Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lately, Louis has been having some weird dreams. Normally, he would ignore them and continue with his life, but all of them —though they are not always the same— have as the protagonist someone Louis hates: no one but Harry fucking Styles.

Louis finds this really annoying. So annoying that the other day, he actually went straight to Harry after practice to ask what was his fucking problem.

When Louis realized what he had done, he brushed it off. It should be noted that Harry was left very confused.

Louis has tried everything to stop dreaming (nightmares) about Harry. He even stopped drinking tea, fearing that it was the caffeine that was stopping him from having nice dreams —or at least no dreams at all. But no matter what he does, everything comes back to Harry. He wouldn’t mind if the dreams (nightmares) were calm or normal. But they are not, and Louis is starting to fear that he might wet the bed if they continue, because they are fucking terrifying.

And to top his disgrace, his girlfriend, Eleanor, is breaking up with him at this precise moment.

—But El, why? I know I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but I thought we were having fun. I didn’t know you were feeling that way. I promise I can be better. Just, please, give me a chance, please.

—That’s the fucking problem, Lou. You never notice anything —she says, and Louis wants to say that it’s not true, but deep inside he knows that recently he hasn’t given a shit about anything—. Look, Louis, I’m sorry, but maybe this is best for the two of us.

Louis can’t really do anything. If El doesn’t want to be with him anymore, he can’t make her. But that doesn’t mean that he’s not hurt. He really likes Eleanor, and it makes him sad that he messed that up.

…

It’s an understatement to say Louis isn’t in the mood. When he gets to practice, he is cornered by his best friend, Niall, and all Louis wants to do is disappear and sleep forever. To his disgrace, that won’t happen, because the universe does not like him very much.

“Is it true?!” Niall half-screams when Louis steps inside the changing room.

“What?” Louis says, because even though he doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now, he can’t do that to Niall.

“What do you mean what?” he says while approaching him and whispers —like the whole fucking team didn’t just hear all his shouting—, “They are saying Eleanor broke up with you.”

Louis wants to die. Hadn’t she just broken up with him, like, ten minutes ago? How the fuck does everyone already know about it?

“She did, yeah, Niall,” Louis says, and he feels like crying. Niall must notice that, because he hugs him immediately.

“Oh, I’m sorry, mate,” Niall says, squeezing him. “But look at the bright side, you’re a free bird again. What about you and me tonight, like in the old times? I’ve recently got something that will cheer you up.” He smiles, and then Louis knows that he is lucky to have a friend like Niall.

“Whatever you say, Niall,” Louis says.

Just then, when Louis was feeling a little less miserable, that is when Harry makes his entrance. He avoids looking at Louis —probably because the last time, Louis attacked him— but Louis doesn’t think like that. Louis thinks that Harry is a rich and annoying guy who looks at others like they were less. Luckily for Harry, Louis is a little too sad to annoy him again.

…

Practice is hell. Louis is not playing well, and he feels like shit. What did he do? He knows he wasn’t the most attentive, but he really liked El. He never treated her badly—just not treated her at all. But those are only details. All is Harry’s fault. If he hadn’t started appearing in his dreams, he wouldn’t have been so tired, and he would have treated Eleanor better.

Fucking Harry. He has been an inconvenience from the minute Louis met him. So annoyingly charismatic, always doing his dumb faces and being liked by everyone. Even Niall likes him. He won’t say it out loud because he doesn’t want to piss Louis off, but he knows it.

After 90 minutes of pure torture —something Louis never thought he would feel about footie— they go back to the changing rooms. The boys are talking about some party on Friday, but Louis is too busy glaring at Harry and drowning himself in his misery to realize that they’ve been waiting for him to answer.

“What do you think, Lou?” Ollie asks him again.

Louis looks at him, puzzled. “About what?”

Ollie looks at him, preoccupied. So Niall intervenes to save the day, like always. He puts his arm around Louis’s shoulders and smiles.

“Liam’s party on Friday. Do you want to go, Lou? It might be good for you.”

Louis doesn’t feel like partying, but he nods anyway.

“Yeah, okay,” he says as Niall’s smile grows.

“It’ll be great, Tommo,” Niall says, and the group continues with their talk. Louis decides to continue with his misery and his glare, but as he looks across the room, he realizes that Harry is gone.

…

That night, Louis dreams of Harry again.

Though everything is dark, Louis knows very well where he is. He’s been there hundreds of times during the last four years —he’s in the hellhole. In other words, he’s at school.

Louis walks through the hallways, and as in the other times, he hears a voice —Harry’s voice. He is crying, and even though Louis will never admit it, Harry’s weeping breaks his heart a little.

Consequently, every time, Louis tries to find him. Most of the time he doesn’t, but sometimes he does, and what he finds always confuses him because he doesn’t know what to do.

Louis follows the voice until he finds him in his English class.

Harry is there, on the ground, in a fetal position. Tears are falling from his eyes, and his hair is sticking to his forehead.

Louis stops and watches him. What should he do? On one hand, Harry is not his responsibility, and Louis hates him. On the other hand, Louis is not a heartless motherfucker —he can’t just let the boy suffer. His mother didn’t raise him that way; she would be embarrassed that he’s even doubting.

“Harry?” Louis asks.

Harry looks up, and Louis wishes he hadn’t said anything. Harry’s beautiful green eyes are devastating —they look so sad that Louis feels the urge to take all the pain away from them.

Harry doesn’t answer.

“Are you okay, mate?” Louis asks, feeling not so bright, because that was a fucking stupid-ass question.

Harry speaks, though.

“Why do you care? If every time I’ve tried to be nice to you, you’ve treated me like I was nothing. And I don’t even know what I ever did to you to make you hate me.”

Harry’s words hit Louis like a damn bullet train.

Louis stays still, and he feels shame like he’s never felt before. His cheeks turn bright red, and he wants to vomit, because it’s fucking true. What has Harry ever done to Louis, apart from being a nice, kind lad?

“I don’t hate you.”

That’s all Louis can say, but it doesn’t feel sincere —not even to himself.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry lets out a dry laugh.

“I really don’t. I’m just a fucking asshole. You should know that. Haven’t you seen me at school? I act like an annoying idiot.”

Louis doesn’t know why, but he’d do anything to make Harry stop looking so sad right now. And if he has to lower himself to achieve that —then so be it. He owes it to him.

"You don't really believe that," Harry says. "You just want me to stop bothering you because I make you uncomfortable."

Louis can't say that isn't true. Since when is Harry so perceptive?

"It's not like that," Louis says anyway.

"Then how is it?" Harry asks.

"I'm sorry, okay? But we've been here before. Remember the last time? We got nowhere. I just want to help you. And to be fair, you've been invading my dreams for a while, and I just want to know what I can do. Please, Harry."

As soon as he says it, Louis immediately regrets it. He wants to punch himself until he stops being a fucking asshole. He sounds so selfish. Harry is suffering and all Louis can think about is himself and his sleep schedule.
But is this even really Harry? Louis isn't sure. And that only makes it worse, the fact that he's being insufferable over something that might not even be real.

"I can't. I'm sorry," Harry's voice cuts through Louis's mental rambling. The worst part is that Harry actually sounds sorry.

"Why not? I won't tell anyone. Even if I did, no one would believe me." Louis tries to sound convincing. "If it's making your heart so heavy, why don't you just talk about it? If you do, maybe it'll clear the air."

Harry isn't crying anymore. He looks afraid and nervous—he reminds Louis of a scared cat.

"I can't, Louis. I just can't."

Louis tries to say something, but the moment he opens his mouth, he's back in his room.
His head is pounding, and he's drenched in sweat.
In other words: his life is just a pile of shit stacked one thing over another.

Chapter Text

That day at practice, he's shit—just like he’s been for the past few weeks. Even the coach comes up to ask if everything’s alright. Louis just tells him he’s a little tired, but it’s more than that. He’s exhausted.

The worst part is that he may or may not have spent the entire day staring at Harry like a complete creep. Louis knows Harry has noticed—he’s not subtle—but he can’t help it. If the Harry in his dreams is having such a hard time, maybe the real Harry is too.

Not that Louis gives a shit, obviously. It’s not his business.
But still, he can’t take his eyes off Harry.

During his stalking session, Louis notices some interesting things. Harry smiles all the time. He never looks at Louis. He never gives his opinion about anything. That last part strikes Louis as strange—because from the second he met Harry, all those years ago, the guy wouldn’t shut the fuck up. That was one of the reasons Louis disliked him so much. Not because what Harry said was wrong—if anything, he was usually right—but because Louis was jealous. Jealous of how easily Harry spoke his mind.

Now, though, it’s like Harry has lost that part of himself.

““What’s the problem?”
Niall’s voice scares the shit out of him. Where the hell did he come from?

“What do you mean?” Louis tries to act normal. He’s absolutely not.

“What do I mean? Louis, everyone’s noticed you’ve been staring at poor Harry all day. So what’s going on? What did he do this time?” Niall, of course, has to add, “Are you planning to kill him, or do you like him? Because the way you’re looking at him, mate, it’s not normal.”

“Shut up, Niall,” Louis mutters. He hates when Niall says stuff like that. “I’m not even looking at him,” he lies. “He’s just… everywhere I go. That’s not my fault. And besides, looking at people isn’t a fucking crime.” Another lie.

Niall doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes his time, studying Louis carefully—trying to see through him. And for the first time in a long time, Louis wishes Niall would just leave him the hell alone. He really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“If you say so,” Niall finally says. Louis really loves him for that.
“Anyway, when do you want me to pick you up?”

“Pick me up? For what?” Louis is completely lost, as always.

“The party!? Man, where are you?” Niall throws an arm around Louis’s shoulders.
“Lou, if something’s wrong… you know you can talk to me, yeah?”

Louis nods, and Niall sighs.
“I’ll pick you up at eight. We can go to my place first, pregame a little, then head to Liam’s, alright?”

“Okay,” Louis says quietly. Then he glances to where Harry was just a couple of minutes ago—but he’s gone.

…

In his defense, Louis didn’t even want to go to that stupid party. That’s what he keeps telling himself to justify the fact that Harry—who is, by the way, wasted like Louis has never seen before—is now just a few inches from his face.

And the worst part? Louis doesn’t feel the disgust he thought he would.

(Three hours earlier)

Louis feels like shit. So much so that he doesn’t even feel like drinking—a first. Niall is somewhere having fun, and Louis doesn’t blame him for leaving him behind. He knows he isn’t exactly good company tonight.

But he can’t help it.

Before Niall came to pick him up, Louis took a short nap (never again), and what he saw was worse than ever.

Harry was crying—like always in these goddamn dreams—but this time, he was bleeding. There was blood on his shirt, on the floor. Louis panicked. He rushed to him, not thinking, not caring about anything but getting Harry to stop hurting.
“What happened, Harry?!” he asked, frantically trying to find the source of the blood. His fingers brushed against Harry's face — the blood was coming from his lip — but as Louis kept looking, he noticed Harry’s entire body was covered in bruises. Some were old, others fresh. Some so big and dark it made Louis's stomach churn.

“Who did this to you?” Louis wasn’t screaming anymore. His voice was thin, weak.
Poor Harry. What had happened to him? Why wasn’t he answering?
“Harry, please…” Louis pleaded.

“It hurts,” Harry whispered. That was all he said — just two words — before Louis shot awake, his heart pounding in his chest.

Niall was in his room, invading his personal space and basically dressing him like he was a toddler.

So yeah, Louis wasn’t exactly in the mood for a party.

Everything started to go wrong when Louis spotted Harry next to the drinks table. He was drinking way too fast, and Louis just couldn’t stop watching him.

Then, a guy Louis recognized from his English class walked up to Harry and started flirting with him — or at least that’s what Louis assumed was happening.

Out of nowhere, Harry punched Mr. English Class right in the fucking face.

Louis’s feet moved faster than his brain. In less than ten seconds, he was in the middle of the fight, trying to keep the other guy from hitting Harry back.

The music didn’t stop, but people around them did.

“Back off!” Louis shouted, pushing the guy away before he could swing. “He’s drunk, okay? Just leave it!”

He could feel all eyes on him. Why the fuck was Louis Tomlinson — Harry Styles’ number one hater — defending him?

“He started it!” the guy muttered, clutching his bleeding nose. “Fucking psychopath.”

“Yeah, well… as you can see, Harry’s not exactly in his finest form tonight,” Louis said, gesturing toward him. “And I suggest you leave it as it is.”

The guy looked like he wanted to argue, but one glance at Louis — and the crowd now watching — made him think better of it. He cursed under his breath, shot Harry one last glare, and stormed off.

Louis turned to Harry, who was leaning against the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His curls were a mess, eyes glassy, knuckles red from the punch.

“What the hell was that, Styles?” Louis hissed, grabbing his arm before Harry could slip away.

Harry blinked at him, dazed. “He touched me.”

“Yeah, and you punched him like we’re in some shitty bar fight movie. What’s going on with you?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. For a second, Louis thought he wouldn’t at all. But then Harry’s mouth twitched—like he wanted to cry, or maybe laugh, or both.

“You said it yourself,” Harry mumbled, “I’m not in my finest form.”

Louis stared at him, heart thudding way too loud. He still hated Harry. Probably. But right now, none of that seemed to matter. Not with the way Harry looked so lost.

“Come on,” Louis said, voice softer now. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Harry didn’t protest. He just let Louis guide him through the crowd, and for once, neither of them had anything to say.

Chapter Text

Louis took Harry to Liam’s backyard. Everybody else was inside — dancing, drinking, having fun. Except Louis and Harry, of course. They had to be the only two assholes freezing their tits off in a random backyard, like it was some tragic teenage indie film.

“Sit,” Louis said, nudging Harry toward one of the plastic garden chairs. Harry obeyed, still wobbly on his feet. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

With that, Louis turned and ran back inside. He wove through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances. When he finally found Liam in the kitchen, he asked for a blanket — claiming Niall was being dramatic about the cold — and snatched a water bottle off the counter on his way out.

When he stepped back into the yard — against all odds and his own deepest expectations — Harry was still there. Shivering, yeah, but still there.

Louis let out a quiet sigh of relief and walked over. He stopped in front of him, holding out the bottle of water. Harry took it with a shaky hand, mumbling, “Thanks.”

Without a word, Louis let the blanket fall over Harry’s shoulders. It wasn’t warm enough for this cold, but it was something.

Harry didn’t meet his eyes. He just twisted the cap open and took a sip, then held the bottle in both hands like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

Louis stayed standing for a second too long, then slowly sat down on the chair next to him..

“This is fucking weird,” Louis said out loud. Harry’s mouth twitched—barely—but Louis caught it. A half-smile. Maybe.

After that, silence settled over them again. Louis didn’t know how long they sat there like that, cold and quiet, but when Harry finally spoke, it made him flinch.

“Why did you do it?”

Louis froze.

“Do what?” he asked, even though he knew exactly what Harry meant. Of course he did. He just couldn’t exactly say I defended you because you’ve been haunting my dreams like some sad, bleeding ghost version of yourself. That’d be a bit too fucking weird, wouldn’t it?
Harry didn’t look at him. “You know what. That guy. You could’ve let him hit me. Everyone would’ve expected it from you.” His voice was slow—slower than usual, probably because of the alcohol.
“I didn’t want Liam’s house to turn into a battlefield,” Louis Liar Tomlinson answered.

“It wouldn’t have. I could’ve knocked him out in two punches,” Harry said, dead serious.

“That’s if you could walk two steps straight without falling on your face,” Louis shot back, arms crossed. “You said he touched you, but he didn’t. So tell me, Styles—what could he have possibly said to make you try and knock him out with your drunk, barely-standing party fight skills?”

Harry blinked at him. “How do you know he didn’t touch me?” he asked, clearly trying to dodge the question. Then he added, “You’re such a stalker, Tomlinson.”

Louis felt his cheeks flush with shame. He looked away, jaw tight. “I’m not a stalker,” he muttered, but it sounded weak, even to his own ears.

Harry tilted his head, eyes squinting through the haze of alcohol. “You kind of are. You’ve been watching me all week. I thought you were plotting my assassination or something.”

He is quite intense, isn’t he? Louis thought. He sighed and gave up pretending he wasn’t curious.

“What did he say?” Louis asked, his voice quieter now.

“You really don’t take a hint, do you?” Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s stupid. And now that I think about it… the punch probably wasn’t worth it.”

“Tell me then,” Louis said, not backing down.

Harry looked at him for a moment, like he was weighing whether it was a terrible idea or just a mildly bad one.

“You’re totally taking advantage of the fact that I’m drunk,” Harry finally said, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

And Louis could’ve sworn he’d never seen someone smile like that before—soft, tired, but impossibly sweet. Later, he would blame that thought on the alcohol he hadn’t even touched.

“He wanted me to go with him, you know? Like, hook up and all that. But I wasn’t in the mood—and he said it in such a gross way. And, and…” Harry threw his head back with a groan. “I’m not telling you the rest. This is so fucking weird. And I’m too grossed out to keep talking about it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Like… didn’t you hate me or something?” Harry asked. There was no malice in his voice—just genuine curiosity and confusion.

Louis avoided his eyes, suddenly finding Liam’s mum’s rose bushes incredibly fascinating. Honestly, he felt a little embarrassed.

“Hate is a strong word, don’t you think?” he muttered. “I prefer aggressively disliked with dramatic flair.”

Harry burst out laughing—loud and unfiltered, like a goddamn dolphin(Louis isn't even that funny). On any other night, Louis would’ve found it irritating and absolutely ridiculous, but right there, in the middle of the night, in the Paynes' backyard, Louis thought Harry’s laugh was actually… kind of charming.
Of course, he’d never say that out loud.

“Aggressively disliked with dramatic flair? What the fuck does that even mean?” Harry asked, a drunk smile on his face. “That’s a very Tomlinson way of explaining hate.”

Then, more seriously, Harry added, “But really, this is out of another universe. I never thought I’d witness Louis Tomlinson being nice to me. Tomorrow, I might think this is all just a hallucination from all the alcohol I’ve had tonight.”

“Maybe it is a hallucination and I’m just seeing things,” Harry said, this time sounding actually concerned. With that, he reached out to touch Louis’s face, like he needed to check if Louis was real. He leaned in—maybe too fast for someone so drunk—and in that clumsy, blurry moment, Louis felt Harry slip.
And just like that, disaster struck—Harry’s lips landed on his.
Louis didn’t move.
He didn’t pull away.
And most importantly, he didn’t feel disgusted.
He didn’t feel anything close to what he thought he’d feel. No shock, no panic—just confusion.
Because it didn’t feel bad.
It didn’t feel wrong.

Harry, on the other hand, shot back like he’d touched fire. His eyes went wide with horror.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I am so sorry, Louis. What the fuck—oh shit. I don’t know... fuck, I slipped. Fuck, you’re actually here? Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rambled, practically scrambling to get as far away from Louis as the garden chair would let him.
Louis almost smiled—but didn’t.

“It’s fine, Styles. It was an accident. Forget about it. You’re way too drunk. You probably won’t even remember this tomorrow, so just... stop spiraling.”
Harry looked at him, eyes scanning his face like he was searching for something—anger, disgust, maybe even judgment.
But Louis stayed calm.
Too calm.
Why isn’t he freaking the fuck out?

“I kissed you,” Harry said quietly, like he was only just realizing it had actually happened.

Louis shrugged, doing his best to mask the chaos twisting up in his chest.
“Technically, you fell on me. There’s a difference.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he started laughing again. Loud, loose, and way too unfiltered. It was all just too fucking surreal.
And then Louis started laughing too. Because what else were they supposed to do?
…
What the fuck is happening?
That was the only thought running through Niall Horan’s head as he stood in Liam’s kitchen, frozen mid-sip of his Guinness, watching his best friend and his supposed mortal enemy laugh like two fucking maniacs in the backyard.

He squinted through the window, as if that would help clarify the absolutely insane sight in front of him. But no—Harry and Louis were definitely out there, wrapped in a blanket like it was some rom-com, giggling like they hadn’t spent the last few years glaring at each other like sworn rivals in a low-budget battlefield theater scene.

“What are you looking at?” Liam asked, walking over with a tray of shots.

Niall didn’t answer immediately. He just pointed, wide-eyed, toward the backyard like he’d just seen a fucking pegasus land in the garden.
Liam followed his gaze, then frowned. “Is that… Harry and Louis?”
“Yep.”
“Are they… laughing?”
“Yep.”
“Under… a blanket?”
“Liam,” Niall said, turning to face him, “I’m not saying we’ve just crossed into an alternate dimension, but I am saying if we don’t wake up in the Upside Down tomorrow morning, I’ll be shocked.”

Liam blinked. “Do we… ask them what’s going on?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Niall said. “I value my life.”

They both looked again.

Harry said something.
And Louis snorted—snorted, for Christ’s sake.

Niall’s brain short-circuited.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered.

“You’re not paid at all,” Liam replied.

“Exactly.”

Chapter Text

When Louis woke up the next morning, he didn’t really dwell on how, in just two days, his girlfriend had dumped him, he’d had the worst nap ever, and he’d kissed Harry Styles. Nope. All he could think was that, at least, he hadn’t had any nightmares last night.

Honestly, he almost felt happy—if you ignored the fact that he had no clue how he was supposed to feel about Harry. He didn’t hate him, that much he was sure of. But they weren’t exactly friends either, were they? Louis didn’t buy it. Even though Harry could be a ray of sunshine with everyone, Louis had to admit he hadn’t been exactly kind to him over the past few years. He’d been a proper asshole—ignoring Harry’s opinions, making fun of him, pulling shitty pranks, all that kind of crap.
So yeah, Louis didn’t really expect Harry to see him as a friend. Which, honestly, made everything feel even weirder.
And what was even weirder was the message he found on his phone only five minutes into his day.

“I’m sorry for yesterday, H.”

It came from an unknown number, but Louis didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out who it was. No shit, Sherlock.
He had a million ways to respond, but naturally, he picked the most “trustworthy” one: faking dementia.

“Yesterday? What happened yesterday? Who even gave you my number?”

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel like a proper bastard sending that. But Harry and him? They weren’t friends, were they? Wasn’t Harry the reason El dumped him? Wasn’t Harry the cause of his sleepless nights?

The message sat on read. Louis told himself to stop checking his phone—he really did. But when Harry didn’t reply, guilt gnawed at him until he caved and texted again:

“For fuck’s sake, yeah, I remember. And it’s fine.”

Louis felt stupid, but at least he wasn’t being a massive prick to Harry—not when Harry was the way he was. He didn’t even know why he didn’t like Harry anymore. Sure, Harry was a rich kid and all, but Liam was too, and Louis had never had a problem with Liam. So why did he hate Harry so much? Why couldn’t he remember?

That’s why, when he couldn’t stop waiting for Harry’s response, he decided to ask Niall. He should know—of course Niall knew everything.

“Hey Horan, why do I hate Harry again?” Louis texted, hoping his best mate wouldn’t hit him with some awkward questions.

Less than a minute later, Niall called, his voice still groggy from sleep.

“He didn’t laugh at a joke you made, remember? And you got super offended. Honestly, it was pretty hilarious watching you totally freak out over it.”
Louis blinked, caught off guard. What?

“That can’t be true,” Louis said, disbelief creeping into his voice. “That’s such a stupid reason to hate someone. Are you actually sure about that?” He sounded almost desperate. “I mean, I know I wasn’t exactly mature back then, but please tell me that’s not the only reason I’ve been such an asshole to him.”

Niall chuckled softly, as if he felt a bit sorry for Louis.
“Mate, I’m sorry to break it to you, but yeah—that’s pretty much it. You can be a selfish bastard when you want to be. But hey, people change. Don’t go beating yourself up about it. You’re a good lad underneath all that crap.”

Louis felt a little relief wash over him. He was lucky to have a friend like Niall who could be brutally honest but still supportive.

“And if you’re feeling guilty, you can always try to make things right, yeah? Besides, Harry’s actually a pretty chill guy. I’m pretty sure he even thinks you’re funny now, even if he’d never say it out loud.”

Louis snorted. “Harry? Funny? No way.”

Niall laughed on the other end. “Yeah, seriously. Whenever you crack one of your stupid-ass jokes on the pitch or in the changing room, he’s always laughing. Haven’t you noticed? He tries to hide it by putting his hand over his mouth, but it’s there. Maybe you haven’t seen it because you haven’t been telling many jokes lately.”

Louis’s mind reeled. Harry laughs at my jokes? He’d always thought his humor was hit or miss—and that Harry definitely wasn’t a fan. But if that was true... maybe Harry didn’t hate him after all. Shit.

“Hey, are you still there, Lou?” Niall’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Louis replied, trying to shake off the swirl of mixed feelings.

“Good. So, are you free today?”

“You know I am.”

“Cool. How about this: we head over to Liam’s place, help him clean up after last night’s disaster, then just chill. Maybe have a few drinks, play some video games, relax. Sound good?”
Louis smiled, feeling some of the tension ease. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Perfect. I’ll swing by and pick you up in an hour.”

Louis hung up and stared at his phone for a moment. The silence in his room suddenly felt less suffocating. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Yeah, sure—like the universe didn’t hate him or something.

…

Since hanging up, Louis had been watching his phone, half-expecting Harry to text back. To be honest, he didn’t hold out much hope.

Sitting in Niall’s car, Louis tried to distract himself with whatever nonsense Niall was talking about—until they pulled up at Liam’s place. And, of course, there was Zayn car—Harry’s best mate.

Louis tried not to freak out. Everyone knew Liam and Zayn were tight, but all his hopes vanished the moment he spotted Harry’s long curly hair and those ridiculous boots he seemed to wear everywhere.
Harry looked up from where he was helping Zayn carry a trash bag out the door, his eyes locking with Louis’s for a split second—just long enough for Louis to feel his stomach do something weird and annoying.

Harry blinked. Louis looked away first.

“Brilliant,” Louis muttered under his breath. “This is gonna be great.”

Niall clapped him on the back. “Play nice, mate. Maybe this is the universe giving you a chance to, you know… not be a dick for once.”

“Wow, love the support,” Louis grumbled, stepping out of the car. He didn’t know why his heart was thudding like he’d just run a mile. Probably caffeine. Or stress. Or the fact that Harry was here and definitely not texting him back.

Zayn waved lazily from the porch. “Oi, hurry up, we’re not getting paid for this.”

“Not with that attitude,” Niall shouted back, grinning.

Inside, Liam’s house still looked like a post-apocalyptic frat house. Cups were scattered across every surface, the floor was suspiciously sticky, and there was a weird smell Louis decided he was absolutely not going to investigate.

“I brought reinforcements,” Niall announced dramatically as he stepped inside.

“You knew,” Louis muttered under his breath, glaring at him. “You fucking little leprechaun.”

“Of course I did,” Niall replied, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “You moved me this morning, remember? So I thought, why wait until tomorrow to start being a decent human being when you can start today?”

Louis groaned. “I actually hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Louis didn’t bother responding—mostly because Harry picked that exact moment to appear around the corner, sleeves pushed up and a trash bag slung over one shoulder. Of course, he had to look good. Annoyingly good. Like, unfairly good for someone literally surrounded by trash.

And Louis? Louis forgot how to blink for a solid second.

Harry’s eyes flicked to his. No smile. No frown. Just unreadable, which was somehow worse.

And that? That pissed him off more than he cared to admit.

Louis ripped his gaze away and stomped past Niall. “Where’s the bleach? I need to clean something aggressively. Or drink it. Haven’t decided yet.”

Brilliant.

Just fucking brilliant.

Chapter Text

It was awkward.
Very fucking awkward.

Louis wanted to talk to Harry, but at the same time, he just wanted to disappear. Like—what could he even say? He had no fucking idea. And it was obvious that Harry had completely ignored his text that morning.

Louis couldn’t really blame him, though. He had to admit, the text was kind of lame.

Still, Louis felt like it wasn’t fair.
First, Harry kissed him. Yeah, it was a drunk accident—but it happened.
So why couldn’t Harry just talk to him? And they’d had a kind of nice time—not that spending time with Harry was nice or anything.

Louis scrubbed at a suspicious red stain on the counter with way too much force, jaw clenched like he was trying to grind his thoughts into dust.

Why did everything have to be so damn complicated?

...

Later that day, Liam ordered pizza—and of course, Harry got a veggie one. When the food arrived, they all collapsed into the living room after hours of scrubbing and cleaning. Honestly, they deserved the break.

Throughout the entire time, Harry hadn’t looked at Louis once.

So Louis, being the absolute masochist he was, kept staring at Harry like he was trying to read his mind through sheer willpower.

The air between them was thick. Uncomfortable. Stupidly tense. And clearly, the others noticed—because of course, Niall decided to break the silence the only way Niall knew how: loudly.

“So, Harry,” Niall said, mouth half-full of crust, “I heard you got into a fight yesterday. Ed told me. What happened? I thought you were a chill drunk. Honestly, I didn’t believe him.”

Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat, clearly caught off guard. “I wouldn’t call it a fight—”

“It kind of was, though,” Louis cut in before he could stop himself. “You punched the guy in the face. I was there. To be honest, Harold, I thought of you as a pacifist.”

His words came out more bitter than he intended, like he was trying way too hard to sound casual. But fuck it—he wanted Harry to acknowledge him. Anything would’ve been better than this silent treatment.

Harry didn’t even flinch. “Like I was saying, it wasn’t quite a fight—I just punched him once.”

Louis was boiling now, ready to throw punches himself. What the hell?

“Yeah? Why?” Niall asked, catching onto Louis’s anger. “Did he say something or what?”

Harry smiled—God, the motherfucker actually smiled—completely ignoring Louis. “To be honest, I was pretty drunk, so I don’t remember shit. He probably said something, I don’t know.”

Louis couldn’t take it anymore.

Fuck it.

If Harry was going to ignore him like this, then fine—fuck him. Who did he think he was, acting all carefree and dismissive? Louis forced a tight smile, grabbed his things, and walked out the door without another word.

Niall stared after him, shaking his head. “A little dramatic, mate,” he muttered under his breath, but Louis was already gone.

Because seriously, Louis wasn’t about to torture himself for Harry Styles. Not today. Not ever. He had more important things to think about—like how to stop the nightmares, how to get El back, and footie, for example.

So yeah, being nice to Harry was officially over.

Harry wasn’t even his friend.
So why did he care so much?

Chapter Text

Harry had never felt so embarrassed in his life.
He’d gotten drunk before. He’d done stupid things before. But nothing—nothing—could compare to kissing Louis Tomlinson and then having a normal conversation with him. No glares. No bitchy comments. Just… them. Talking.

Not even in his wildest, most ridiculous dreams had he imagined that happening.
Was that even real?
What the fuck happened?

And then, to make things worse, he had to go and ruin it by sending that stupid message the next morning.
What the hell had he been thinking?

Why couldn’t he have just kept that moment locked away—preserved like some fever dream he secretly adored?
Why couldn’t he have just accepted it for what it was and embraced the experience—then pretended it had all been a dream? A drunken delusion born from the loneliness and chaos of a party night?

But no. He had to go and text him.
And the worst part?
Louis responded.

That meant there was proof. Proof that it actually happened. And Harry just wanted to throw himself off a cliff.

He understood the first reply—classic Louis. Cold. A little cruel. Familiar.
But the second one?

“For fuck’s sake, yeah, I remember. And it’s fine.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Fine?

Fine!?
Nothing had ever been fine between them. Not at school. Not during footie. Not now.

There was no universe in which “fine” existed for Louis and Harry.

So what the fuck was Harry supposed to say to that?
He had no idea.

So he went with the safest option: denial.
Pretend it never happened. Pretend Louis didn’t exist. He’d see him at school, at practice. He just needed to go unnoticed.

Simple.

Except it wasn’t. Not even close.
Especially not when Louis was looking at him like he knew something. Like he was watching him. Studying him. (Stalking him, honestly.)

And Harry?
Harry just wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

He felt like an idiot. A completely, irreparably embarrassed idiot.

So he did what he always did when he needed to get out of his head—he went to Liam’s. Even though he was still slightly hungover and way too tired to deal with anything, he needed the distraction. Something to do. Somewhere to be that wasn’t inside his own spiraling brain.
But of course.

Of course Louis had to show up too.
Harry nearly groaned out loud when he saw him walk in.
For God’s sake—what the fuck was he doing there?

The room felt smaller. Tighter. Like the walls were inching in and the air was thick with something Harry couldn’t breathe through.

He felt surrounded. Trapped. So he ignored Louis with everything he had.

He knew it wasn’t exactly mature. It wasn’t nice. But Louis had done that to him for years—so what if he did it too?

It was fair. Wasn’t it?

But the worst part was when Louis stormed out.

Harry felt so bad. So bad he almost went after him. Almost opened the door and apologized right there on the doorstep.
But he didn’t.

Because… had Louis ever apologized to him?
For the comments? For the glares? For the years of being ignored like Harry had done something wrong—when he never fucking had?
And Harry—Harry had self-respect.

A little.
But he had it.

He didn’t say much after Louis left. Didn’t trust himself to speak, really. Every word felt like it might unravel something—like if he opened his mouth, everything inside him would just pour out and never stop.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Louis had looked at him before walking out.

Like he was hurt.

And that—that messed Harry up more than anything.

Because Louis Tomlinson didn’t get hurt.
Not really. Not visibly.
He snapped. He rolled his eyes. He shot sarcasm like bullets.

And Harry couldn’t get the image out of his head.
That flicker of something in Louis’s eyes—disappointment, maybe. Sadness.
And maybe Harry was projecting. Maybe he was overthinking like always, but—

He couldn’t stop wondering.

Did Louis Tomlinson actually have feelings?

It was a ridiculous question. Of course he did. He was human.
But Harry had never seen that side of him. Not once. Not in all the years they’d known each other.

Not until now.

And it terrified him how much he cared.
How badly he wanted to take it back—not just the ignoring, but all of it. The stupid message. The kiss. (Yeah, sure.)
He wanted—God, he didn’t even know what he wanted.

But if he could’ve done anything in that moment, anything at all, it would’ve been to make Louis smile. Just once.
Just to prove he still could.
To prove that what happened last night wasn’t just a drunken delusion.

To prove that maybe Louis Tomlinson was, in fact, not as much of an asshole as Harry had always thought.

And maybe—just maybe—to prove to himself that he hadn’t completely ruined whatever strange, fragile thing was starting to form between them.

Chapter Text

That night, Harry didn’t sleep at all. His mind wouldn’t shut off, looping one name over and over again— Louis . He knew it wasn’t worth it, knew there were other problems he should’ve been focusing on, things that actually needed solving. But none of it mattered. Nothing could pull his thoughts away from him .

It was like everything else—school, football, the pressure at home, the constant noise in his head, his pain—suddenly faded into the background. All of it took a backseat to make room for the biggest, most frustrating enigma of his life: Louis Tomlinson .

Even if Harry would never admit it out loud, he had always wanted Louis to like him. Back in the beginning, when Louis first started with the glares and the snide comments, Harry had tried his best—smiling at him, always showing up on the pitch, trying to win him over with kindness. But no matter what he did, Louis just made him feel utterly miserable.

And that—God, that hurt. Because Harry had a crush on Louis.

The first time Harry saw him— really saw him—he was left completely speechless. It felt like the world had just started spinning for the first time. Like something inside him had finally clicked into place. For the first time in his life, Harry felt like he knew who he was.

Louis, with his sun-warmed skin and eyes like the sea—he was the moment Harry realized he didn’t like girls. Not the way he was supposed to.

Louis had everything. He was breathtaking. He was funny, good at footie, smart—and kind. Not to Harry, maybe, but to everyone else. With everyone else, he was warm and effortless.

Harry hated to admit it, but even with Louis’s attitude toward him, he always looked forward to being near him—at school, in class, at practice. It was like all his real struggles faded whenever Louis was around. His focus narrowed until it was just him. He always wanted Louis to notice him… even if it was only a glare.

But that night at the party changed everything.

Harry saw a side of Louis he’d never seen before. Louis had been decent to him. He’d defended him from that asshole at the party. And now, Harry just felt confused. Maybe Louis had actually been trying to be nice to him for once—but Harry, of course, had ruined it. Like he always did.

Why couldn’t he just be nice back? Why couldn’t he say the right thing when it actually mattered?
What was wrong with him?

Harry had spent so long convincing himself that Louis hated him, that he had to hate Louis back just to survive it. It had become a reflex—defensive, automatic. So when Louis had actually shown up that night and been kind, Harry didn’t know how to handle it. His walls had gone up before he even realized it.

And now? Now he was left with nothing but regret.

He kept replaying the moment in his head—Louis stepping between him and that drunk guy, voice sharp and steady, fingers brushing Harry’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like they were friends. Like Louis cared.

And for a second, Harry had let himself believe it. Just a second.

He needed to fix it. He couldn’t let that moment slip away so easily.
What if—God, what if Louis and he were actually meant to be something more?
What if they were soulmates, destined to be together for the rest of their lives?
( Delusional statement, maybe—but it didn’t feel that way to him. )

Harry didn’t even know if Louis liked guys. He didn’t know anything , really. But he knew one thing for sure: even just being Louis’s friend would be a blessing.
And he had to try.

…

The next few days were a kind of torture.

Harry saw Louis at school, at footie—always within reach, but never quite close enough. Every time he tried to approach him, something got in the way.

The first time, it was Eleanor.

She appeared out of nowhere, suddenly beside him at lunch, talking like they’d been friends for years. Harry was stunned—she’d never spoken to him before. Of course, he knew who she was: Louis’s freshly minted ex-girlfriend. She was effortlessly pretty, confident, and for some reason entirely fixated on him that day. Harry tried to brush her off politely, but she just wouldn’t take the hint.

And the worst part? He could feel Louis’s eyes on them. Watching. Unreadable.

The second time, Louis straight-up ran from him.

Harry had spotted him alone in the hallway between classes and thought— finally . A chance. He called his name, tentatively, like an offering.

“Louis.”

But Louis didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back.

He just walked faster— almost jogging . It was comical, really.

Harry blinked, caught between laughing and wanting to crawl into the nearest locker. It would’ve been funny if it didn’t sting so much.

In conclusion? Louis was avoiding him like he was contagious. Like being near Harry might infect him with something awful.

Harry thought about texting him— really thought about it. He even opened the chat more times than he could count. But every time he tried to write something— anything —he chickened out. What could he even say?

Eventually, after what felt like days of internal battles, he settled on the simplest, most neutral thing he could manage:

“Hey.”

It was pathetic. But it was something.

His message sat on “read” for hours . Long enough that Harry considered throwing his phone in the river and disappearing into the woods forever.

Then, the next day, a reply finally came through:

“What do you want?”

Short. Cold. Dismissive.

But it knocked the wind right out of him.

Harry stared at it for a long time. He couldn’t tell if he was more happy or disappointed. Maybe both.

But it was a response. And that meant something .

So Harry didn’t wait too long to type back:

“I just wanted to talk about what happened… and say that I’m sorry.”

Was he being too vulnerable? Maybe.
But all he really wanted was a chance. A chance to talk to the kind version of Louis—the one he’d gotten just the tiniest glimpse of.
Just once more.

Louis didn’t answer. But he read the message. So Harry took that as a sign to keep writing.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you at Liam’s. I was just so embarrassed about what happened, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Harry stared at the chat screen long after the message was marked as read.

No reply.

Again.

He tried not to let it sting—tried telling himself Louis was just thinking it through, that maybe he didn’t know what to say either. But with every minute that passed, doubt crept in a little deeper.

Maybe Louis wasn’t thinking about it at all. Maybe he just didn’t care.

And that was worse than a mean answer—because it made him feel unimportant.