough to talk everyone down. “This began with Amorette not respecting my wishes and insisting on sending Harry to the hotel to get tagged there. Louis, you did a nice thing—starting with meeting him there because I was too tired, and continuing with protecting this bag that I assume is worth an ungodly amount of money if this big of a deal over it has been made in the first place.”

Louis shrugs but doesn’t argue the point.

“No one is getting fired, and there is only one person I’m angry with.” Zayn takes a long drag off the nearly forgotten joint. “As much as I’d like to fire her, I just need to speak with her in private, if that’s alright?”

“Of course,” Louis and Taryn agree simultaneously, gathering up Louis’ bags to move into the hallway with Paddy.

“Well done, Zayn,” Amorette answers his call on the first ring, repeating her text.

She actually believes Zayn did this on purpose?

“Everything is blowing up over this already. People are even saying that since Harry has recorded Liam's set before, that you’ve brought him on to the tour at Harry’s request.” She clicks her tongue. “Even I couldn’t have come up with such a brilliant twist.”

Bringing Liam into this was a big mistake because Zayn has moved past seething to rage at that little declaration.

“You’re lucky I’m not going to fire you right now.” Zayn grits his teeth. “And you’re also lucky I didn’t just blow my cover about everything to do with Harry in front of my team.”

“I’m sorry?” She sounds as genuinely confused as she does unconvinced.

“I told you, repeatedly,” Zayn is trying his best to hold back, “that I’m okay with looking like I’m friends with Harry. That’s all part of the plan, and I respect it. You still sent him over and encouraged him to tag a photo in my hotel room at three o’clock in the fucking morning.”

“We needed to do damage control and you know it,” Amorette states matter-of-factly.

“That’s not damage control. That’s pushing things further than I’ve agreed to for now,” Zayn argues. “I’m putting my foot down. No more seeding this fucking stunt, no more bullshit until I’ve officially come out.”

“Zayn, we have…”

”We have nothing. Cancel it. Delete any drafts you plan to send to Harry with your criticisms of his efforts and your bullshit demands of him as well.” Zayn’s knuckles must be white with the grip he has on his phone as he works to keep his voice even. “I’ve only just learned about all that, and trust and believe I’m not pleased about that either.”

“Zayn, I…” It’s the first time she actually sounds apologetic.

Or at least actually afraid her job really is on the line.

“Harry and I have got this. Your services—if you can call them that lately—are on hold until after the interview with Duncan. Do not contact me in the meantime unless I contact you first. And don’t even think about reaching out to Harry just because you think he doesn’t have the power that I have. I swear on my mother, if I get a whiff of you contacting him, I’ll have Niall look into a restraining order.” Zayn doesn’t think that’s how that works, but a high is setting in, so he ends the call before she can say a word and powers down the phone entirely.

He takes a long, satisfying drag off the joint because, well, fuck, that felt good.

He picks up his personal phone and seriously considers leaving his work phone in the bin for dramatic effect.

Ultimately, he pockets it, though, and takes another drag, pulling the door open to find everyone huddled around quietly.

Louis and Taryn still look a bit anxious, and Paddy is clearly joking around to ease the tension.

“Everything alright?” Louis is the first to register Zayn joining them.

“Better than ever,” Zayn giggles. “Now, let’s get that bag back to Harry, yeah?”

“What?” Louis’ jaw gapes for a moment as he looks down at the box clutched in his hand. “Zayn, you really don’t have to worry about that. I’m mostly going to Liam’s to collect my things anyway. And if Harry’s already gone, we’ll have to trek to the tundra on a dog sled to get it to him at home.”

Admittedly, Zayn had already intended to create an excuse to tag along just for the chance to check out Liam’s place again—especially with the promise that Liam might be there soon—but now it seems like an opportunity to play fake-potential-boyfriend in a way he’s promised Harry he’d do better at.

“Louis, don’t you think I should be the one to make sure this thing gets back to Harry safely?” Zayn narrows his eyes, half fucking with Louis and half wondering if he can pull off the jealousy thing when it comes to Harry.

He just might have, if the color draining from Louis’ face is any indication.

“Oh, erm…yeah, I suppose that makes sense. He’s your…uh…”

Zayn has never seen Louis this flustered, so he can’t help but burst into laughter. “I’m fucking with you, mate. Harry’s just a friend. Erm, as far as the public knows, right? I’d like to keep it that way for now, but I should still come along to return the bag to him, yeah?”

“Right, yeah.” Louis laughs like he’s been instructed to.

“Alright, let’s go then.” Zayn takes a drag from the joint as he turns in circles, trying to find his jacket. 

Paddy removes the joint from his hand, puts it out, and tosses it in a bin. “There’s paps, sir. Remember?” Fucking ever responsible Paddy. 

“Shit, right.” Zayn agrees as Taryn hands him his jacket, rolling her eyes affectionately.

Zayn pulls her into a half-hug as they all make their way down the hall. “I’ll fire you when you quit,” he whispers in her ear.

“Thanks, boss.” Taryn rolls her eyes. “Now put on the fucking coat. The paparazzi are waiting.”

Chapter Text

+HARRY+

Harry is freaking out, willing Niall to pick up his SOS call.

This would be how today ends, he thinks, given that it had begun with him blinking his eyes open in Liam’s bed to the sight of Louis rummaging through Liam’s dresser clad only in a towel.

Harry thinks he must have made some kind of noise in response, and he really wishes he’d been awake enough to remember if it was, like, a squawk, a groan, or what because those are all very different things to be embarrassed about.

At any rate, he’d made a noise, and Louis had turned around, scoffed, and said, “Go back to sleep, Harold,” before starting to mutter about how he’d put all his clothes in the washer the night before, so now he had nothing to wear.

Harry had closed his eyes—and pulled the duvet over his head for good measure—because it was the polite thing to do. Even though he sort of felt like he ought to make himself useful, it was highly unlikely Louis would want to borrow his clothes… so he lay there with his eyes closed, listening to Louis’ mutter and bang about, and that somehow sent him back to sleep for another half hour.

When he woke up again, it was with the faint recollection that he’d been having an excellent dream, and a slightly more than faint indication from his half-hard dick that it might've been about the curve of Louis’ naked spine.

Fortunately, waking up to the sound of Louis in the kitchen sent a rush of chills down Harry’s spine that may as well have been a cold shower for how quickly it deactivated the potential disaster in his Gucci pajama bottoms.

Even so, Harry bundled up in his fluffy robe before scurrying to the bathroom, locking the door, and spending five minutes staring at himself in the mirror, debating whether or not he needed to get fully dressed before facing Louis.

And at that speed of decision-making, Louis probably thought he was in there taking a shit or wanking away morning wood, so truthfully, Louis judging his pajamas had become a moot point.

That was just as well because getting dressed sounded like an ordeal. Harry was still deciding between looks for the day and needed sustenance to have the brainpower that recquired. So he washed his face, tried to finger-comb his curls into something less like a bird’s nest, took a deep breath, and headed out to the kitchen.

A fully dressed Louis—down to his shoes—was sitting on his laptop at the kitchen counter with a giant mug of coffee next to him. Harry wished him good morning, and Louis grunted in return, so Harry went to work making a smoothie and managed to keep his mouth shut until it came time to offer Louis—who seemed to be chewing on an unlit cigarette for breakfast—a glass.

Louis had declined, chuckling at Harry’s crestfallen expression. “More of a bagel guy, mate,” he’d added before closing his laptop and slipping it into the backpack on the stool next to him.

Harry had quietly watched him slide off the stool and swing the backpack over his shoulder as he headed to the front door. He’d yelled, “Have a good day, Harold!” before slamming the door shut behind him, leaving Harry alone to rinse out his dirty coffee mug.

Still, it had been a good enough day.

Or so Harry thought, managing to put Louis completely out of his mind as he rushed from a sponsor’s brunch to a show, to lunch with Sarah spent hunched over their phones trying to catch up on posts, to another two shows, a cocktail party, and finally back to Liam’s apartment.

And that’s where he’s standing now; he's changed out of his NYFW-worthy 'street style' (which no normal person has ever worn walking down the street) into a sweatsuit, packed up all his shit, and has only a few moments left before he told Liam he'd be out the door.

Except.

He’d stripped the sheets from the bed and put them in the wash before leaving that morning, and now he can’t move them to the dryer because Louis’ laundry is still in there.

“What’s up, Hazzle?” Niall finally answers his phone.

“Louis’ clothes are in the dryer.” Harry pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, pulling on it as if the anxious tic will actually soothe him.

“Okay...” Niall snorts.

“I need to get out of Liam’s apartment,” Harry frets. “He’ll be home soon, but Louis’ clothes are in the dryer, and I’m running out of time to dry the sheets, much less make the bed before he gets here!”

“Just leave it,” Niall chuckles.

“I can’t do that!” Harry whines. “You know I’m a better guest than that!”

“Shawnie just said Liam won’t care,” Niall reassures him. “It’s all good.”

“But I care,” Harry huffs petulantly, already imagining that Louis' best friend’s first impression—Second?! he remembers the NYE Kitchen Rescue—will be that Harry is a terrible housesitter. (And he isn’t. He even looked up how to make hospital corners, like Louis had mentioned.)

“Then just take Louis’ stuff out and put it aside, yeah?” Now, Niall just sounds amused.

“I can’t just…” Harry lowers his voice, even though no one is going to hear him in the empty apartment, “move a stranger’s underpants.”

Niall downright cackles and Harry wants to strangle him because he’s not wrong; it’s not okay to handle Louis’ things without his consent.

And, oh, great, now there are keys jingling in the front door.

Harry freezes like a cornered prey animal. “I think Liam is here already. Fuck!” he whisper-shouts.

“Shawnie and I are on our way. Hold tight, poodle.” Niall is still giggling. “We’ll get that laundry done!”

“What?! No!” As much as Harry appreciates the gesture, it is obviously too late now.

But Niall’s hung up, so Harry lowers the phone as Liam comes around the corner with his luggage, looking utterly exhausted. His eyes are barely open as he registers Harry’s presence. “Oh! Hey.”

“Sorry!” Harry exclaims as he rushes forward. “I know I was supposed to be out of here by now, but I, erm, wanted to be courteous and clean the sheets and make the bed. Louis even told me how you do it, but…”

“It’s fine,” Liam blinks, looking tired and confused. “You don’t have to do all that.”

“Oh my god, you must be knackered.” Before he can stop himself, Harry finds himself taking Liam’s bags like he’s a bloody bellhop to set them aside, then leading Liam to sit down on his own sofa. “Can I get you anything? I just made a smoothie, and there’s some left over. It’s, uh, kale, mango, and pineapple if you want to share.” Harry picks the mason jar off the coffee table to show Liam. “Or I could put on some coffee? If that wouldn’t keep you up all night, of course.”

“Oh, no, no, I’m fine.” Liam smiles hesitantly.

Right, yup, because Harry is supposed to be returning to his own home, not waiting on Liam like he’s the one running a BnB.

He looks around, assessing what he needs to do to get out of Liam’s hair. His stuff is all packed, at least, although the pile of bags seems to have doubled in size since he arrived the week before. He’d almost recruited Sarah to help transport it all, but he hates treating her like an assistant when she’s so much more than that. Besides, he just needs to get everything into a taxi. It won't be that hard.

“Um…” Harry starts saying his goodbyes. “Thanks for offering your place. It was really very kind of you. It’s a lovely apartment—super cozy—and so convenient for all the running around I’ve been doing this week,” he rambles, mostly because Liam looks too close to passing out to pick up on the hint that Harry’s going to head out now.

“Thanks. I mean, s’why I offered it.” Liam leans back and closes his eyes, then suddenly surges forward, snapping them back open. “Oh my god, I’m being so rude! It’s nice to finally meet you!”

“You, too.” Harry laughs, relieved that the change in demeanor seems to indicate Liam isn’t as prickly as Louis. “I mean, I’m sorry to be meeting you when you’re ready to crash after a long day of travel; I was just trying to be the guest who leaves things better than they found them.”

“It’s totally fine.” Liam’s smile is much warmer, even as he rubs his eyes. “I can handle the sheets.”

“They’re clean,” Harry chews on the silicone straw of his smoothie, “but Louis’ things are in the dryer. I thought he would’ve gotten them by now, but he must still be busy with Zayn.”

“Goddammit.” Liam's exclamation startles Harry, who was not expecting him to leap to his feet. “It’s all going to be wrinkled, and now I’ve got to iron everything.”

“Oh! Well, I can help!” Harry volunteers immediately, although he begins to regret it as he watches Liam set up an ironing board that was tucked next to the washer/dryer in the laundry closet.

“You really don’t have to,” Liam assures him, unceremoniously picking out all the underpants (black, Calvin Klein) that Harry was hesitant to touch, throwing them into a basket along with the socks, and tossing the wrinkled shirts and joggers, and jeans over the ironing board.

“S’fine, I insist.” Harry smiles as he moves to pull the sheets out of the washer, shake them out, and carefully place them in the dryer. ”It’s the least I can do in exchange for staying here. It really made this week so much easier for me.”

“I’m so glad.” Liam smiles back as he irons one of Louis’ t-shirts, checking the heat settings repeatedly and carefully working around the graphics. “When Shawn told me Fashion Week was so hectic that you needed somewhere more central, I had to offer. There was no point in you stressing unnecessarily, especially because I was out of town anyway.”

Liam sets the iron aside, and Harry takes the shirt off his hands to fold it carefully and set it aside. Liam acknowledges his assistance with a nod of thanks, although, considering his thing for hospital corners, he might actually be judging Harry’s folding methods. It’s hard to say.

“Your notes helped, too.” Harry tries to sound casual and not like he’s trying desperately to win Liam over, but it feels like neither of those KPIs is being met. “Like, I might not have bothered with a bath if I hadn’t known how to work the knob, but I needed it.”

“Oh, good,” Liam replies, working on another t-shirt just as painstakingly as he’d done the first. “I just wanted to make sure you felt at home, you know?”

Harry nods emphatically. “I appreciate it. I really do.”

They lapse into silence.

By the time Liam has ironed all of Louis’ t-shirts and moved on to a pair of joggers, Harry is being eaten alive by his genuine need to be friendly and the thousands of questions he’s holding back about Louis. He can feel himself on the brink of blurting out something stupid, so he awkwardly reaches for his smoothie. A few sips will give him something to do while Liam finishes the joggers, he thinks, stirring it first with the spoon he’s left sitting in it.

“So, are you a big spoon or a little spoon?”

Yup, there it is.

Jeez, H, you could’ve just asked how Cancun was.

If an iron could screech to a halt the one in Liam’s hand would have done it. His eyes widen before he giggles cautiously. “We’ve only just met, mate, think it’s a bit too soon to ask for a cuddle.”

So Louis and Liam have cheekiness in common. Noted. Luckily, Liam’s seems to come with a side of a bashful smile, unlike Louis,’ which usually involves devastatingly smug grins and/or exasperated sighs.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, um, accidentally proposition you,” Harry sighs, beginning to fold the joggers Liam’s just finished so he'll have something safer to do with his hands. “I’m trying to work on my small talk. I was recently told my initial questions can be a bit, erm, intense. I’ll add that one to the discard pile.”

Liam shrugs it off with a small smile, and the silence returns.

Harry is still searching for an actually casual question to break the ice, pausing to take another sip of smoothie. Liam finally speaks up as he passes Harry another pair of joggers.

“It’s not that intense,” he shrugs. “Louis used to call me the big fork, actually.”

“The what?!” Harry nearly spits the smoothie all over the clean laundry, praying he didn't hear that correctly.

Liam grabs his chest and throws his head back in laughter, which might be the first time he’s seemed genuinely comfortable. “Fork! The big fork! Because I used to have a phobia of spoons.”

Harry laughs as well because the clarification doesn’t make much sense either. “A phobia of spoons?! Why?”

“I worked in the school canteen as a dishwasher in exchange for lunches,” Liam chuckles. “You wouldn’t believe the things that stick to spoons even after an industrial cleaning.”

“Oh my god. Gross.” Harry scrunches his nose. “I’ve never thought about that.”

“I grew out of it, but it’s still embarrassing.” Liam hands Harry a pair of Louis’ jeans he’s just finished with. “But yeah, I’m more of a big spoon guy, I’d say.”

“Really? I’m a little spoon,” Harry confides. “I don’t get why anyone wouldn’t be. It makes you feel safe.”

“Well,” Liam pauses, the iron hovering over a wrinkled hoodie. "I suppose I like making someone feel safe if they need it, yeah?”

“I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Harry isn’t necessarily surprised that Liam would feel that way, but he thinks it’s awfully noble of him. “That’s very sweet.”

Liam shrugs modestly, and, somehow, the silence is much more comfortable as they continue folding… jesus, right, Louis’ laundry.

“Louis has the whole protective big brother thing going for him. I suppose that’s why he’s a big spoon, too,” Liam states out of nowhere, then chuckles. “That’s probably why he’s such a good one, too.”

“Oh…”

As if it isn’t bad enough that Louis’ pants and socks are still… looming in their little basket, the last things left to be folded, Harry is now thinking about Louis curled up against his back, with an arm slung over his waist, which, mmm, yes, that would be …

Except…

There’s also the thought of Liam’s arms around Louis, and that makes Harry’s blood run cold. His arms are so much thicker than Harry’s, heavily tattooed and downright bulky, flexing as he irons…

But wait, yeah, no. Now he’s picturing Louis spooning Liam, pressed against his back, and that’s worse. Harry can see how muscular Liam’s back is, straining against his white t-shirt… and he tries not to say anything… He really does…

“So, have you and Louis… forked?”

“What?!” Liam drops the pair of socks he’s holding onto the floor.

“Sorry! Sorry! I don’t know why I said that!” Harry ducks to retrieve the socks at the same time as Liam. “That’s way too personal; I’ve done it again. It’s none of my business. Forget I even asked, please.”

Harry manages to get to them first, narrowly avoiding butting heads with Liam as they both stand up, and he hands the socks back over.

“It’s fine,” Liam assures him with an amused smile as he rolls the socks together neatly rather than balling them up. “You’re not the first person to have wondered that. But we’re brothers. We’ve cuddled, and I suppose the spoon role depends on who needs comfort more at any given time.”

“That’s…” Harry wants to sulk because he wants that, in general, and also with Louis, though not in a brotherly way. But he really needs to stop saying every thought coming into his head. “Really cool.”

Liam shrugs, quickly folding Louis’ pants like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do, whereas Harry feels like he shouldn’t even be watching him do it.

But, right, brothers.

At least Liam isn’t ironing them.

“Maybe I will take some of that smoothie if you have any left?” Liam clears his throat when he’s finished. “Just realized I’ve barely eaten in the past twenty-four hours.”

“I can make something for you!” Harry offers, then fears he’s being overbearing again.

But Liam doesn’t seem bothered at all, apologetic even, as he shrugs noncommittally. “Nah, that’s alright. Just the smoothie would be great, mate.”

It’s amazing how the little moniker fills Harry with a sense of relief he didn’t know he needed. He has to admit it crossed his mind that befriending Liam might help him get more firmly on Louis’ good side, but now that he knows how nice Liam is, he’s genuinely excited that they could actually become friends.

Harry smiles as he pours Liam a glass from the blender jug containing one of his many custom recipes. He waits for Liam’s reaction, trying not to stare at him like a weirdo.

“This is so good!” Liam exclaims excitedly, and Harry is further placated when he takes another sip.

“Right?! The secret is that I add frozen mango. It thickens it and adds more sweetness.” Harry is so grateful to not feel like an overenthusiastic dork in front of someone new for the first time in months.

“Can I save some of this for Louis? He probably hasn’t had a vegetable in days.” Liam pulls a glass with a pink rubber gripper and matching lid from the cupboard.

“Sure.” Harry clears his throat and tries not to blurt out that he’d already tried and failed to feed Louis a smoothie. Maybe Liam will have better luck. “There’s plenty.”

Thankfully, Liam doesn’t seem to notice Harry’s hesitation as he pours the remaining liquid into the glass and puts it in the refrigerator, turning back to Harry as he leans on the counter. “I have this watermelon and kiwi recipe that always comes out too thin. I wonder if some frozen mango would help?”

“I have just the thing!” Harry instantly forgets all about Louis potentially scoffing at his concoction. “Sometimes, I use a vegan protein powder that’s flavorless. I’ll send you a link.”

“Ace, thanks!” Liam chugs more of Harry’s smoothie. “I use a vanilla whey protein powder, but it can overwhelm the flavor of the fruit.”

“I use those too sometimes, but it’s definitely not the same.” Harry slides onto one of the counter stools and pulls Liam’s welcome note towards him, saving his phone number before sending the link. “Sent.”

“Louis just throws things at me when I try to talk about smoothie recipes.” Liam laughs. “He’s not exactly a healthy living enthusiast.”

Harry wants to hear everything Liam has to share about Louis and also doesn’t want to think about him at all, so…

“Niall either,” Harry offers, erring on the side of steering the conversation away from Louis. “I think Shawn sneaks vegetables into his food like he’s a small child.”

“What about Zayn?” Liam asks, immediately ducking his head—almost like he regrets asking.

“Oh, uh...”

What can Harry say to that? He certainly doesn’t know.

“I don’t know...”

Harry and Zayn are supposed to be performing an act that implies they are together, or at least that they could be eventually, but Harry isn’t sure if Liam is an audience that applies to.

He doesn’t know what Liam knows. (He doesn’t even know what Louis knows.)

As far as the question goes, based on the fact that all Harry has seen Zayn consume is cigarettes, he’d guess Zayn falls firmly on Louis’ side of things. But Harry could look like a complete arse if he turns out to be wrong—and the recollection of Zayn mentioning spag bol doesn’t really hold any further answers.

“We, uh, haven't really spent that much time together. Like, not enough for me to, um, quite know? We’re just getting to know each other, and we’ve both been super busy.” Harry nervously runs his hand through his hair, looking anywhere in the kitchen besides at Liam. “We’re, erm… just…”

“Zayn, um, told me he’s gay.” Liam clears his throat. “At his birthday party.”

What?!

Zayn came out to Liam without an NDA?

Not even Gemma had gotten away with not having one after expressing mild suspicion about the whole thing when she confronted Niall. (Speaking of which, ugh, Harry needs to see if he can manage to see her while he’s in London next week. Now that she’s signed one, maybe he can explain things in person.)

Also, Zayn came out to Liam at Zayn’s birthday party?

Harry had been half-convinced that Zayn wasn’t even at his party most of the night. But now, in hindsight, it makes sense that Harry had only gotten a glimpse of Zayn when Liam had been DJing.

“Don’t worry,” Liam drums his fingers on the countertop. “I’d never out him or anything. Besides, I was served with an NDA a few days later—in the gym, no less.”

”Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Harry giggles apologetically, his panic settling somewhat. “Only Niall would ‘serve’ someone with an NDA like that. That’s terrible.”

“Not ideal,” Liam laughs, unbelievably good-natured about the whole thing. “But I was just glad it wasn’t a restraining order after we’d spent so much time together at the party.”

Well. That’s even more surprising.

Harry feels even more terrible for assuming Zayn wasn’t at his own party, all because he’d been preoccupied with his own stuff, even before Louis found him, and then…

But apparently, Liam had kept Zayn company, which is… interesting.

Now Harry is the reason for a long silence as he tries to process all of this, including why Liam brought it up in the first place.

Liam begins wiping off the counter he’s staring down at. “Obviously, he’s not out yet, and that must make it harder to, erm, get to know each other? But there’s no way he’s not into you, I’m sure. You’re like… perfect in every way.”

“What?” Harry must be hearing this wrong.

“Like you said, you’re both really busy right now. I just don’t think you should worry that it’s just an excuse on his part. I’m sure he has his reasons for not spending that much time with you yet, you know? Like, maybe he just wants to be out to the public before he’s willing to… go on real dates?” Liam shrugs. “The press has always been hard on him. He probably just doesn’t want to be outed before he’s ready, or for you to get dragged into being treated the way he is by them, or summat?”

Oh my god, Liam is buying ‘Zarry’?!

And, even worse, he’s trying to comfort Harry about the current state and potential future of his… painfully fake relationship…

It makes Harry feel stupid and, worse, guilty… because he’s seen…

”Um, so, you said in one of your notes to help myself to the record player.” Harry swallows audibly. “You have all of Zayn’s records on vinyl? Like, the limited editions and everything?”

“I do.” Liam chews on his lower lip, then resumes wiping the counter, which is visibly spotless already. “I’ve always been a fan. Ever since his first single.”

That much was obvious, but Liam acknowledging how Zayn has been treated in the press makes Harry realize there might be more to Liam being a fan than just the music...

“Mostly when I was younger.” Liam clears his throat. “It’s a bit weird now having met him and, like, knowing I’ll be along for the tour. And meeting you, his…”

“Do you want to hear the new record?” Harry interrupts before Liam can say something that Harry doesn’t have a good response to. “Zayn gave it to me, um… as soon as it was finished.”

“Zayn sent it to Louis, too,” Liam whispers as if they’re not alone. “Please don’t tell anyone that he let me listen. Louis takes NDAs more seriously than you could imagine; he tells me literally nothing. But he’s known how big of a fan I am since we were kids. He couldn’t deny letting me listen to it when it was burning a hole in his laptop.”

“Oh, of course. I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Harry gulps, because it says so much about Louis that that is what he would breach a contract for—sharing music with his best friend, who's just as honorable as he is. “What…erm, what did you think of it?”

“It’s amazing.” Liam breathes, and Harry has never seen something so close to literal stars in someone’s eyes. “Like, his music and his voice have obviously evolved. He started when he was sixteen! But this record is just in another stratosphere, yeah? It’s so personal, and the sound is so different, but in the best way. It feels like it’s really all him for the first time, for real, you know?”

Harry had listened to it once while he was going over his schedule for this very fashion week, making notes about potential shows and sponsors he’d planned to network with. He’d liked it well enough, but admittedly, he hadn’t been paying that much attention.

“It’s, uh, yeah…” Harry rolls his lips between his teeth, trying and failing to gush as spectacularly as Liam. “It’s so… Good. Great.”

“It is,” Liam agrees. His eyes squint closed as his cheeks scrunch up into an adorable chipmunk-like smile. “It’s epic.”

“Exactly,” Harry agrees blindly. “Next-level stuff, yeah?”

Liam nods vigorously, glancing briefly at his record player as he finishes the smoothie and begins rinsing the glass.

Sooo…

Liam is clearly smitten with Zayn, and Harry is coming between them in the dumbest possible way, and he just wants to blurt out the truth because his heart is breaking for a guy he’s only just met.

Then again, Liam’s feelings may be obvious, but that doesn’t mean Zayn shares them.

Of course, Zayn had been MIA from his own birthday party—one he hadn’t even wanted—and apparently spent the entire time with Liam, out of the hundreds of people in attendance he could’ve hidden with.

Harry would like to convince himself that Zayn probably just enjoyed Liam’s attention, but he’s recently learned Zayn isn’t the egomaniac he might have pegged him for. Zayn’s not like that at all… Zayn doesn’t warm up to people easily…

Harry takes a deep breath to control himself, reminding himself that a stranger’s childhood crush isn’t worth ruining what he has going on, no matter how earnest Liam might be.

Ugh, he feels sick.

“You really enjoyed the bath?” Liam asks abruptly, perhaps embarrassed by his gushing because he probably thinks Harry is silently judging him for fangirling over his man. “I’m sure you’ve seen bathtubs the size of my flat at the places sponsors put you up in.”

Harry is grateful for Liam’s obvious deflection after his own attempt failed so spectacularly.

“I did. Yours is bigger than the one I have at home.”

“Ever done an ice bath?” Liam smiles shyly as he begins to unload the dishwasher. “I mean, just speaking of healthy living before, yeah?”

“Oh my god, no, but I want to!” Harry shouts, jumping up to help put the dishes away, then tries to dial back his enthusiasm. “Have you?”

“I just tried one for the first time in Cancun. The resort offered it, so I had to try!” Liam looks giddy—possibly just because he’s overtired—but it makes Harry feel the same, grateful to forget about Louis and Zayn and focus on their shared interests.

“Tell me everything!” Harry hopes Liam can forget about all those other things, too.

“It was fucking miserable and so fucking exhilarating!” Liam spins in place as he closes the cutlery drawer with his hip, his cheeks pink with glee.

“I have to try it.” Harry presses his hand to his mouth, shrugging excitedly. “The best I can do is an early morning run this time of year.”

“Oh my god, I know,” Liam nods in understanding. “My favorite jet lag recovery is a run along the Hudson at sunrise.”

“We should go together sometime!” Harry no longer cares about being overeager because he’s always dreamed of this in a friend, and Liam seems genuinely enthusiastic. “What about tomorrow?! I may not have been out of town, but it feels like I may as well have been.”

“Oh! I mean,” Liam hesitates. “You live pretty far.”

“I don’t mind taking the train and meeting you down here.” Harry tries to dial it down a notch, he really does.

But Liam looks hopeful, eyes wide and blinking like a puppy being promised a walk. “You're sure?”

At that, Harry throws any hesitation to the wind. “Absolutely. It’s just, like, my friend Nik prefers a lazy walk on the treadmill. Niall will go for a ‘hike’ in the park, at best, if it’s warm enough. And Shawn will promise to meet up for a run, but he’s always too busy.”

“Shawn has canceled every workout we've tried to plan since he moved back.” Liam rolls his eyes affectionately. “Yet he’s too nice to ever be mad at.”

“Oh my god, words out of my mouth,” Harry guffaws. “I mean, if you’re in, I can be here at six?”

Harry wonders if that’s too much or too early, even if he’d prefer five…

“I’m in!” Liam clenches his fists enthusiastically. “Well, only if…”

Liam doesn’t have a chance to finish his thought because there’s the sound of keys in the front door again, and both of their heads whip in that direction.

+++

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Louis bellows as soon as he appears around the corner from the hall. “Can’t I walk into a single room this week that isn’t full of you blokes?”

Harry doesn’t have a chance to decipher what he’s on about because Zayn appears behind Louis, one of those feline grins crossing his face.

“Good to see you, babe,” Zayn purrs, and Harry is fairly certain he’s staring right past him at Liam.

So much for making an effort, Harry thinks, but Zayn must’ve realized that as well because he steps past Louis to softly kiss Harry’s cheek. “We brought your bag back, babes.”

“I brought it back. Though I suppose your boyfriend should take credit.” Louis’ eye roll is obvious from his inflection alone as he ducks his head into the laundry closet.

Liam walks out of the kitchen to shoo Louis away from the closet, directing his attention to the ironing board containing his folded laundry.

“I ironed everything you left to wrinkle in the dryer like an animal.” Liam crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re welcome.”

“Ta,” Louis sing-songs sarcastically. “Merit badge is in the post, darling.”

Harry wants to laugh at that; he does, but he’d like to think Liam is his friend now, too, so he holds back. Meanwhile, Zayn presses his face into Harry’s shoulder and shamelessly giggles.

Harry can feel Louis’ eyes on them as he crouches down to haphazardly stuff all the carefully folded clothes into his duffle.

“We’ll leave you two alone,” Liam mutters as he tugs Louis to his feet and drags him and his laundry into the bedroom.

“It’s alright, yeah?” Zayn whispers, swaying slightly before bursting into more giggles, his eyes squinted into slits.

And that’s when Harry realizes that Zayn is as high as a fucking kite.

He looks at the timer on the dryer. Fifteen minutes. He really needs to forget about making the bed and just head out before things get any more awkward.

If that’s even possible.

“It’s alright,” Harry tells Zayn. “But I ought to get going.”

“Don’t go,” Zayn jokes half-heartedly as he leans against the kitchen island, seemingly transfixed by the dryer’s countdown or the various laundry supplies and clothing items hanging off the machines.

“Right.” Harry edges closer to his pile of luggage by the door. He’s not sure if he should leave Zayn here alone, but it’s not as though he’s Harry’s responsibility.

Of the two of them, Harry would say Zayn is closer to Louis’ responsibility, and so Harry should just leave—except Louis is saying the same thing to Liam as they come back out of the bedroom, squabbling quietly.

Fine, then they can both leave, and Zayn can become Liam’s responsibility. After what Liam told Harry earlier, that may well be the best possible outcome for all parties involved.

Harry briefly considers offering to share a car with Louis before remembering they live in opposite directions.

“Thanks for taking care of the laundry, mate,” Louis says to Liam, or Harry, or both, as he heaves his duffle onto his shoulder, glancing around for the rest of his bags. With three people’s cases piled around, Liam’s tiny entryway looks like the lost luggage office at JFK.

Before Louis can find them, the intercom buzzes.

Everyone turns to look at it, and it goes off again as Liam weaves through the piles of bags to answer. “Hello?”

“Niall and Shawn are here, Mr. Payne.”

“Let us up, Payno!” Shawn’s voice chimes through the speaker from the background. “We brought dinner!”

“Oh… uh, cool.” Liam glances around, his eyes darting between the three of them before he hits the button. “Yeah, let them up, please, thanks.”

“Ace, I’m starving.” Zayn ambles over to the small dining table that’s wedged between the kitchen island and the windows, and drops down on a chair like he owns the place.

Harry supposes they’d all be that comfortable if they were under the influence of whatever Zayn is.

“What?” Zayn looks annoyed as everyone stares at him. “Shawn’s a great chef. Would you lot relax? Come sit by me, babe.”

Harry is pretty sure that Zayn is looking at Liam, but he quickly moves to sit down before there’s any… confusion.

“I’m sure Liam is tired and would like to get some rest…” Harry tries to deflect, but he’s interrupted by the doorbell and a loud thud as Louis drops his duffle back onto the floor.

“Godammit, Payno. Did you plan this?”

“What? Of course not!” Liam yelps.

“Oh, shit!” Niall’s distinctive cackle rings out from behind a massive bouquet of white roses that’s rounding the corner from the foyer. “I didn’t realize that Zaynie and Lou are here, too! Family dinner!”

Shawn’s behind him, balancing two casserole dishes and looking genuinely surprised by all the people and luggage crammed into the small apartment.

“Think I’ll pass, thanks.” Louis picks his bag back up. “Enjoy your evening, everyone.”

“I said family dinner.” Niall’s eyes narrow as he plants the vase of roses in the middle of Liam’s dining table with an emphatic clunk.

Harry sometimes forgets how terrifying Niall can be underneath his usual jovial demeanor.

Louis must also pick up on Niall’s intimidating insistence because he drops his bag once again and slinks over to the table like a grounded teenager, surprising Harry by flopping down on the seat across from him.

“What’s with the floral arrangement, Horan? Did you plan this?” Louis snorts, apparently hellbent on the idea that none of this is a coincidence and someone specific is to blame for his being held hostage in his best mate’s flat.

That someone would be me, Harry thinks. He mightn’t have planned this, but out of everyone here, it’s definitely his fault.

All because he couldn’t bring himself to move Louis’ undergarments.

He could’ve just used a pair of tongs.

Or worn his mittens.

“It’s Valentine’s Day! Didn’t think it was right to leave behind Shawnie's thoughtful gift,” Niall tuts as he turns the vase around until he’s satisfied with its placement. The bouquet takes up half of the small table.

”Oh no, what?! It’s Valentine’s Day?!” Harry bleats mournfully before he can think better of it. “Shawn! I’m so sorry!”

”No worries, Haz,” Shawn smiles agreeably as he deposits his dishes on the counter next to the oven. “Niall would never ignore your distress call.”

With that, Louis flashes Harry a glare, very clearly asking, “What fucking distress call?!” with his eyes, no words needed.

Harry’s cover as an innocent party is definitely blown.

“So, who’s hungry?” Niall asks, fussing with the flowers until the arrangement meets his exacting standards of symmetry. Virgo/Libra things, Harry thinks sympathetically while sinking lower in his seat, guilt-ridden that he’s responsible for interrupting Niall and Shawn’s intimate evening and keeping Louis and Liam from getting some sleep.

“Me, hello. I’m hungry,” Zayn raises his hand, waving like a cranky toddler who's utterly disinterested in the adults' discussion.

“Great,” Shawn declares as he pulls Liam into the kitchen. “I made two lasagnas with handmade pasta and plenty of garlic bread, and Liam would never forgive me for bringing this many carbs into his home if we weren’t sharing. They’re still warm,” he tells Liam, “just need a couple minutes at four hundred to reheat them.”

“It’s fine,” Liam clears his throat, turning on his oven. “But why did you make all this to begin with? Bit excessive for two?”

“Oh,” Shawn frowns. “This wasn’t Valentine’s dinner. We ate that hours ago. This was going to be Niall’s lunch for the week.”

“Well,” Harry wrings his hands, trying to shake off Zayn’s arm, which has fallen around his shoulders, “we can’t just eat Niall’s food.”

“I can order out.” Niall snaps his fingers at the table like he’s corralling a pack of dogs. “Sit, all of you.”

“Babe, some of us still have work to do,” Shawn reaches across the counter to flick Niall in the back of the neck as he passes him a stack of plates and flatware across the counter. “These are vegetarian,” he winks at Harry while he loads the trays into the oven before glancing over at Liam, who’s pulling two folding chairs out of a closet. “And we didn’t bring wine since Liam is currently sober.”

Harry didn’t realize that, and as he watches Shawn pour everyone glasses of water from a filter on the tap, he wonders if he can sneak some samples from that nonalcoholic cocktail brand sponsor into the fridge before he leaves. If Liam insists he doesn’t need payment, it’s the least Harry can do.

“Sorted,” Niall smiles happily, handing out the plates, then taking the chairs from Liam and setting them at the ends of the table. Liam hesitantly squeezes in next to Louis, across from Zayn, and begins passing cloth napkins around. Harry wonders if those are his or if Niall and Shawn brought them from home.

“Are you sure we aren’t interrupting your plans for the evening?” Harry has to ask again because he genuinely feels terrible, and also because the vibe is so… off.

“Like I said,” Shawn calls from the kitchen. “We already ate hours ago.”

“We were just catching up on this season of Strictly, which we can do any time,” Niall adds, clasping his hands together as the aroma of Shawn’s lasagna fills the space. “And before anyone asks, no, I will not reveal my source for first-run episodes. At best, Shawnie was about to fall asleep on the couch and get grumpy when I’d have to wake him later.”

“And you call me Casanova,” Harry snorts.

An unexpected cackle from Louis cuts through the tense air, and Harry can’t help but be quietly proud of producing that sound.

But then again, maybe Louis is laughing at Harry and not his quip about Niall’s subpar romance.

Shawn seems unbothered, but he’s focused on maneuvering the hot casserole dishes onto the crowded table while Liam pops up to move the enormous bouquet to the island.

“So, did we interrupt any of your plans?” Louis places his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his hands, glancing between Harry and Zayn with an expectant smirk.

Shit, fuck, shit.

Harry does not have an answer for that.

“Locanda Verde,” Zayn states calmly.

As if this entire... thing wasn't tense and awkward enough, now everyone has gone deadly silent, with Liam and Shawn standing frozen over the steaming hot lasagnas.

Zayn doesn’t seem to notice the change in mood as he continues, “I finally apologized to Harry about his birthday and wanted to make it up to him. Create a nicer memory there for us, yeah?” He glances over at Harry and slowly blinks.

That sounds so... believable that Harry wonders if Zayn is serious as he stares back at him.

Then, an almost undetectable shrug from Zayn quickly answers that question.

Zayn’s explanation is apparently enough for Shawn to unfreeze and begin plating everyone, but Louis is far from satisfied.

“So you’re going to fill up on lasagna before you go to dinner? I know that place is fancy enough that the portions wouldn’t fill up a subway rat, but that’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“What’s wrong with having two dinners?” Niall asks unironically through his first forkful of lasagna.

“We’re not all of us hobbits, Niall,” Harry drawls before he can stop himself again.

Great. He's forgotten which side of this he's on and is now actively contributing to digging his own grave.

And Louis knows it, sitting back in his seat, drowning in his too-large hoodie and joggers from Liam's dresser, and smiling as smugly as a frat boy who’s just won at air hockey.

Or something.

“The reservation is just for dessert.” Zayn nods in thanks as Shawn passes him the garlic bread, which—whether it’s Shawn’s or Liam’s doing—is in a literal bread basket.

“I see.” Louis nods, and it is uncanny how his head slowly bobs vertically for ‘yes,’ but is so clearly saying ‘no.’

Harry wonders if Zayn’s high has worn off or if he’s just that much better under pressure in such a state. Either way, he is completely unphased by both the questions and Louis’ reaction to his answer.

“You know me.” Zayn has unloaded half of the bread on top of his lasagna—so he’s probably still high, noted. “I wanted to do something special for Harry, so I told Taryn I would make the reservation myself. But by the time I remembered, I could only get us a spot late enough to grab dessert. So you basically saved my ass with this. Thanks, Shawn.”

“You’re welcome.” Niall answers for Shawn, who is deep in discussion with Liam.

Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Niall had sent his fiancé some sort of telepathic signal to distract Liam from this trainwreck.

It seems that’s that, at least, so Harry heaves a mental sigh of relief and finally takes a bite of food.

But, apparently, Louis isn’t done yet. (And here Harry thought that Niall was the one who enjoyed playing private investigator.) “So, did you make that reservation before or after you were considering fucking off back to the farm tonight?”

And they’re caught. That’s it. The jig is up.

Louis wins because Harry can’t handle this a second longer.

“After,” Zayn answers evenly. “Seems it was speculated that Harry’s rhinestone bag was a gift from me, which reminded me that we’d agreed not to exchange gifts, and then it hit me that today is Valentine’s Day. Again, too late to get us in for anything but dessert.”

Oh. Okay, so their cover hasn’t been blown after all.

Harry has never been more grateful for Zayn, and he’s just going to enjoy his lasagna now.

However, Louis seems determined to redefine the meaning of a dog with a bone. “I’m sure if Harry tagged them and brought some attention, they’d gladly let you two stay after hours. Although, he'd probably need to change out of the workout gear." He looks Harry up and down in a way that makes Harry temporarily forget he was the one who'd seen Louis half-naked that morning, before he turns that look on Zayn. "Plus, you’re… you.”

“I wouldn’t want to do that to the staff,” Zayn answers, easy as anything. “I’m not a diva like that.”

“Right.” Louis nods that skeptical nod again but finally picks up his fork, apparently out of questions.

“Well, with that tidily cleared up,” Niall announces dryly, and Harry could kick him under the table for his choice of words. “Dig in, everybody.”

Ironically, Shawn and Liam are already halfway done, blissfully distracted by their private conversation comparing bicep circumference or something.

Harry takes the opportunity to duck close to Niall to whisper, “I cannot believe you bailed on a nice Valentine’s Day at home to crash… whatever this is. You are engaged. Shawn deserves better.”

Apparently, Harry was not quite quiet enough for Louis to miss any of that.

“Yeah, Neil.” Louis’ whisper is far more exaggerated. “Surely you can come up with something at least half as romantic as Zayn. All out, that plan.”

Harry glares at him. Louis smirks back, narrowing his eyes.

“I made plans, you dolts,” Niall rolls his eyes. “I arranged for a rooftop private dance lesson with Gleb Savchenko from Dancing with the Stars at the Edge, but that shit doesn’t start until after the public class, at eleven tonight. So basically, this was a perfect excuse to keep him awake.”

“Oh,” Harry and Louis reply simultaneously.

“And before you say anything about keeping him up late, I’ve cleared his calendar to treat him to a spa day at Aire Baths tomorrow. Is that satisfactory?”

“That’s actually…” Harry clears his throat. “Really lovely.”

“Casanova approved,” Louis mutters, rolling his eyes.

It’s starting to sink in that Harry had been too busy to even realize it’s Valentine’s Day, let alone mope about spending it alone.

If what’s happening now can be considered moping or spending it alone.

“So,” Niall claps to get everyone’s attention. “Family dinner! Around the horn, lads. First of all, Liam.”

Harry’s not sure if Liam or Zayn snaps to attention quicker.

“One of Terry’s DJs has dropped out of Coachella, and your hat is in the ring,” Niall announces. “What do you think?”

“I, uh…” Liam stutters.

“Don’t think too hard about it, mate,” Niall shakes his head. “Maybe it’s time to consider hiring a manager of your own, yeah?”

“I don’t think…” Liam sputters.

“He doesn’t need a manager,” Louis interjects snippily. “I’ve always handled—“

“Fair.” Nial interrupts as he rolls his eyes and takes a bite, chewing open-mouthed as he continues. “Which brings me to my next point. Are you ready to hire an assistant, Louis? I’ve compiled a list…”

“Of?” Louis cuts him off right back, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“They’ve handled things on their own for a long time,” Harry chimes in, unsure how he feels about Zayn leaning over to giggle against his shoulder. “I’m sure when the time comes that they need help, they’ll let you know.”

Louis glances at him, his eyes wide and skeptical, but he nods appreciatively. “Exactly. We’ll let you know when we need help.”

“But how will you know when—” Niall is interrupted by Shawn standing up and easily reaching his long arm across the small table to shove a slice of garlic bread into Niall’s mouth.

Harry nearly chokes at the sight of Niall looking across at his fiancé with a piece of bread hanging out of his mouth, which seems to cue Louis into realizing it's okay to laugh at them.

No man has ever made the cliché “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” as accurate as Niall, and Shawn apparently knows exactly how to use it to his advantage.

It’s part of what makes them such a perfect couple, among other things, and the way that Niall’s chewing while making heart eyes at Shawn only drives that point home.

Harry wants that.

Well, the heart eyes, not the bread.

His chest clenches briefly when he remembers that he once had that with someone, back when they were actually in love, before it all went to hell. And then he spent years trying not to dwell on any of it, trying not to think about romantic relationships, past or future, at all.

But lately—and he doesn’t know what’s more at fault, the pretending or the person sitting across from him—he’s felt the desire bubbling up again, like a cork that wants to bob to the surface.

And a reminder on Valentine’s Day doesn’t make it any easier.

He glances up from under his eyelashes to find Louis’ eyes trained on him, and now he’s about to choke for a completely different reason.

“Fuck, this is good,” Zayn suddenly comments through a mouthful of food, apparently using his pile of garlic bread slices as utensils as everyone’s eyes land on him again. “What?!” he directs at Niall. “I’m eating, aren’t I?” 

Harry’s not sure what that means, but Niall seems determined to ignore Zayn’s statement.

“Well, Zaynie.” Niall flicks a crumb across the table at Shawn with a grin. “You’re next. Your official coming out is scheduled for next week. A round of applause, everyone.”

“We’re not applauding like Zayn’s a fucking circus monkey or summat,” Louis snorts. “But we’re all very happy for you, Zed.”

“Thanks.” Zayn remains hunched over his plate, briefly lifting his glass of water toward everyone.

“Maybe,” Shawn smiles sweetly at his fiance—Harry is pretty sure Shawn’s legs are long enough to kick Niall under the table, but he’s too politely Canadian to risk collateral damage, “we should leave the work talk for another time, darling. Family dinner, not a business meeting, right?”

“What are we supposed to talk about?” Niall moans through a mouthful of food. “The weather?!”

Shawn is unmoved as he looks around at the others. “So, how was LA?”

“Shit.”

“Good.”

Zayn meets Harry’s eyes and lets out a small apologetic sigh.

“Shit, because we didn’t get to hang out.” Zayn shrugs and half-heartedly pats Harry’s hand on the table. “Opposite sides of town, different parties to attend and all.”

Super convincing.

Harry can’t blame him, though. He’ll take it after the overenthusiastic improv regarding their plans tonight. He steals a glimpse at Louis and Liam and they're thankfully lost in a whispered conversation of their own now.

“Tell me more.” Shawn is neatly cutting up his lasagna with the intention of eating it rather than just stabbing at it in frustration like Harry. “Details.”

“Wait, Shawnie, dear,” Niall smiles. “Louis is the neutral party. None of the center of attention stress and all that. How was LA for you?”

Louis is suddenly very interested in his own pasta, taking a bite so large that Harry is going over the steps of the Heimlich maneuver in his mind as Louis answers. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” Niall laughs, and Harry knows he’s genuinely trying to turn this uncomfortable situation into a friendly dinner, but there’s so much Niall doesn’t know…

Harry isn’t even sure what he knows anymore, but he is reasonably certain that Zayn is trying to play footsie with Liam, if Liam’s intermittent startled jumps are anything to go by.

Harry thinks maybe getting Zayn out of here soon would be best. It would keep up appearances in front of the two people who aren’t supposed to know… and it might be best for Zayn before he does something because he’s high, and—

Niall continues, delaying any potential exit plans, “Fine. LA was all too glamorous, and you don’t want to bore us. What about next week? And the week after? I’ll be in London, and Shawnie and I will both be in Paris with you guys. Isn’t that going to be fun? Convince me not to cancel the trip.”

“Liam’s coming to Paris, too.” Zayn points a garlic bread-turned-fork at Liam.

That leaves Harry on the brink of choking for the third time in one night, gulping down water and meeting eyes with a panicked-looking Louis.

Liam holds his hands up in protest. “Oh, I… that was never… We didn’t… Nothing is decided.”

“Of course it is.” Zayn smiles across the table at Liam, which causes the apples of his cheeks to pink like an anime schoolgirl.

“You know what, Neil?” Louis cackles. “Maybe family dinner was a fucking brilliant idea.”

Niall ignores him. “What are you on about?” he asks Zayn.

“He’s going to help me with the Stationhead thing.” Zayn’s high seems to have worn off because he answers calmly, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin and leaning toward Niall over Harry, no longer giggling or leaning on his shoulder. “He’s a proper DJ and all.”

“Zayn, it’s not…” Liam starts to speak but quickly shuts up when Zayn smiles again and firmly shakes his head.

“Don’t you think Harry should be the one to help with that?” Niall grits out, glaring at Zayn with a forced smile.

“Oh, I don’t know anything about music.” Harry sputters, confused when Louis and Shawn laugh loudly.

Niall narrows his eyes at Shawn, then clicks his tongue at Harry. “It’s not a real DJ gig, Haz. It’s just picking some of Zayn’s fucking songs and a few others while he talks shite for the fans to go nuts over.”

“Well, then Liam should definitely do it,” Harry doesn’t even hesitate. “He’s a huge fan, he knows the songs.”

“Oh my god,” Liam buries his head in his hands, and Harry feels like he’s fucked up for a fraction of a second before he notices the way that Zayn is looking at Liam.

Zayn has always looked so… uncomfortable and guarded—at least until he showed up high out of his mind tonight.

But right now, he’s back to himself, but looking at Liam like… Well, like Liam’s embarrassment is the most endearing thing Zayn has ever witnessed, and Zayn would love nothing more than to reassure him…

But Liam is too distracted to notice how Zayn is looking at him, and Liam thinks Zayn and Harry are… something.

Dear god, this might be the most painful Valentine’s Day in the history of time.

And considering it’s a holiday that has a massacre named after it, that’s wildly inappropriate, and yet…

Louis catches Harry’s eye again, something knowing flashing across his face as he wraps an arm around Liam’s shoulders.

“Thanks so much for dinner, guys,” Harry announces, nodding at Louis, who smiles back appreciatively. “It’s been a long week, and we should go.”

“To our reservation.” Zayn winks exaggeratedly at Harry, who could kill him for bringing it back up when they’d narrowly escaped scrutiny the first time.

But at least Zayn seems to be having a good time for once.

“You’re welcome.” Shawn stands up and starts clearing the table with a keen eye trained on Niall. “Liam, thank you for having us.”

“It’s nothing,” Liam smiles and begins helping Shawn clear the table, with Louis and Niall following them.

“Are you ready to go?” Harry nudges Zayn gently.

“I’ll help first.” Zayn stands up and gathers their plates to bring to the kitchen. “We’ve got some time.”

Harry watches Liam take the dishes from Zayn, rinsing everything and smiling as he hesitantly corrects Zayn about the placement of delicate items when Zayn leans close to help load the dishwasher.

Harry can tell how mutual their affection is just by watching them, and he hates that he’s an obstacle to something they both obviously want when he would really rather not be.

To make matters worse, they seem like they fit in a way that Zayn and Harry will likely never be able to fake. Harry can picture Liam in one of Zayn’s leather jackets. Even the white bandana he hadn’t noticed earlier that's in Zayn’s back pocket would suit Liam.

Or maybe Harry is just realizing how lonely he is, Valentine’s Day or not.

“Thanks.” Louis startles Harry from his thoughts, dropping down into the chair Zayn just vacated.

“For, um, what?” Harry tears his gaze away from the pair in the kitchen.

“Standing up for Liam and I. And encouraging Zayn to invite Liam on that DJ thing. You really didn’t have to.” Louis clears his throat. “Lima's, erm, always been a big fan. Of Zayn's. So thank you.”

Louis slides a white box that’s about the size of his Judith Lieber clutch onto the table in front of him. “And don’t forget this again, Faye.”

“Ready to go, Harry?” Shawn smiles down at them, two clean casserole dishes under his arm.

Harry agrees, and then everyone—even Zayn—loads themselves up with an extra bag or two of Harry’s things as they make their way towards the door.

They’re halfway into the hall when Niall calls, “See you in London!” over his shoulder to Liam and Louis.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Liam!” Harry suddenly remembers their plans and feels a bit better.

A new friend is something, at least.

And now it’s Zayn glancing between them in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Oh, erm,” Liam hesitates. “Don’t worry about it if you have a late night. I understand.”

“It won’t be a late night,” Zayn answers for Harry quickly. “We have an early meeting tomorrow.”

Harry automatically looks past Liam to Louis because he figures he must be relishing this, which is confirmed when Louis speaks up. “Not that early, Zed. Enjoy your evening; don’t cut it short on my account.”

Yup. The little shit knows.

He’s been toying with Harry all night, likely as some sort of revenge for Harry accidentally trapping them all here, and Harry is more convinced than ever that he remembers.

“Alright, we won’t. Thanks, mate,” Zayn grumbles.

Louis snorts out a laugh, and Harry wishes he could gently but firmly wrap his hand around the back of Louis’ neck, march him out of there, and demand some fucking answers.

Instead, he turns to Liam and tries to ensure his face displays friendly enthusiasm and not murderous rage. “I’ll, erm, let you know,” he manages to assure Liam, who nods and smiles despite some sort of unmistakable sadness in his big brown eyes.

+++

As soon as the elevator doors close, Harry forgets any notion of watching his mouth, blurting out. “How the fuck did you come up with all of that so fast?”

“What?” Zayn asks innocently while Shawn and Niall giggle into each other’s necks.

“Our plans? Dessert?”

“Oh, that,” Zayn laughs. “Ever heard of media training? I can be quite good at thinking on my feet when I want to be.”

“A lifetime of practice,” Niall adds.

“Well, thanks, I guess,” Harry mumbles. “I, uh, wouldn’t have come with anything half as good. Or anything at all.”

“Told you I’ve got this. Us. No worries.” Zayn seems unsure how to express that, settling for a gentle punch on Harry’s shoulder.

“It’s a relief. Truly.” Harry wraps his arms around himself awkwardly and leans back against the elevator wall.

“You ready for the paps, babes?” Zayn wiggles his eyebrows as they step out into the lobby of Liam’s building.

“What?!” Harry squawks.

“I’m joking.” Zayn laughs as Niall punches him on the shoulder. “Terrible joke, sorry, sorry.”

Harry is still a little paranoid, glancing anxiously at Niall, who rolls his eyes. “He didn’t call any fucking paps.”

“Oh, okay, cool,” Harry swallows.

“We cool?” Zayn offers his fist.

“Um, yeah, sure.” Harry bumps Zayn’s fist, their rings clinking. “We are so cool.”

“Yeah, alright,” Zayn smirks. “Listen, I’m riding back with these two and Frank to theirs. Paddy would be happy to give you a lift home.”

Harry has already been mentally balking at what the surge prices on a car must be right now, without even opening an app, but accepting the offer feels like too much. “No, it's okay. I couldn’t ask him to do that.”

“I insist.” Zayn gently wraps his hand around Harry’s wrist, pushing his phone toward his pocket. “He doesn’t mind.”

Niall nods from behind Zayn, and like Louis’ paranoia earlier, Harry feels like this has been planned for a reason.

“Alright. Thanks, Zayn.”

“It’s nothing.”

They step onto the sidewalk, and the February air is biting with a threat of rain. Shawn, Niall, and Zayn wave before they duck into Frank’s car, and Harry wishes it were him in Zayn’s place.

But he also just wants to go home, fall asleep in his own bed, wake up to his small patch of winter-brown grass, and try not to think about what next week in London might bring for at least a few days.

Frank was a little intimidating when Harry first met him, stout and gruff with his Brooklyn accent.

Paddy is a different kind of intimidating—imposingly tall and broad with a thick Irish accent. But his smile is warm as he reaches for Harry’s bags.

“Nice to properly meet you, Mr. Styles.”

“Oh god, just Harry, please,” Harry insists. “And you don’t have to help with all this.”

”You and Zayn might have more in common than you think, sir.” Paddy ignores Harry’s protests and loads his luggage into the back of the SUV.

”Just Harry, please!” Harry cries and immediately regrets sounding so childish.

“Sorry, just Harry.” Paddy opens the door with an exaggerated sweep of his hands.

Harry’s cheeks are burning with embarrassment, but he’s also on the edge of being too tired to care as he admires the custom interior of the Escalade but scrunches his nose at the faint smell of smoke.

It’s not a long drive from Hell’s Kitchen up the West Side Highway, and it’s late enough that while there’s still traffic, it’s nothing like the gridlock of rush hour.

“Zayn’s not much of a talker,” Paddy glances back with a friendly grin. “How about you?”

“Well,” Harry bites his lip. “I have occasionally been told that I talk too much.”

“That’s alright, innit?” Paddy laughs as he changes lanes. “Zayn might not talk much, but I’m a good listener. How was your week in LA?”

This Harry did not expect. As much as he can blab on and on with Frank, he doesn’t know Paddy, so it’s not the same.

“It was good,” Harry offers.

“Was Zayn’s apology adequate?” Paddy asks calmly, meeting Harry’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“It was.” Harry smiles, leaning forward between the seats as he begins to feel more comfortable. “I… I guess I get why everything happened the way it did now. Like, it wasn’t ill-intentioned or anything.”

“It wasn't,” Paddy assures him. “I could argue that I know Zayn better than anyone, and I don’t think he would disagree.”

That's... surprising, so Harry just nods.

“You seem like a good guy, Harry,” Paddy emphasizes as he navigates the off-ramp into Inwood. “I just want you to know that Zayn is, too. And there is nothing he has said out loud about anything that I don’t know. So, if you have any questions about him, I’m the person to ask. If it isn't something he wants you to know, I won't tell you. If it’s something he’d be okay with, I’ll gladly tell you.”

“Does he hate me?” Harry blurts out. Sure, Zayn had told Harry that he didn’t hate him, and Harry believed him. But he just sort of needs confirmation from another source because he’s a little insecure at times…

Or at all times.

“No, not at all.” Paddy turns back as they stop at a red light, no judgment at Harry’s outburst. “He hates the situation, and it’s not easy for him. But he thinks you’re a worthy companion for faking things, lad. Between you and me, he wanted me to tell you that because it’s hard for him to open up. He’s not had an easy go of trusting people in his life.”

“You…” Harry coughs in shock for the zillionth time in one night. “You know?”

“I’ve been working with Zayn since he was a kid.” Paddy nods solemnly. “I know everything. You two can pull this off. It’ll all be alright. I promise.”

Harry is still confused about a lot of things, but relief washes over him at Paddy’s words as they pull up in front of his building.

Home.

“He’s a handful,” Paddy concedes when he hops out and opens the hatch to unload Harry’s bags. “But he’s a great guy. You’ll never regret knowing him if you have the patience to get there.”

“I just hope he has that patience for me,” Harry sniffs, shrugging. “I’m just…”

“You’re gonna be alright, kid.” Paddy gently pats his shoulder before hopping back into the driver's seat. “I’ll see you in London.”

Harry stands on the sidewalk for a moment, mentally planning how he’ll manage to unwind from all of that.

Then he realizes he forgot to slip a case of the mocktails into Liam’s fridge, so he definitely needs to get enough sleep to remember tomorrow when he meets him for a run.

Chapter Text

Hi friends! Apologies for the unexpected skip week, but please be assured that we are still on schedule! This was a planned break on our end; the timing just got a bit shuffled.

I (trinity/zita17) am on a work trip that was supposed to happen at the end of this coming week into next weekend, so we were going to announce we'd be skipping next week, but the dates got shuffled, and things didn't get quite finished, and here we are.

We are old enough to remember the disappointment of shows having reruns back in the day, so we are sorry to do this to y'all without notice!

As a token of our apology, here's a sneak peek at the real Chapter Eighteen, where Zarry get parent-trapped:

“Coming out is terrifying for everyone,” Harry assures him fiercely. “Human beings are hard-wired to crave community for survival, and whether it’s coming out to our parents, an audience of millions, or every situation in between, we face rejection over and over at every fucking turn. So I want you to remember that you have loads of people who support you—myself included—no matter what anyone else has to say. Like you said, you’ve survived comments about you by people who don’t know you your entire life. You’re so fucking brave. You’re so strong, and you’ll get through this.”

“Thanks, mate,” Zayn feels genuinely comforted and for the first time, grateful that Harry is here. “But rumors and speculation are one thing. I know how to deal with that. But this is me telling the truth about something that is a huge part of who I really am. What if people just don’t believe me? Because I don’t act or dress the way I should? That I just don’t seem like I’m telling the truth?”

Harry goes back to his stupid plate of kiwi slices, frowning.

Zayn wonders if he just broke Harry’s brain, and he’s about to ask as much when Harry speaks up again.

“I know Niall is your friend too, so I know he'll turn up to lunch with a pep talk prepared, but can I say something else? This is kind of my area, a little bit. At least, I like to think it is.”

“Can I stop you?” Zayn laughs.

Harry just stares at him for a long moment as his bottom lip slowly juts out.

“I’m kidding.” Zayn nods for him to continue. “Please do.”

”You know who you are.” Harry only hesitates for a second before he places his hand on Zayn’s chest. “Right here.”

Zayn doesn’t know what’s happening to him, but it feels like some sort of emotional floodgate has opened, and Harry’s skill at hugging is probably to blame because the gesture causes him to choke up, overwhelmed by emotion all over again. He’s not sure what to say, or how to get words out when Harry sits back.

“And you know there’s no one right way to act or dress. There isn’t a proper way to ‘be gay.’ You know that.” Harry announces more confidently than Zayn has ever witnessed. “Like, you know Niall and Shawn, of course. And Jess. And me. And Louis. And Liam. That’s a tiny sample size of queer people who express themselves in myriad ways, right? There’s a reason the LGBTQIA+ community likes to play with subcategories—because all humans want to categorize people to make them easier to understand, but no one can really be expected to fit into neat and tidy boxes. There is no rulebook. A rulebook would be like… the antithesis of queerness.”

“That’s not what Louis said.” Zayn scratches the back of his head when Harry’s face falls at that. He starts to add that he knows Louis was joking, but…

“Well,” Harry taunts, smiling with the sort of menace that Zayn didn’t know he had in him. “Did Louis tell you about his twink era? Because if he got a rulebook, he must’ve thrown it out years ago.”

”His what?” Zayn giggles automatically. The unlikely image is a breath of fucking fresh air in the midst of this conversation, and now he has a million questions, including why Harry looks so bitter about it…

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Harry clears his throat, quickly shifting from intimidating to contrite.

“S’not mine to share, and this conversation is about you.”

“Right.” Zayn’s still a little curious as to what Harry meant about Louis, or how the hell he even knew about that, but Harry is right, Zayn needs moral support right now more than gossip.

And secondly, since appointment TV would leave you with a trailer AND a rerun, here are some suggestions if you want to revisit any past chapters:

For fans of Ziam: NYE meet cute, Zayn's birthday (aka the turtle story)

For fans of HL: the kitchen, the rooftop, the pool

For fans of Zayn’s POV: the farm

For fans of Liam’s POV: the shopping trip

For fans of Harry’s POV: family dinner

For fans of Louis' POV: the Instagram reveal

Thank you, as always, for your incredible enthusiasm, support, and understanding! WE LOVE YOU.

Back next week with the rest of Zarry getting parent-trapped, AND MORE 👀—hope to see you there! 

Chapter Text

+ZAYN+

Every nerve in Zayn's body is vibrating with the looming pressure of the radio interview with Duncan Mercer the following morning.

The interview in which he will officially, publicly—very publicly—come out.

He's so anxious that he's actually on time to be picked up, so after pressing the button for the lobby, he tries to take a moment in The Savoy's historic Red Lift for a few deep breaths and a mental reminder that everything will be okay.

Dissociation takes over, though, and he finds himself distracted by how long his hair has gotten. The bleached tips reflected in the mirror look enough like the tuft of blonde he sported as a teenager for him to start considering buzzing it all off again.

The lunch date he's heading to with Niall isn't so much a friendly catch-up as, as—as Niall had put it—"a final pep talk" ahead of the interview. Zayn bloody well hopes Niall will know what to say to calm him down; he usually does, at least.

But as soon as the doors open onto the lobby, Zayn's phone buzzes with a text from Paddy.

P-Daddy: Paps and fans everywhere, all along the shrubs and around the court. Can't pull up front. The back is blocked by deliveries. And more fans. DO NOT come outside. I'm calling T.

It's not like this is the first time this has happened; they've dealt with this sort of thing plenty over the years. But in situations like Fashion Week, it's not just Zayn, but hundreds of musicians, actors, and models—and now influencers—who attract swarms of fans and paparazzi to mill around the luxury hotels like this one.

Zayn misses the Beverly Hills Hotel and its private drive.

He should probably head back upstairs, get Niall to come by, and order room service. They should probably take advantage of the over-the-top suite Zayn's splurged on anyhow.

His phone chimes again.

Lucky Charms: This wouldn't be an issue if you didn't insist on staying in every ancient hotel Marilyn Monroe once shat in.

Zayn: This wouldn't be an issue if you didn't insist on Benares. I'd rather have a kebab from the shop on the corner than a Michelin Star goat's milk paneer tikka.

Lucky Charms: The point was that it has private dining, dummy. And the Murg Makhani is amazing.

Zayn: That's literally just butter chicken, you idiot.

Distracted by his phone, Zayn's wandered down the marble steps into the opulent lobby. He looks up, and somehow, amidst all the other travelers coming and going, his eyes land on Harry, about to shove his way through the revolving doors before Taryn materializes to stop him.

Zayn's not yet close enough to hear what she's saying, but he walks toward them when he sees Harry's eyes widen and his rabbit teeth gnaw on his bottom lip.

Even after apologizing for the whole birthday fiasco, Zayn still feels guilty, of course, so he's concerned about whatever's going on now.

"My room isn't ready," Harry drawls in response to whatever Taryn has said. "I was just going out for a walk."

He's certainly dressed for that, rather than a runway show, in a multicolored Nike windbreaker and black Nike running shorts over black leggings.

"You literally can't," Taryn sighs apologetically. "I fucking told Clint that booking you two in the same hotel was a terrible idea from the beginning."

"I get it." Harry looks crushed as he stares at the revolving doors he can't pass through. "I just don't know what to do now…"

Zayn realizes that the fans and paps gathered outside are preventing Harry from leaving as well, which is something he should still be able to do before things blow up.

Tomorrow.

When Zayn comes out.

From the beginning, Zayn's primary demand has been that his announcement isn't directly tied to the "relationship" with Harry.

Of course, before Zayn put his foot down, Amorette and Clint had vaguely "agreed" and then made their own plans. They'd planned for Harry to stay at the same hotel for seeding—insisting that even if they weren't seen or photographed together, coming and going from the same place would pique public interest.

But now they've agreed to give Zayn the privacy he needs before the interview with Duncan. Amorette's been respecting his wishes and keeping her mouth shut for the past couple of days, and Clint, who Zayn called to reiterate his dissatisfaction about how things were being handled (knowing Amorette wouldn't pass that information along), has surprisingly been doing the same.

And yet, he and Harry are apparently still booked into the same hotel.

So, once again, Harry is in the middle of something that's been carefully planned around Zayn's life and totally disrupts his own.

It's his birthday all over again. Fuck.

Zayn's about to guiltily slink away before the pair can spot him, but Taryn notices him approaching just as Harry finishes speaking.

"Well," she smiles mischievously. "You two could hide out in Zayn's suite for a bit?"

"I don't think so," Zayn and Harry protest simultaneously.

Zayn meets Harry's eyes, and they laugh awkwardly at the jinx.

Well, at least that's something.

"Hey," Zayn greets him. "Sorry about all this."

It feels like all he's doing these days is apologizing to Harry.

"S'okay." Harry nods. "S'not your fault. I mean, there's always the gym. I don't need to impose on your space."

"Really? The gym where anyone could see you're staying in the same hotel Zee was already photographed at, and speculate you're here with him? And then photograph you? I don't think so. Standing here right now is risky enough," Taryn scolds, putting her hands on each of their shoulders and walking them up the steps. "Hanging out in Zayn's suite is private, and could be a quality bonding experience!"

"Is anyone using your room right now?" Zayn snipes sarcastically.

"Yeah. Me. I have work to do," Taryn rolls her eyes, shooing them into the lift.

Zayn leans against the wall with a heavy sigh before hitting the button for the fifth floor.

"Zayn…" Harry's jaw drops as the doors close, and he looks around, pulling his phone out. "You're not…"

Of course Harry knows where they're headed. Zayn's seen enough photos and videos of him unboxing Gucci fragrances and modeling Gucci handbags to realize he recognizes it.

"You know the lift, then?" he chuckles.

"I went to the opening of the Gucci Cosmos exhibition." Harry squints at the plaque above the doors as if to confirm his suspicion. "There's a replica of it as you enter. So you're staying in—"

"The Royal Suite," Zayn smiles. "I've always wanted to book it, long before the Gucci makeover, and I decided I deserved it this week. What with all the, uh, stress and everything."

"Of course." Harry doesn't say anything else, but Zayn assumes from the way he's studying his chrome pink nails that he's just as embarrassed by his excitement as Zayn was the first time he toured the suite.

Zayn spends the rest of the ride silently counting every stitch on the hem of his houndstooth Loewe blazer before the doors finally open onto the space.

Sean, the hotel's head butler, is waiting there, taking Zayn's blazer (Harry declines and leaves his crayon box of a windbreaker on) before leading them into the sitting room.

"Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Malik? Or for your guest? Mister?"

"Styles," Zayn answers. "Is 'mister' okay, Harry?"

"Just Harry," Harry answers as he looks around in a daze, clearly already transported to a different plane of existence.

"That's all, Sean. Thanks." Zayn offers his fist, and Sean looks at him like he has three heads.

Right. No fist bumps for the fancy London butler.

Zayn hands him a hundred-pound note instead. "I've got your number if we need anything. You don't have to stick around here all day."

"Thank you, Mr. Malik." Sean nods almost imperceptibly before he retreats to hang up the blazer and quietly make his way out.

Zayn isn't surprised to find Harry gently running his hand over some of the sofa pillows covered in Gucci logos. His fingers look strangely bare without his usual rings.

"Can I take a few photos?" Harry asks quietly.

"Have at." Zayn shrugs. That's certainly preferable to having to entertain Harry himself.

Zayn half expects Harry to produce a professional camera out of thin air, but he seems perfectly content to use his phone to photograph the antique sculptures, the chandelier overhead, and fresh flowers covering every surface in the room. The way he's tilting his head and squinting at things while rolling his lips between his teeth is actually pretty endearing; Zayn almost wants to take a photo, figuring it might amuse Niall, or even Louis, but his phone buzzes and distracts him.

Lucky Charms: Alrighty, I'm coming to you for high tea now - assuming they allow the Irish into your royal enclave. Did you steal that booking from the prince or the king, again? I can't keep track.

Zayn: So dramatic.

Zayn: *a photo of Harry approaching the windows with an awestruck expression*
Zayn: At least someone is excited.

Lucky Charms: You brought MY poodle to the Gucci suite?! You're in for it now, mate. Gucci is his… I don't know, what altar do you worship at these days? American Spirit?

Zayn: See you at two for tea. Dick.

Zayn briefly considers heading to his room and leaving a thoroughly distracted Harry to explore on his own. But he's promised to do better by him, so he settles down on the custom Gucci-designed teal sofa in the living room instead, playing with the 2G monogrammed throw while he watches Harry gawk over Gucci as much as Zayn had over Marvel's headquarters years ago.

"You know why they did this collab, right?" He asks, though Zayn rightly assumes it's rhetorical. "Guccio Gucci was a porter here when he was young, and his experience watching the rich and elegant guests was literally what inspired him to start his brand when he went back to Italy."

If enthusiasm had a color, it would be the sparkly green of Harry's eyes while talking about fashion history.

"So I've heard," Zayn laughs. "Gucci's not my favorite house, but I won't deny how iconic he and the brand are."

Harry shakes his head in disbelief. "I… Well, Gucci have been really good to me. Like, I don't know where I'd be without them," Harry trails off, distracted by the view, which is understandable.

Every major landmark along the Thames is visible from the suite's windows, from Big Ben to the Houses of Parliament to the Eye, all sparkling under the sun on a rare cloudless afternoon.

"This is amazing," Harry breathes, nearly pressing his nose to the glass.

"Do you want, like, the full tour?" Zayn offers, hoping Harry won't accept it because Zayn tends to geek out over architectural details, and he isn't sure he wants Harry witnessing that right now.

"No," Harry sighs. "This place is incredible, but…"

"But what?"

"But this is still a waste of time!" Harry whines, swatting at the gold velvet drapes, albeit half-heartedly, thank god, because while Zayn can afford the suite for a few nights, he doesn't want to be on the hook for irreplaceable vintage furnishings.

"You have better things to do?" Zayn leans back and crosses his ankles in front of him, fighting a grimace and willing himself not to scold Harry about the drapes. "Chasing butterflies and befriending ladybugs?"

"I wish." Harry doesn't even register Zayn's snark as he turns around, leaning against the windowsill and crossing his arms over his chest. "My laptop is being held hostage with my luggage until my room is ready, so I can't get any work done. I thought a walk would at least clear my head."

"Why would you leave your laptop with your luggage? That makes no sense."

"Because," Harry mumbles as he comes to sit on the sofa opposite Zayn's, "they were grabbing all my things and were so efficient and polite that I couldn't bring myself to stop them."

"Harry, that's bonkers." Zayn pulls out his phone. "I can have Sean bring it up right now for you."

"No!" Harry almost jumps over the marble table between them to stop him, jostling the elaborate bouquet there in the process. "It's fine!"

Zayn remembers Louis stressing about his to-do list on the flight to London, and he wonders if Harry's stress can even approach that if he won't let Zayn help. Surely, he can't have that much to do then.

"Okay. Suit yourself; it's just a few hours." Zayn shrugs as he leans forward to sift through the fruit basket that the Loewe team sent over with the blazer he'd been wearing earlier, the one he's to wear to the show he's attending after lunch—or, well, afternoon tea now, ridiculously enough. He tentatively offers Harry an orange. "How much could you possibly have to do?"

"How much could I possibly have to do?" Harry parrots even more forcefully than Louis, who had muttered something similar on the plane. He declines the orange, and grabs a kiwi instead, glancing around with wild eyes.

Zayn sighs and stands to show Harry to the kitchenette, where Harry immediately begins to bang around the drawers and cabinets to procure a cutting board, knife, and spoon. Zayn leans against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Harry to elaborate.

"I'd hoped to catch up on things during the flight, but the WiFi was so spotty, I still have countless DM's to reply to, a newsletter to draft, and a rough cut of my vlog to approve. I haven't had a chance to post anything to Stories in nearly twenty-four hours; I still have photos from last week to edit, plus my email is full of packaging templates to approve for the launch of my hair and skincare line. Not to mention invoices and order counts to confirm and approve all of it." He looks about to cry, sniffing sharply and turning to the sink to cut up the kiwi. "Sorry. I didn't mean to, like, unload on you. I just… have a lot to do, like, at all times, and I'm not used to things keeping me from it."

Zayn's stomach twists. He's clearly underestimated Harry and his dedication to his work—a word that Zayn probably would've put air quotes around before this exact moment. "You, uh… do all that?"

"Who else would do it? We don't all have millions of dollars and staff at our beck and call, so we can just show up with a pretty face to sing a line and have the rest of the work done for us." Harry's eyebrows furrow as he glares at Zayn before his expression changes to one of shock and guilt. "Sorry. I'm really sorry. That's not fair. I don't think that's what it's like for you. At all. I'm just stressed and want my laptop and my own room and to get something productive done, and I guess I wrongly assumed that all of this would be easier."

"What do you mean?" Zayn knows Harry is genuinely apologetic, but his rambling has put Zayn on edge. It's not as if Zayn doesn't want—need—to get lunch with Niall, too. Harry isn't the only one trapped here.

"I don't know." Harry seems genuinely frustrated as he gropes for the right words.

The fucking slow talker.

"I think I just figured," he pulls off the pink silk head scarf holding back his messy curls, nearly dislodging a tiny plastic claw clipped in his fringe in the process, "that this would be simple. Some posts, some pap walks. Not reporters blindsiding me, and mobs of fans at the hotel… and…"

"And?" Zayn prompts with a scoff.

"And being stuck in an unnecessarily massive suite where I can't get any work done?!" Harry looks surprised by his own outburst, sheepishly hunching over the counter to nibble on a piece of kiwi.

"You don't think I think this is all a waste of time, too?" Zayn laughs, annoyed, partly at Harry but mainly at the whole fucking farce. "I put my fucking heart and soul into making music, and I'd obviously rather be doing that than this shit. Do you know how demeaning it is to put on this stupid show? To parade around like an idiot for paps because that's more the job than actually making the fucking music?"

"I hadn't thought of it that way." Harry pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, hesitantly offering the plate of carefully cut slices to Zayn. "I'm… I'm sorry. That's fucking awful."

Zayn ignores him to stand up and walk back to the sitting room.

Harry follows him with the plate of kiwi, and Zayn finds himself pacing the room like a caged tiger, the three thousand square foot suite suddenly feeling too small for all the emotions coursing through his veins. He stomps from the sitting room back into the main living room while Harry follows, looking half-afraid he's about to get mauled and half-convinced he can tame a wild beast with mushy fruit.

"Well, that's my life," Zayn finally erupts, gripping the back of the sofa and leaning over it towards Harry. "I should be used to it by now, considering it's been going on for fifteen years—half of my entire life and all of my adult life. But I'm not. So forgive me if I don't have much sympathy for you waltzing in and dealing with it for a few weeks to benefit from everything I've spent half a lifetime suffering through."

"That's not fair," Harry declares with gritted teeth and furrowed brows, stomping closer until Zayn has to admit he'd look legitimately intimidating if he weren't cosplaying Zack Morris from Saved By the Bell.

"But that's what you signed on for, innit?" Zayn throws Harry's own words back at him, lunging forward. Harry's eyes widen and he steps back despite the sofa between them. "To exploit all the benefits of being my boyfriend? I'm sorry if it's harder to handle crowds of real people who want a piece of you than trolls on the internet. I'm sorry if Niall promised an easy paycheck. None of this is easy."

Zayn's chest is heaving, and his breathing is ramping up. He turns to resume his pacing when Harry gently announces, "You're… you're right."

Zayn stops in his tracks.

"I know." Zayn turns back to Harry with a sharp inhale and a curt nod, squaring his shoulders defensively.

Harry looks eerily calm as he sits on the sofa and pats the space to his left, his fruit plate forgotten on the coffee table.

Zayn sits beside him and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever early morning yoga or incense-aided chanting Harry is about to suggest.

"I've spent most of my life building something, too," Harry drawls. It should sound defensive, but Zayn can tell he's being sincere. "I didn't agree to this for easy money, and I certainly don't intend to fall behind on the career I've created to hang on your arm like a vapid idiot."

"Really?" Zayn teases, his sarcasm coming out less biting than he anticipated. "But it's a look you wear so well."

"You really are an asshole," Harry jabs back, still visibly uncomfortable, but his dimples flash briefly as he looks down and shakes his head.

"You didn't know?" Zayn raises his eyebrows. "Haven't you read the papers, babes?"

"Please, don't call me that." Harry stares at his hands.

"Soz Haz," Zayn apologizes sarcastically, "if I don't have the time or the patience for your meltdown when I have the biggest interview of my life tomorrow, after which there will be pap walks and seeding everything with you, and your…"

Zayn doesn't really have words for it, so he gestures up and down at Harry melodramatically.

"My what?" Harry gapes at the unfinished sentence.

"Your… I don't know—everything!" Zayn answers unhelpfully, waving his arms even more frantically.

"What does that mean?!" Harry bites his lip and narrows his eyes at Zayn.

"You're a walking rainbow flag! People think you're, like, a fucking queer icon because… you're, you know, just like, really fucking gay!"

Okay, Zayn feels really fucking stupid for saying that. If he were someone who blushed, he'd probably be the colors of Harry's windbreaker right now because it was not the correct way to express what he really meant, so he understands the annoyance crossing Harry's face now.

But, then, miraculously, Harry's reaction goes from annoyance to doe-eyed sympathy very quickly—as if he and Zayn might truly understand each other for the first time since they'd met.

"Newsflash, Zayn. So are you," Harry laughs weakly, running his hand through his hair and knocking the silly claw clip entirely loose. He pulls it out and squeezes it open and closed as he speaks. "That's sort of the point of tomorrow's interview and this whole thing this year. But you might want to dial back on comments that most people would consider insensitive if they didn't know the truth."

"That's not what I meant," Zayn insists. Ugh, he wants to retreat to his farm, and stay there forever and not have to talk to people or do any of this. "I mean, I look at you, and I feel like an imposter. Like I'm not fucking gay enough."

"Are you serious?" Harry looks incredulous as he twists his fringe up into the clip again.

"Of course I am." Zayn shifts further back on the sofa, burrowing into the cushions. "All the signaling I've done over the years—to try to fit into what should be my own community—ended with me being branded a queerbaiter. The usual homophobic music industry bullshit isn't the only reason why coming out is terrifying…"

Harry huffs and rolls his eyes, exasperated. "The people using that word don't even know what it means. Or they're ignoring what it means."

Zayn is relieved to realize his frustration isn't directed at Zayn as he goes on.

"Most of the people misusing the word are insensitive arseholes who don't even realize they're living in sheltered, progressive queer bubbles. Though I swear half of them do know they're co-opting the term. And instead of using it to refer to heteronormative mainstream media and studio executives stringing along queer audiences for advertising dollars, they're using it to police and shame individual members of their own community into coming out when they aren't ready, or it's not safe for them to do so," he pauses to take a breath. "I've, uh, seen comments on posts and videos devolve into those debates all of the time."

It takes Zayn a full minute to process all of that because he's so distracted by Harry "treat people with kindness" Styles using the word 'arseholes.'

"I'm sure you have," Zayn sighs, pulling his knees to his chest. "Only they toss it around in New York Times op-eds about me."

"I know. But I'm surprised that you, of all people, care what anyone—even the Times—thinks." Harry shakes his head. "Like… I know I care too much, but I've never gotten that sort of impression from you."

"I don't." Zayn sits up. "Like, mostly, I really don't. But it gets to me sometimes when even my own fans don't understand. It's not the same for you because you've always been exactly who you are to the public."

"Well, that's not true." Harry laughs ruefully. "I literally just said that I do care what people think—and that sometimes prevents me from being true to myself."

Zayn feels his breathing start to speed up again as he remembers the interview tomorrow, and how he can't get out of this room to have lunch with Niall for another hour, and how he's sure Louis is annoyed with him because he's so needy, asking him to cut trips short and make video pitches with no rest.

The last thing Zayn wants is for Harry to think he needs him, too.

Except, for the first time, Zayn feels like he does need Harry. He needs him to understand.

"You know what I mean," he tries. "People just… genuinely like you for who you are. And people love to find reasons to hate me."

"I live most of my life on the internet. I am not safe from haters. No one is." Harry assures him with a wry smile. "We just—and I mean you and I both, even if we do it differently—have to find a way to ignore the noise and do what makes us happy."

"What would make me happy is making music and not having to explain myself all the fucking time." Zayn stands up, grabbing his pack off the coffee table and lighting a cigarette. "I'm not ashamed to be gay. Or to be out to the people I know and trust. But it's terrifying to announce it to a world that I know will unleash a metric ton of hateful shit in response."

Harry doesn't comment on the cigarette, but his scrunched-up nose is obvious as he scoots to the opposite end of the sofa. "People will say awful things. It's part of the process. You said yourself that you've been in the public eye and dealt with the hate your entire life. Yes, this is a very personal thing you're about to share. Maybe the most personal. But I'm sure you can handle it. I know you can and you will."

"I'm prepared for the bigotry and homophobia and all of that shit that will inevitably come after tomorrow," Zayn sighs, grateful that he has someone to vent to, as much as he's surprised that it's Harry. "I'm mostly afraid of being accused of not being honest or genuine because that's what matters most to me. Wanting to be honest and genuine is why I'm finally doing this."

"What do you think people are going to say?" Harry inquires gently, and the way he talks at half-speed actually feels quite comforting at the moment.

"I don't think—I know." Zayn looks back at Harry with a somber, forced smile before he opens the window to exhale a cloud of smoke, gazing at the landmarks along the river. "They're going to say, 'Zayn is playing both sides'—that's the classic comment on my rumored sexuality. Whatever it means. Then there's 'Zayn has a young female following and wants to expand to the LGBTQ community.' 'Zayn would take it up the ass if it made him another million.'"

Zayn's embarrassed to notice he's on the verge of tears, so he puts the cigarette out in the vase of flowers on the coffee table and joins Harry back on the sofa, burying his head in his hands. "I'm going to be called a liar. People are going to say I'm not really gay, or call out that I've been lying about being straight for my entire career and leading my female fans on."

"Your real fans, of any gender, will support you."

Zayn feels Harry's hand fall onto his shoulder, and he's surprised by how heavy and grounding—comforting—it feels.

He's even more surprised to find himself turning towards Harry, who quickly takes the hint and wraps Zayn up in his arms.

"I promise they will," he whispers into Zayn's hair, which causes a tear to escape, sliding down his cheek.

Zayn decides he'd rather stay huddled together on the sofa indefinitely than pull away and risk Harry seeing him cry. He doesn't know how long they sit in silence, with Harry rubbing his back reassuringly, but his breathing has evened out considerably by the time Harry moves back and looks him in the eyes, his hands firmly grasping Zayn's shoulders.

"Coming out is terrifying for everyone," Harry assures him fiercely. "Human beings are hard-wired to crave community for survival, and whether it's coming out to our parents, an audience of millions, or every situation in between, we face rejection over and over, every fucking time we have to do it. But I want you to remember that you have loads of people who support you—myself included—no matter what the arseholes of the world say. Like you said, you've survived comments about you by people who don't know you your entire life. You're so fucking brave. You're so strong, and you'll get through this, too."

"Thanks, mate," Zayn feels genuinely comforted and, for the first time, grateful that Harry is here, but his mind won't stop whirring with all the 'what if's'. "But rumors and speculation are one thing. I know how to deal with them. But this is me telling the truth about something that is a huge part of who I really am. What if people just don't believe me? Because I don't act or dress the part? That I just don't seem like I'm telling the truth?"

Harry goes back to his stupid plate of kiwi slices, frowning.

Zayn wonders if he just broke Harry's brain and is about to ask as much when he speaks up again.

"I know Niall is your friend too, so I know he'll turn up to lunch with something persuasive prepared, but can I say something else? This is sort of my area. At least, I like to think it is."

"Can I stop you?" Zayn teases.

Harry stares at him for a long moment while his bottom lip slowly juts out.

"I'm kidding." Zayn nods for him to continue. "Please do."

"You know who you are." Harry hesitates for a second before placing his hand on Zayn's chest. "Right here."

Zayn doesn't know what's happening to him, but it feels like some sort of emotional floodgate has opened. Harry's skill at hugging is probably to blame because the gesture causes him to choke up, overwhelmed by feelings all over again. He's unsure what to say or how to get words out, but Harry sits back and continues.

"You know there's no 'right' way to act or dress. There isn't just one way to be a queer person. You know that." Harry announces with a decisiveness that Zayn has yet to see from him. "Like, you know Niall and Shawn, of course. And Jess. And me. And Louis. And Liam. That's a tiny sample size of queer people who express themselves in myriad ways, right? There's a reason the LGBTQIA+ community likes to play with labels. It's because humans are also hard-wired to categorize people to make them easier to understand, but no one can really be expected to fit into those neat, tidy boxes. There is no rulebook. Plus, a rulebook would be like… the antithesis of queerness."

"That's not what Louis said." Zayn scratches the back of his head when Harry's face falls. He wants to add that Louis was joking, but…

"Well then," Harry taunts, his eyes sparkling with the sort of menace that Zayn didn't know he had in him. "Has Louis told you about his twink era? Because if he got a rulebook, he must've thrown it out somewhere along the line."

"His what?" Zayn giggles automatically. That unlikely image is a breath of fucking fresh air in the midst of this conversation, and now he has a million questions, including why Harry looks so bitter about it…

"I shouldn't have said that," Harry clears his throat, quickly shifting from intimidating to contrite. "S'not mine to share, and this conversation is about you."

"Right." Zayn's still a little curious about what Harry meant about Louis or how the hell he even knew about that, but Harry is right: Zayn needs moral support right now more than gossip.

"Logically, I know all of that," he continues. "But it's like, after all the pressure to never reveal that part of myself, down to literal movement training to ensure I wouldn't jut my hip the wrong way or wave my hands incorrectly… It's like, I don't even know what sort of queer person I am, you know?"

"Do you know the first thing I noticed during my research when Niall first suggested this?" Harry asks.

"You did research?" Zayn is genuinely surprised.

Of course, Zayn had looked Harry up; he just hadn't expected the same from the happy-go-lucky YouTuber, who he assumed spent more time shopping for fresh-cut flowers than doing anything that required actual brain power.

"I spend half of my life researching." Harry shrugs, unoffended. "It's sort of my thing."

Zayn finds that interesting, even if it's a bit hard to believe. How many books on tousled curls and nail art can there be?

Zayn might have to text Taryn to find out.

(Okay, that was a dickheaded thought, which he only had because he fears he's underestimated Harry even more than he initially realized.)

"Of course, I already knew who you were, as a celebrity," Harry is saying. "I hadn't listened to your stuff in ages—I will say I loved your first few albums. I probably still know all the words to the early singles."

"That tracks," Zayn grins teasingly. "They're as cheesy as you are."

"Heyyy," Harry pouts. "I'm trying to be nice."

"I'd love to see you trying to be mean."

"We'll talk about your humiliation kink another time," Harry smirks as he takes a banana from the fruit basket.

"Ooh, Harry's got zingers after all," Zayn quips.

"Do you want my help or not?" Harry retorts as he peels the banana, waving it in Zayn's face, the peel falling over his fingers.

Zayn bats it away. "Get that out of my face, but go on."

"Half of my job is educating people on sexuality and gender, whether they're queer or not themselves. Being an influencer hasn't just been playing dress up." Harry bites into the banana, speaking as he chews. "Helping people understand those things, and themselves—is why I do what I do. Not that I think you need that sort of guidance, but…."

Zayn can barely remember where they'd started down this path, but he lights another cigarette and nods.

"Your bandana tattoo." Harry gestures to the black ink around Zayn's right elbow. "How anyone who understands the meaning of it would think you're a hundred percent straight and running around with that thing is beyond me."

"Honestly, I didn't think I'd get away with that one." Zayn rubs at the tattoo he's had for so long he forgets it's there.

"Well, you obviously have, even if it's a source of speculation if you know where to look. You probably already know there are corners of your fandom that already see and support you as queer because of that very tattoo. They know what it means to you. Those are the people who matter and who will be ecstatic when they hear the interview tomorrow."

"I hope so." Zayn exhales a mouthful of smoke.

"You wouldn't have gotten that tattoo if you didn't want that, yeah? I mean, it convinced me that you want to be open, and I was a lot more willing to be a part of all of this after I saw it."

"No, I wouldn't have. Thank you," is all Zayn can say as he's hit with another wave of guilt about how he's misjudged Harry, although Zayn knows Harry hasn't been alone in his reluctance to play his part. "So, what's your problem with me then?"

"I don't have a problem with you." Harry is suddenly very interested in his banana, taking a bite that's so big it puffs his cheeks out so he looks like a masticating cow.

"You're a terrible liar," Zayn laughs as Harry's jaw slowly works over the banana. "I already told you that I don't warm up to people easily, but this is helping. So go on, then. I know you weren't all that keen on me either."

"Well," Harry swallows dramatically and tosses his head, "it's, uh, not the sexual tension the tabloids and gossip bloggers are selling us having."

"Good to know," Zayn snorts. "I'm not exactly finding that angle believable either."

"You're not my type," Harry blurts out, biting his lip.

"Tah, right back at you." Zayn is glad to have it confirmed that Harry is as uninterested in him as he is in Harry. "Those murderous looks that the journos tried to spin as affectionate on your birthday haven't been lost on me. You're even worse when I'm with Louis."

"Because smoking is a terrible, disgusting habit," Harry snaps, much quicker than usual.

"Right…" Zayn didn't mean anything by bringing Louis back into the conversation, but Harry's defensiveness is curious… as was Harry's earlier reference to Louis as a reformed twink.

Maybe it's not Zayn that Harry has a problem with.

Whatever, that's not the point right now…

"Listen," Zayn starts cautiously. "I know I haven't been the most welcoming. I have a lot of shit going on right now, obviously. But it feels like it's not enough even when I am trying. I'm doing my fucking best here, alright? So I'm asking you what your problem is with me, and telling you that you can be honest with me, yeah?"

"It's my own issue," Harry quietly admits.

"I know. Clearly." Zayn teases, nudging Harry's arm as he moves to stand. "You can tell me."

Harry stares at him with those big green eyes, lips firmly pulled between his teeth.

"Listen, man," Zayn puts his cigarette out in the vase with the first one. "I just spilled my guts, and that's not really my thing. So maybe out with it?"

"I just don't get how anyone is supposed to believe that you would go for me," Harry frets, finally, his windbreaker rustling as he briefly flaps his arms.

"Well, that makes the two of us," Zayn snickers as he sits back down beside him. "Why would you go for me?"

Harry chuckles weakly and gently punches Zayn's arm.

Zayn catches his fist, placing Harry's hand between them on the sofa. "Come on, I'm sure you don't have any issues with people thinking you're a catch. You're successful, attractive, a good person."

"It'd be easier to believe you meant that if you didn't look like you just took a swig of milk that's gone off," Harry sniffs.

"I told you I'm trying. And I do mean it. You are a good person: even when I'm being an ass, the most you do to retaliate is punch me like a half-asleep puppy."

"You're just so fucking cool. And most of the time, I'm trying not to trip over myself."

"I'm cool?" Zayn is immediately taken aback. "How so?"

"All your, you know, leather jackets, and casual pet names, and brooding!" Harry waves his hand at Zayn and squeaks; Zayn hadn't realized he was capable of a register that high.

"Babes," Zayn answers with a quiet laugh, "the only things I own more of than leather jackets are toys and comic books. I am far from cool."

"Yeah, well," Harry snorts. "That's not what people are going to be thinking when I'm standing next to you on a red carpet."

"Okay, you're getting ahead of yourself." Zayn is almost shocked that the tables have turned to him comforting Harry. "We haven't even done that yet, and plenty of people are buying it so far."

"Sure," Harry grumbles. "But what about when they don't?"

"You'll still get your check." Zayn regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth because that's not what he meant, but he trudges on. "I don't mean to diminish your insecurities because I suppose I get it. But, you have, you know, however many fans that worship you, and appreciate your style and individuality. If you're that worried about fitting in with me, just put on a leather jacket, and you're good to go."

Harry scoffs. "Hardly."

"Come on, man." Zayn stands up, jerking his head for Harry to follow, guiding him by the elbow across the living room down the hall to the bedroom, then into the walk-in closet where Sean had carefully unpacked his luggage the moment they'd checked in.

Zayn opens one of the wardrobes to reveal a collection of leather jackets hanging beside his own leisurewear and a few borrowed suits provided for fashion shows, and pap walks for the week ahead.

"Zayn…" Harry gawks. "We're here for four days, and you have seven black leather jackets?"

"Well, this is everything for the next month. But I know." Zayn rolls his eyes. "And only three red ones. Normally, I like having at least a dozen in black and a few in earth tones, but Taryn insisted I 'travel light' since we're making so many stops. Annoying. Try this one."

Harry stares at Zayn incredulously, though Zayn isn't sure why.

Zayn takes a Prada motorcycle jacket off the hanger and tosses it to Harry. It's one he's had for years—a favorite, a simple design with asymmetrical zippers and wide lapels.

Harry unzips his windbreaker, draping it over a chair to carefully pull the jacket on, pouting like he's been put into timeout as he stares in the mirror.

"I look like Danny Zuko's deeply closeted older brother," Harry laments.

"I was going to say you look like the Fonz's definitely out younger cousin." Zayn wraps his arms around his stomach to try to contain his laughter.

"Great." Harry shrugs out of the jacket, throwing it at Zayn with a snort.

"I mean," Zayn goes back to sifting through the wardrobe, "you obviously would've been cool in the fifties or sixties, you know what I mean?"

"That would require looking cool in that jacket," Harry huffs out a laugh. "Which… I did not."

"Okay, try this one." Zayn hands him another Prada jacket; this one is covered in fringe across the chest and down the seams of the arms. He'd worn it for a photoshoot years ago, but it probably isn't something he'd wear in any other circumstance. "Is this more you?"

Harry pulls it on and flaps his arms, looking disappointed despite the fringe framing him like a tropical bird drawing in a mate. "Maybe. It's still a little… I don't know..."

"Okay, here." Zayn has one last suggestion—he's only worn this jacket once on a pap walk with… He doesn't remember who, but he liked the jacket. It's simple and black with white stars stitched onto the shoulders. "How's this?"

"I like this one." Harry smiles once it's on, his dimples deepening as he turns to look at himself in the mirror.

"Good." Zayn nods firmly. "Then wear that for the pap walk tomorrow."

They're meant to have a quick photo op heading to lunch after Zayn's interview before parting ways to attend separate shows, but Zayn is definitely amused by the thought of surprising Clint and Amorette with Harry in a jacket that some might recognize as his own, even if he last wore it years ago.

"You can't dress me!" Harry gapes.

"I think I just did, babes. Wear something colorful of your own underneath," Zayn laughs. "Now, more importantly, I need to decide what I'm going to wear."

"Can I dress you?" Harry must think that's a sincere possibility because he glances around the room, his eyes lighting up when they land on a half-open drawer with a bunch of carefully folded graphic tees inside.

"Absolutely not," Zayn shakes his head, laughing.

"Why not?" Harry whines.

"Because." Zayn pushes the drawer closed before Harry gets any other ideas, but he's already wandered over to the window and is peering down at the river.

"They're probably still out there." Harry must be referring to the throngs of fans that left them stuck here in the first place, even if they're all on the other side of the hotel, along with Harry's more modest room.

Zayn wants to offer to retrieve Harry's laptop again because a glance at the time tells him he's due to meet Niall soon, and he feels terrible leaving Harry with nothing to do after he said how much work he has.

Then Zayn has another thought.

"What's, erm, the name of your skincare line?"

"Pleasing." Harry bites his lip as he turns back around, shrugging off the jacket and handing it to Zayn. "Didn't you get the package I sent? With the letter?"

The package. The note.

Zayn is actually the worst person in the world.

"Shit. I, um, think I did. I thought it was for Taryn."

"You gave her the note?!" Harry looks panicked and wild-eyed.

"No, no. I think I threw it away!" As if that were a better explanation. Zayn grimaces before doing his best to look apologetic. "I'm sorry. I thought it was just random samples. I didn't know…"

"It's fine. It was stupid anyway," Harry insists as he turns back to the window. "I— I'm glad you threw it away."

Zayn feels guilt seeping into his chest, not quite believing that Harry means that.

But before he can say anything, his phone buzzes, startling both of them.

T: How are you guys doing?

Zayn: All good.

T: Gonna let me in? Where's the butler?

Zayn: Sent him off. Be right there.

"Taryn is here," he announces to Harry.

"Oh, nice." Harry looks lost, and Zayn hands the jacket back before nodding to direct him back toward the living area. "Take it; it's yours."

Zayn greets Taryn at the lift with Harry in tow.

"How are you guys doing?" Taryn repeats because she obviously wants to hear it from Harry himself.

"We're alright," Zayn replies anyway, pulling his Loewe blazer back on. He hates to admit her little trick might have worked, but he's relieved that Harry seems to agree as he smiles and nods, echoing, "We're good."

"Awesome. Niall is downstairs for tea." Taryn bites back a smug smile as she presses the button, and the lift doors reopen.

"Thank god." As helpful as Harry has been, Zayn needs another dose of reassurance. But Harry has been helpful, so Zayn turns back to him as he and Taryn get in the lift. "Do you want to join us?"

"Oh, no, no, that's okay," Harry protests. "It should be just the two of you. I can get some work done on my phone."

"Yeah, okay. Just let T know if you need anything," Zayn offers as Harry waves them off and the doors shut behind them.

"Sorry, not sorry." Taryn teases as soon as they start moving.

Zayn ignores her, frowning. "That box at the farm that I thought was for you, from Pleasing? Did you know that was Harry's brand?"

"I didn't read it, but I saved the letter," she offers as confirmation that she did, in fact, know it was Harry's brand.

Zayn sighs and clears his throat. "How soon can you get it to me?"

"It might be tucked in my passport holder," Taryn gloats gently. "I've just been waiting for you to ask for it."

Chapter Text

+HARRY+

The lift doors shut on Zayn and Taryn. Harry lowers the hand that’s been awkwardly waving, deposits Zayn’s jacket and his own on a chair in the foyer so he won’t forget them, and wonders what to do with himself in the bloody Gucci x Savoy Royal Suite, of all places.

He distracted enough by debating whether he actually has the discipline to get work done on his phone or if he’s more likely to take a bunch more photos he can't share that when he turns around to find Louis standing in a doorway behind him, he jumps like he’s been cornered by some sort of B-movie villain.

Louis is leaning against a doorframe to a hallway Harry that hadn’t noticed before. His arms are crossed across his chest, and the sleeves of his hoodie are pulled down over his hands.

It’s the same black-and-silver one he’d turned up at Liam’s flat in; the subtly elevated style makes Harry chuckle wryly at the memory of their first meeting in Frank's car when Louis had proclaimed he wasn’t into fashion. His tired eyes and messy hair also remind Harry of that day—they did back in Liam’s flat, and still do now—and he starts to wonder how many times he’s been greeted by a tired, grumpy Louis…

Louis’ eyes narrow, and his lips purse sullenly as their eyes meet, and while it’s frankly not the sort of greeting Harry would ordinarily hope for, it acts to remind him that he’s still irritated by Louis’ behavior at ‘family dinner.’

“What are you doing here?” Harry opens with, then immediately regrets the way it comes out even more defensive and accusatory than he intended.

“That is my room.” Louis jerks his thumb over his shoulder with a petulant sniff. “Where I sleep. What are you doing here? Why are you always at the places I’m trying to sleep?”

And just like that, Harry finds himself wanting to annoy Louis as much as Louis is trying to annoy him, so he says, as smugly as possible, “Can’t I drop by to see my boyfriend?”

Louis looks momentarily taken aback, his jaw dropping just a tick before he raises his eyebrows into two perfect arches of skepticism. (The little shit probably doesn’t even need to groom them—whereas Harry once did a trade for lessons—lessons—from a very talented brow artist to learn to keep his own from resembling an old-growth forest.)

“Oh, is that what you two are? Because Zed seems to keep forgetting,” Louis retorts with the sort of coolness that Harry regrets they haven’t moved on from.

“Excuse me?!” Harry snaps, either at the implication that Louis thinks Zayn is some sort of uncommitted fuckboy, and that’s what Harry deserves, or at the way Louis has decided to incessantly toy with him until he breaks—which, quite frankly, is working.

“Nothing, mate.” Louis’ nose twitches like he’s holding back a laugh, and the movement becomes the fuse of a cartoon bomb burning down to the black ball of dynamite.

“Seriously, if you have something to say, why don’t you just come out and say it?” Harry thunders, crossing his arms to mirror Louis.

Louis' thinly veiled “I know, you know, I know” smugness had driven Harry up a bloody wall during dinner at Liam’s, and he's so done playing games now that they’re alone and don’t have to keep up appearances.

“I wasn’t trying to say anything; I was trying to sleep,” Louis contends. “Then I woke up and needed a piss, and I opened the wrong fucking door in that fucking maze over there—which is bigger than my entire flat—and heard you two divas whinging. If you don’t want people to hear your business, then next time, you might want to check the thickness of the walls before you go off on each other.”

“Well, they look quite thick,” Harry deadpans, gobsmacked that he outright dared Louis to admit what he knows, and he just… didn’t.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Louis declares airily, running his fingers through his messy fringe.

"What is that supposed to mean?!” Harry takes a step closer, but Louis ignores him, brushing past him to saunter to the center of the sitting room, where there’s a room phone on an end table between the sofas.

He picks it up and dials a number.

“Hello, this is Mr. Crawford in the Royal Suite. A mate of mine is waiting on his room to be ready, and left his laptop at reception. Would it be possible to have that brought up here? Right, of course.”

He looks up and locks his eyes on Harry’s, asking, “What name are you checked in under, love?”

“Oh, uh, Twist? Edward Twist,” Harry answers, his brain juddering like an overworked hard drive trying to catch up.

“Edward Twist.” There’s a pause. “Alright, yeah, that’ll be all. Thanks so much. No, the whole bag is fine.”

“Which bag do y’need?” Louis directs to Harry, still staring at him meaningfully.

“It’s a black backpack.”

“Yes, the black backpack. What? Ah, sure, my entrance is fine. Ten min? Perfect. Cheers.”

“Your bag will be here in ten minutes,” Louis announces as he returns the phone to its cradle.

“What else did you hear?” Harry asks, more in the interest of finally clearing the air than out of caring what Louis overheard. In a lot of ways, Harry considers himself an open book, and while he doesn’t know why Zayn hasn’t chosen to share the truth of their relationship with Louis, Zayn clearly trusts Louis enough to share a room (a three thousand square foot room, but still) with him during what’s probably the most stressful press trip he’s ever had. And, based on what Zayn had mentioned, he and Louis have also had conversations about similar topics to what he and Harry had discussed.

“Not much from you.” Louis shrugs noncommittally. “That jar of rocks in your throat doesn’t seem to carry.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees, deflating somewhat. Fine. If Louis wants to leave it alone, he’ll do the same.

At least you’ll have your laptop in a few minutes, he thinks, glancing around the space and wondering what the best spot to tuck into some work would be.

“So, how was Locanda Verde the other night? I couldn’t help but notice your Valentine’s plans were glaringly absent from Instagram…”

Apparently, Louis doesn’t want to leave it alone.

He punctuates the question by casually dropping onto the center of the sofa facing Harry and spreading his legs wide enough to cause a feminist riot on the subway at rush hour.

In response, Harry stalks over to the sofa across from it and, taking a page from Zayn’s book, braces his hands on the back and leans forward. While he wishes he wasn’t being sucked into male posturing bullshit, he is faintly pleased that at least the plain black vest he has on is probably slightly more intimidating than his nineties-inspired Nike windbreaker would have been.

“I know what you’re doing,” he declares, surprised by the coldness in his own voice. In most of his absurd fantasies about confronting Louis, the scene had always felt more like a Friends-esque romantic comedy than an episode of Law and Order. But at least he’s no longer afraid of being as blunt as possible because, apparently, Louis can evade even the most forthright of questions. (Harry wonders humorlessly if Louis was offered the media training that Harry wasn’t.)

“What am I doing?” Louis asks with the sort of faux innocence usually attributed to someone under the age of ten who’s denying eating sweets before dinner. “I thought I was just taking an interest in my client and friend’s budding relationship. I’ve been dragged into the middle of it enough times that it’s hard not to,” Louis adds with a distinct undertone of bitterness.

Harry sighs defeatedly; he doesn’t know if showing his hand is taking pity on himself or Louis at this point. “I know that you know.”

“Know what? You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Styles,” Louis stubbornly maintains, poking at the pillow beside him and fussing with its tassels.

Harry doesn’t raise his voice (the walls are thin), but he thinks he may have internally crossed the line into irate. “I don’t have to spell anything out; the look on your face at my birthday was clear as fucking day, and you’ve been trying to get me to say something ever since. But I already said all there is to say then, so as long as you remember what I’ve said, there is no need for me to say it again.”

For once—finally—Louis doesn’t immediately answer, just continues to faff around with the pillow.

The silence makes Harry wonder what else Louis might remember from that night. The thought of discussing that part of New Year’s Eve is a much bigger nightmare that has him gripping the back of the sofa as a wave of dizziness passes over him.

He quickly rips off the plaster before he can lose his nerve, goading, “So? Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you know the truth? Do you remember?”

“Look, even if I didn’t, to be honest, mate,” Louis begrudgingly tells the pillow in his lap. “I would’ve heard Zayn bitching about it just now anyway.”

Harry walks around the sofa, stopping directly between Louis’ knees, and stares down at him with his arms crossed.

Louis looks up at him and raises his palms defensively. “I stopped listening after that, alright? Put on me AirPods and tried to get some work done. I was just trying t’say it doesn’t matter much either way. Zed’s a shit liar; I would've figured out something was up if I didn’t already know. Either that or you two have defined, then undefined, your relationship three times. Which would track with how he seems to give no fucks about spending time with you.”

There he goes again with the assumption that Harry’s putting up with some sort of fuckboy.

Louis rolls his eyes as though he can read Harry's thoughts. “Oh, don’t give me that face, Styles. It’s not like you two are really boyfriends.”

If Harry thought Louis had looked taken aback before, it’s nothing to the open-mouthed terror that floods his face now. Louis looks so shocked by his own words that Harry immediately, literally, backs off until his knees hit the opposite sofa.

Well, someone had to finally come right out with it, Harry thinks.

+LOUIS+

Someone had to finally come right out with it, Louis supposes.

So there it is, then, out in the open.

And now the fate of Louis’ employment is in bloody Harry Styles’ hands.

Sort of. Maybe.

At any rate, opening his massive impulse-control-free mouth is precisely what Louis has been trying to avoid.

He never asked for any of the information he’s been told or overhead; he never asked to keep anyone’s secrets.

But he’s tried to keep his mouth shut, regardless, to do the right thing, the professional thing, all while feeling like, “If you two aren’t even going to bother trying to keep this secret, why should I?”

And, alright, so maybe he has been baiting Harry…

Yeah, he’s been baiting Harry.

He’s been baiting Harry because it’s just so fucking annoying that Harry told a very drunk Louis a secret he didn’t ask for, a secret that’s been driving him mildly insane for weeks—from trying to verify he’s remembered it correctly to keeping it in total isolation, especially from Zayn, who must have some sort of reason to not tell Louis, but who doesn’t care enough to get his story straight, or keep his voice down, or…

Anyway.

All that to say, Louis thinks it’s patently unfair of Harry to have started this bloody business, then goaded Louis into breaking first with his unreasonable bottom lip and giant nostrils flaring like a bull in a ring.

“Well, guess the cat’s out of the bag then, eh?” Louis jokes bitterly, once again starting to comb through the tassels on the pillow on his lap.

“Thank fuck,” Harry moans, dramatically flopping down onto the opposite sofa and tossing his arm over his eyes. “Good talk. So glad we cleared the air,” he tacks on sarcastically.

“You’re, uh, not going to tell Zed I know, though, right?” Louis cuts right to it. The last thing he wants to do is grant Styles a display of vulnerability, but he wants to lose his job even less than that. He’d just started thinking about what he could do with the money—how much more he could set aside for the girls, and what it would take to move out of his shoebox in Bed-Stuy—not to mention that he, well, likes Zayn and wants to be here in a way that has nothing to do with the size of their hotel rooms. “He must have his reasons for not saying, and I really had planned to keep my goddamn mouth shut about all of it.”

“I wouldn’t.” Harry sits bolt upright again, looking horrified by the suggestion. “I’m the one who broke my NDA telling you in the first place. You’re not going to tell Zayn, I told you, are you? Because I think he and I finally getting to a good place, and—”

“Jesus, relax, Styles,” Louis cuts him off. Christ, Harry is really bizarre sometimes. “Why would I tell Zayn when I just asked you not to?”

“Oh.” Harry shakes his head. “Suppose you’re right. So we’re both sworn to secrecy, then?”

“Yeah,” Louis drawls, “same as it’s been all along.”

Harry slowly nods in agreement, missing Louis’ patronizing tone completely.

Well. Louis feels oddly hollow now. He didn’t expect his concerns to be alleviated that quickly.

He rubs his eyes, scrubbing his hands over his face for good measure, then stands up to head to the kitchen.

He’s tempted to open the champagne and toast to the catch-22 of cleared air and continued secrecy. But Harry drinking champagne is what got them in this fucking mess, so he takes a Red Bull out of the fridge and cracks it open.

“I’m tempted to open this champagne and toast to being on the same page,” he announces his thoughts, “but it’s for after Zed’s interview. And besides, it’s what got us into this fucking mess.”

“Technically, the mess was present before the champagne,” Harry calls dryly.

“Ahh, well, fair.” Louis rifles through the bags of crisps in the cabinet that Zayn seems to have every hotel room stocked with, finally settling on prawn cocktail—he might as well make the most of being in London because he can’t get those in New York. “Vodka Red Bull might’ve been what did it for me, though, eh? And making gay jokes within thirty seconds of meeting Zayn.”

“Good,” Harry replies emphatically, without even asking for the story. “I think he needs more gay jokes. S’what we talked about after the bit of shouting. I think he mightn’t have had a lot of queer friends. Or, I don’t know, even friends in general?”

Louis hums as he walks back to the sitting room with his drink and crisps. He doesn’t really want to get into it; he feels bad enough that he heard what he heard. “You two all right then?”

“Better, I think.” Harry’s moved to Louis’ sofa and is sitting on it backwards, looking out the window with his chin resting on the back of the frame.

“Good. Cause I’m not being paid enough to be the middleman.” Louis sinks back down onto the opposite sofa.

“I, um, might’ve mentioned something about your old Instagram,” Harry ventures without turning around.

“Okayyy…” Louis replies, distracted by thoughts of what sort of exposure stacking it would take to get a shot of Harry curled into a pretzel with the London Eye properly exposed behind him. “Like what?”

“Like, um, that you used to be a twink.”

“Like I used to be a twink?! Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Styles,” Louis barks. He saw the windbreaker Harry had left by the front door; it featured about as many colors as a pride flag.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Harry turns around, pouting. “Zayn was talking about there being a right way to be queer, and said you said something about a rulebook, and, I don’t know—”

“I may have made a joke to that effect,” Louis interjects. God, must everything be a game of telephone around here? “I obviously don’t believe there’s a right way to be queer, jesus.”