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He sees her the moment he steps through the door, stumbling a bit and righting himself against the door frame. He's not even drunk yet, but the incessant growing makes him clumsy, and the loudness of the pub had somewhat felt like a punch in the gut, or a leg stuck out just to trip him up. Also, the girl at the bar, the one leaning slightly with her hip cocked, is looking at him with an unimpressed smile curving the corner of her mouth. Harry really wants to know her name.
His friends call him over, forcing him to abort the direct line he'd been making for the pretty girl, but he knows it's only temporary. Only for as long as it takes to say hello and excuse himself to the bar.
She's still there, watching him with a weird expression, like she's fighting a smile, and that's all it takes to start Harry off.
"I'm Harry. What's you're name?" He asks it with a carefully casual tone, but makes no effort to hide how he looks her over appraisingly, lingering on the curves of her hips and thighs. It almost feels like a crime to look away to order his coke.
"Why?" she says.
"What?" Harry flips the hair out of his eyes, giving the bartender a few clammy coins.
"Why should I tell you my name?"
When Harry looks back, she's eyeing him with a neutral expression, short hair falling across her face and cheekbones as sharp as her voice. She's startlingly beautiful, effortlessly so, and Harry doesn't yet understand fully how out of his league she really is.
"Because I asked?" he says faintly, giving her a weak smile. She adjusts the fluffy shawl around her neck and takes a sip of her drink.
"It's Lou," she allows then. "Not old enough to drink?"
"Yeah, no, I just had a couple before I came here," Harry replies automatically. "Thought I'd pace myself."
"You're lying," she tells him flatly, a sudden smile flitting across her features. Her voice is a pleasant rasp in Harry's ears.
"How do you know?" he asks, shameless even now.
"Because I know who you are, Harry Styles," she tells him, and pushes away from the bar.
Hearing his name on her lips is almost more intoxicating than the pint he knows is waiting at his table, courtesy of Niall. He wants to hear her say it again, in as many ways as possible, but mostly he wants her to say it quietly, when they're comfortably alone and wrapped up in each other.
But her small, perfect body is swaying away from him, and Harry turns to watch with wide eyes as she goes right to his table, saying something that makes everyone laugh. It takes a few seconds more to realise who Lou actually is.
"Harry!" Niall beckons for him, laughter painting the word in mockery. He has no choice but to comply, shuffling over awkwardly, ice sloshing and clinking in his glass. "I see you've met Louis," Niall says then, "from work."
Harry feels his grip slip a little on his glass, a hot flush creeping up his neck as he looks over at Lou again, the world shifting slightly on its axis as he's forced to re-evaluate all previous assumptions.
"I've heard a lot about you," Lou smirks, and Harry realises that his voice isn't deep and rough, it's high, and his hair is more on the side of too long than fashionably short.
"How does rejection taste?" Liam asks teasingly before Harry can even try to answer, and that means they have to know what happened, might have actually seen Harry trying to hook up with Niall's male colleague.
"He can never tell when someone's out of his league," Niall tells Lou as Harry is forced to take the last seat, right beside him. Everyone is still laughing at his expense. He's never really felt like there's much age difference between himself and his friends, but right now he can't seem to sink low enough in the booth, feeling all of his seventeen years pitifully weighing him down.
"Can't blame him for trying," Lou says flippantly, curling delicate fingers around his glass. "He's not the first."
"And probably not the last," Niall agrees, raising his glass to bump it against Lou's, and Harry swallows around a lump of tight knit embarrassment in his throat before reaching for his pint, trying to laugh along so they'll tire of the joke. Lou isn't even looking at him.
Usually, Harry can join in and laugh about whatever the topic is. But this time, he hides behind his drinks and tries not to flinch every time he knocks against Lou's shoulder.
He keeps replaying the whole scene, thinking of how he should have noticed, should have tuned it down a bit. More than anything, he's mortified at what Lou must think, now. Hopefully he's not too offended.
"I didn't mean to try it on with you," Harry voices by accident, in Louis' general direction.
"Yes, you did. You just weren't very good at it."
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, taking a long swig of his drink.
"Relax, mate," Lou tells him, folding one leg over the other and flipping his long fringe. He's still beautiful, Harry thinks with a stab of anxiety, still delicate and confident, commanding attention just by being.
Harry drains his pint, then finishes the smaller glass of coke like that will mask the smell of it on him as he heads to the bar again. The freedom of being away from the table, from Lou, is a bit dizzying, or maybe that's because he hasn't learnt how to hold his alcohol very well yet.
He's still waiting to be served at the bar again when a small body slides up next to him, pressing close even when there's plenty of room for personal space.
"Virgin Cuba Libre, is it?" a voice says quietly into his ear and Harry doesn't even have time to reply before Lou's waving a bunch of notes in front of the bartender and orders their drinks, leaning back slightly with his hip cocked again to let his gaze sweep over Harry's gangly limbs. "Your tattoo," he says, nodding towards the star on the inside of Harry's arm. "That a representation of your true potential?" He gives Harry a sweet smile, reaching out to stroke his thumb over the sensitive skin, fingers wrapping around the muscle.
Instead of some coherent answer, Harry catches himself making stalling sounds and looking at Lou's tanned skin again his pale arm. This is not what he wanted by leaving the table.
He feels like he's being assessed, like he's being pinned to the bar with one delicate hand and a pair of perfectly blue eyes. "It's... I dunno why I got it," Harry states when he's been silent for long enough that Lou squeezes his arm, demanding full attention. It's a lie though, the truth being that Zayn and Liam were getting tattoos and Harry didn't want to be left out.
"Got any more?" Lou's pressing, tilting his head slightly and smiling in a way that lights up his whole face. Leaning in, he whispers, "Hidden away, perhaps?"
Harry catches a whiff of sweet hairspray and warm skin, hot breath ghosting over his ear, making goosebumps spring up across his neck. He's already forgotten the question, but luckily, that's when their drinks arrive.
Lou still has a hand over Harry's bicep, but he lets it drift down to slip around his waist, other hand reaching for his glass.
"And that," he whispers, balancing on his toes to press in as much as possible, lips close enough to brush skin, small puffs of air shooting through Harry's veins in shock, “is how you flirt properly."
He's gone before Harry can gather himself, and without having to look he knows the others are laughing at him again. He does anyway, glancing over his shoulder as he wraps shaking fingers around his glass, leaning against the bar. Lou looks triumphant, lapping up the attention with another ridiculous flick of his hair. Harry can still feel the warmth of his breath against his face.
He gives up talking for the rest of the night, sulking over how Lou has gone back to ignoring him entirely. A few hours pass, and Harry is considering leaving early, even though he never does, even on a school night.
"Hey Harry," Niall calls, knocking him from his distracted plans to sneak out unnoticed. "Dare you to ask for Lou's number."
Liam laughs with Niall, and Zayn grins slowly, tilting his chair back to watch. Lou finally turns his attention to Harry, like a spotlight casting him in fluorescent light, blinding.
"Who says I want it?" Harry replies, directing it at Niall, and there's laughs all around again, prompting his pulse to pick up speed.
"You saying you're backing out?" Zayn looks mock-offended, and the idea that they might laugh at him even more is overpowering.
"What if Lou doesn't want to give me it?" It's his last resort, and finally Harry casts a glance at Lou, hoping to be saved.
"No way to know unless you ask," Lou reasons, lips twitching like he's struggling not to laugh with the others. Harry's never felt so humiliated.
Everyone is staring, and there's no way he can leave and have any shred of dignity left.
"Lou.... Can I have your number?" he manages it in a rush, eyes on the table.
"Dunno. Bit sudden," Lou smirks, playing up the moment and seeming to delight in how Harry is squirming, still trying not to let them touch.
"Never mind," he mutters then, getting to his feet and picking his coat up, about to just get out when Lou catches his wrist, and his gaze, expression suddenly soft and yielding.
"How about you give me yours?" he asks, voice gentle as a whisper. He holds his phone out, letting Harry take it, so he does, entering the number quickly before handing it back. The boys cheer and Harry leaves, glancing back only once.
***
For the next few days, Harry doesn't talk to any of the boys. There's an ongoing group chat that Lou gets added into, and Niall keeps trying to get Harry involved with their conversation, but he ignores it.
School takes up most of his time, and he even catches up with all his work and goes beyond his usual workload. Everything is back to normal, and he's managing to ignore the burning shame he feels every time he thinks back to the pub. Sometimes, he even convinces himself that it never happened.
And then Louis calls.
Harry's watching TV with his parents, sprawling on the edge of the couch when his phone goes off in his back pocket. He doesn't check the number, attention still on the show as he answers.
"Hello?"
"Mate, what are you doing right now?"
Harry straightens, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "Nothing," he tries to say, coughing as his voice breaks.
"You wanna come to the park?"
"Um. Sure?" He isn't certain what that means. It could be 'I guess so' just as much as it probably means 'are you sure'.
"Well then stop lazing around with your parents like a boring prepubescent child and let's get going."
Harry freezes, looking around the room like Lou is sitting with them, maybe behind the couch.
"How-"
"I'm outside, Harry. And I'm getting bored."
Harry glances at his mum, then gets to his feet, rounding the couch slowly. “Be there in a minute,” he says into the phone before he hangs up, looking around for his shoes.
“You going somewhere?” Robin asks just as Harry reaches for his coat.
“Yeah, just to the park.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Um...” Harry stalls absently, grabbing his keys and wallet out of another jacket hanging in the hallway. “Dunno.”
There's a heavy pause, because Harry's never lied or hidden things from his parents before. They know about his tattoo, and they know about the one time Harry almost tried weed at Zayn's place.
"I'll be careful," Harry promises on his way out, and it's more like he's convincing himself than his parents.
It's only when the door slams, and he sees Lou laying out across the brick wall lining the front garden, that Harry realises how ominous that was as a last sentence before taking off.
"You took hours," Lou announces, springing up and looking annoyed, but Harry is somewhat sure it's an act.
He looks more male, Harry thinks, than last time he saw him, with an oversized denim jacket and black Vans, hair fluffed up, little wisps of it touching his shoulders. He can't shake the feeling of nervousness though, of wanting to be seen, and he wonders if he's ever going to feel comfortable in his own skin around someone like Lou, or if it's always going to be a fight just to raise his voice.
“So who else is coming?” he asks as they start walking, darkness already cloaking them in, pierced only by street lights.
“Who said anyone else was coming?” Lou asks back, an air of loftiness about him that wouldn't be becoming if he wasn't so infuriatingly charismatic. Harry hates that he keeps noticing.
He doesn't talk for a while, because he isn't sure if they know each other well enough to jump into conversations about what they're doing outside of hanging out, and it seems too late for small talk.
It's both a blessing and the worst thing ever when Lou slams out a hand, catching Harry in the chest sharply. They've stopped just shy of an off license, and Lou is smiling like he's got plans Harry isn't going to be entirely comfortable with.
"You keep walking, and wait for me around the corner at the park gates, yeah? I'm going to get us a drink." Lou pats his shoulder and walks towards the shop, so Harry has to rush and stroll past the window while pretending his heart isn't beating roughly and he knows he can't look at the shop, so he really, really wants to look in.
He waits at the curb with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, peering into the darkened park and back towards the street they'd come from, wondering if he'll make it home before eleven. Lou doesn't seem the type to care about curfews.
When he finally comes strutting towards Harry, hiding something under his jacket, he looks more approachable than Harry had remembered, a bit younger maybe, and smiling as he herds him along through the gates, heading towards the playground.
“Hope you like whiskey,” he says as he pulls the bottle out, brandishing it in Harry's face.
“How did you get that?” Harry asks with wide eyes, taking it to study the black label. “You're not 21, are you?”
“Don't need to be,” Lou shrugs nonchalantly, taking a seat on one of the swings. “You're gonna open that or what?”
It feels so wrong to be the one opening the bottle. Like, after the seal is broken there's no going back, and if they're discovered there's no way to claim it wasn't him. His fingerprints are all over it.
It tastes like fire, but Harry takes a stupidly large mouthful because Lou looks like he wants Harry to. He regret it as soon as the bottle is tipped too high, and he can't stop it. His unhappy coughs of distress barely drown out Lou's screeching, and it turns out to be laughter.
"Jesus, did nobody teach you to go steady?" He's still shaking with leftover amusement when he raises the bottle to his lips and sips, like a gentleman at some dark bar in a shady part of town, savouring it and seeming to be considering the taste as if it's some fine wine rather than a typical bottle of Jack. Harry feels cheated, sure that Lou was going to throw himself into drinking as much as he had.
“How did you know where I live?” he asks then, still disorientated by the turn of events and unsure why Lou would even bother to find out.
“Niall mentioned you're close to mine,” he shrugs. “It's just up the road there.” He points vaguely and takes another sip from the bottle, passing it over. “I was having the worst bloody time with Stan and his sort of, I dunno, crush or something, and they wouldn't let me play music because they were watching some god awful movie and I just had to get out of there, you know?” Harry nods, even though he doesn't. “And then I remembered that you were on that street and I saw you through the window, so I called.”
“You don't think I'm a jerk then?” Harry asks uncertainly. Lou laughs, gripping the chain on the swing and leaning his head against it briefly.
“For trying to chat me up?” he says. “I assume it was meant as a compliment.”
“I don't normally-”
“Oh, come on,” he interrupts. “Don't get your knickers in a twist, Harold. Forget about it, have a drink.”
So he does.
As a younger kid, Harry had been convinced that he wouldn't be one of those people who bend under peer pressure and do whatever other people think is cool. But then he'd met Niall, Liam and Zayn, and had decided that only people who didn't want to have any fun bothered with that kind of mindset. But now, a quarter of the way through the bottle, Harry wishes he'd learnt how to say 'no thanks'.
They're still on the swings, and while Lou is stealing the whiskey back every now and again, he's been goading Harry into most of it.
"You need to drink at least half, too," Harry comments, meaning it to sound like a demand and falling short along the way. Short, like Lou is so short. He starts giggling at his own inner monologue, gripping the chains of his swing like life-lines.
“What?” Lou questions immediately, like he's afraid of not being let in on the joke.
“Nothing.” Harry shakes his head slowly, blinking at the ground as he lets his smile settle. When he looks back up, Lou is studying him with slightly narrowed eyes, most of his face cast in shadow, seemingly waiting for something. Harry feels like he's waiting too but he doesn't know what for.
“What do you do when you're bored, Harry?” Lou asks then, pushing back slightly on the swing, kicking up sand.
“Watch TV,” Harry shrugs, closing his eyes against the spinning in his head. “Play video games, read.”
“And when that doesn't help?”
"Sleep, I guess. School stuff, listen to music. Perform entire musicals in my bedroom." Harry blushes at the last one, but he wants to be as honest as possible. Lou makes him want to be honest. "You?"
"I coax relative strangers out to parks and get them too drunk to go home so they're forced to rely on my potential kindness based on my mood," Lou deadpans immediately, watching as Harry thoughtfully sips from the bottle and chokes when the words sink in a few seconds too late.
"You're-- You're kidding, right?"
Lou's mouth quirks at the corner, a quiet laugh slipping out as he takes the bottle from Harry's hands. “You're a strange one, you know that?”
“Yeah...” Harry sighs rather than trying to come up with a witty comeback. He's not sure Lou would ever consider him witty anyway. He never even answered Harry's question. “That's what they say.”
“So how come you know Niall and the lot anyway? You're still in college, aren't you?”
“Yeah, they went to Hall Cross too,” Harry tells him. “I'm doing my final year.”
“No friends your own age?”
“I could ask you the same.” He looks up, and Lou's still so uncomfortably beautiful, even in the darkness, even with a scornful expression painted across his face, staring Harry down.
He doesn't answer, and Harry shrinks back in the swing, scuffing his trainers and knocking them against each other. It's like he sometimes crosses a line, but he never knows where that line is, and Lou doesn't give him any warning.
"Who's Stan?"
"What?"
"You mentioned him earlier, in your flat. With his maybe girlfriend or something." Harry hides behind the bottle, feeling small when Lou barks out a laugh.
"Girlfriend? That's a good one, I'll have to let him know you actually thought that."
“What do you mean?”
“Stan's queer,” Lou tells him flatly, swinging back and forth lazily, brushing hair out of his eyes before he looks at Harry as if challenging him to express an opinion. Harry doesn't. He'd been under the impression that maybe Lou is too, but he doesn't dare ask. It wouldn't matter anyway.
“Is he your flatmate?” he asks instead.
“Yeah. Terrible one at that. Never cleans up after himself.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
That seems problematic, but that challenging expression is back, so Harry just nods. "I'm not allowed to make too much mess."
"Because your parents will get upset?" He sounds mocking, but Harry nods again. "I see why they'd be worried. It would be a real shame to mess up your beautiful middle class house."
"I love my house," Harry pouts, feeling like he's losing track of his own mood swings when they're matched up against Lou's. "I don't mind tidying up after myself."
"Are you trying to offer yourself as a replacement for Stan, Harry? Not sure your parents would like the swap."
“Would you?” Harry asks before he can stop himself, holding his breath in the aftermath. He doesn't at all want to know the answer to that.
Lou laughs, a proper one that tumbles easily from his lips, like it's just been waiting to be released. “Not sure Stan would,” he admits, and Harry lets his breath out, smiling slightly at the way Lou's eyes are crinkling at the corners prettily.
"Maybe not, then," Harry smiles a bit, reaching for the drink again.
"Dare you to drink for, like, however long it takes for me to say your name," Lou announces, a mischievous glint in his eye as he waits for Harry to eagerly lift the bottle and then drags out his name for as long as he can without laughing.
After that, things spiral, and Harry starts losing track of what's in his head and what he accidentally says. He tries walking, and ends up deciding he prefers the ground.
"Haaaaarry," Lou crows above him, a heavy weight settling on Harry's stomach. He tries to blink his eyes open but they're gritty, like sandpaper, and the world is spinning so, so fast.
“Wanna sleep,” he mumbles, cool hands suddenly spreading across his cheeks. He feels like his face is burning.
“Soon,” Lou promises and Harry trusts him. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe.
***
He wakes up with a dry throat, head throbbing like an infected wound. A door slams nearby, and there's a voice – Lou's voice – but when he opens his eyes someone else is looking back.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Harry sits up slightly, looking around the room that he doesn't recognise. He's on a worn couch, a Union Jack blanket covering his legs and feet, with a pile of clothes serving as a pillow.
“Oh, this is Harry,” comes Lou's voice from behind him, and the person on the armchair opposite looks up, probably waiting for an explanation. “He's just a mate,” Lou continues, coming into view.
He's dressed for work, with his strangely formal white shirt getting dripped on by his hair as he heads for the blow-dryer near the armchair.
"How old are you?" the stranger asks Harry, raising his eyebrows like he expects an answer even when the loud whine of the dryer cuts through the relative quiet and makes Harry slam his hands over his ears in pain.
"Seventeen," Harry whispers when the noise stops. He feels like he might start crying, between how confused he is, Lou's disregard for how Harry might be feeling, and this interrogation.
"Shouldn't you be in school, then?"
"Christ, Stan, give him a break."
School. Of course. It's still a weekday, and Harry's supposed to be at school. He didn't even tell his parents he wouldn't be home. They must be worried sick. Maybe as sick as he feels.
Stan, who must be Lou's flatmate, picks up a bowl of cornflakes and starts eating, still watching Harry like he's more interesting than the TV he could switch on. Slowly, Harry hitches the blanket up, blushing a little at the fact that at some point, someone got rid of most of his clothes. It might have been his own idea, honestly.
“Right, fuck, I need to go,” Lou informs them with a quick look at his phone, snatching up a jacket from the carpet and heading for the door. “Oh, and Harry, party here at eight tonight. Don't let me down. Ciao!”
The door slams shut with a bang, leaving a silence behind only interrupted by Stan's chewing.
“So...” he says at length when Harry still hasn't been able to move. “Cereal?”
***
The walk home feels like he's always imagined the walk of shame that his classmates talk about, the way he hides his face and tries not to throw up into a flower bed. He's got several missed calls and texts from his parents which he answers with guilty half-truths about falling asleep on Lou's couch. There's also one from Lou himself, quoting a load of nonsensical sentences that make Harry cringe with embarrassment but there's an x at the end, and somehow that seems to be all that really sticks as he sneaks into his house and falls straight into bed. His parents won't be home for hours, and they don't need to know that Harry didn't make it to school. No one needs to know.
He doesn't get up until around six in the evening, aside from a dazed plan around 2pm to change into new clothes and pull some books out of his bag onto the floor. It feels even worse, making moves to ensure that he can keep this secret, but he can't bear trying to deal with even more well-placed concern from his parents.
So he stumbles downstairs in the end, still dazed, with a few hours to get ready and take enough painkillers to feel halfway human again, and finds his parents in the kitchen preparing dinner.
"When did you get home?" Robin asks, sounding like he's trying not to be obvious in his concern. They share that, the lack of ability to hide true emotion.
"Just in time to get changed," Harry replies, head down as he looks through the washing for a clean towel. "Need to shower before dinner, if there's time? There's a... A thing, I've been invited to."
“A party?”
“Sort of,” Harry admits, “but the boys will all be there.” He realises belatedly that he doesn't actually know if they will, but it makes no sense that Lou wouldn't have invited them too.
“So there's going to be a lot of eighteen-year-olds?” his mum questions then and Harry knows what it sounds like, knows what they're thinking.
“You know I'm always careful,” he says, pressing a fluffy purple towel to his chest and trying to look sincere. “I won't get into any trouble. And it's just a few streets away so I won't be far from home.”
His mum looks at him for a long moment across the kitchen, eyes considering but calm. “Who invited you?” she asks at last.
“A friend,” Harry tells her. “His name is Lou.”
***
As soon as Harry steps into the building that Lou's flat is located in, he can hear the music. He has to push past a neighbour on the stairs, someone who's shaking his head and muttering about 'those kids'. There's no doubt in his mind that when they make eye contact, this man knows Harry is one of the youths causing him this inconvenience.
He's guilty all the way up to the door, where he knocks and waits until Lou answers it and drags him inside without a word. The music is louder, some wordless track that Harry thinks clubs might play in town, if he were to go to them. He can't see anyone else he knows.
“You made it!” Lou exclaims and starts pulling Harry's jacket of his shoulders unapologetically, making him feel oddly self-conscious about his choice of clothes even if they're the best he has.
Lou tosses the jacket on the floor and grins, giving Harry a look that could mean anything or maybe nothing at all. He can see now, the smudged lines around his eyes, the black jeans stretched taut over curves and the cut off t-shirt that hangs lopsidedly across his shoulders, collarbones bare. There's fingerless gloves and gleaming bracelets around his wrists, nails polished dark and shining. His hair is pulled back on one side, back combed on the other.
Harry barely recognises him, but he's no less beautiful than he was a day ago, or a week.
He wonders if there was perhaps a dress code that Lou didn't think to tell him about, but everyone seems to have dressed in their own way, so he figures that his own white tee and open patterned shirt are good enough for now.
"Come on," Lou tugs his arm, and grabs somebody else's drink to press it into Harry's hand. "Drink fast, you've got to catch up with everyone else."
"But you said to be here for now," Harry whines, turning to apologise to whomever Lou stole from, but he's being moved on, led with an arm slipped around his waist over to a group of people.
"Everyone else did pre-drinks, silly. And there's no set time on legendary parties." Lou sounds like he's stating fact, and Harry can't concentrate on much past the bracelets digging into the skin on his lower back.
They're over by the kitchen now, which is more of a corner of the living room, separated by a small bar with one single bar stool. The space is crowded.
“That's Nick,” Lou informs him, pointing and then moving on, “Perrie, Leigh-Anne, Ed...” The names soon blur together, but it doesn't much matter when Lou's pressed to his side, showing him off like a chihuahua for everyone to admire and coo at. Harry's never really been the centre of attention before but with Lou it's easy, spotlight following wherever he goes. He doesn't think he deserves it, but saying no would be ridiculous.
"So where do you work, Harry?" Nick asks suddenly. He seems friendly enough, but there's something in his sharp features that is screaming out not to be trusted completely. Like Lou, but with less softness to draw you in from the start.
"Um. I sort of don't. I'm in sixth form." It feels like a dirty secret, something he didn't want to have to admit. Now they'll all know he's barely old enough to be allowed out at night, and any cred he was building up by being plastered to Lou's side will fall away.
“Picking them young, aren't you?” Nick directs at Lou, who flips him off and adjusts his arm to drape around Harry's shoulders instead, even if their heights make it a bit awkward.
“He's got an old soul, haven't you, Harold?” he says, and Harry has to smile even if he's not sure it's what you do.
“Young body,” Nick points out and that, that is what Harry was afraid of.
“Pervert,” Lou comments and lets go of Harry, suddenly leaving him to stand on his own, fighting his own battles, just when he thought he was safe. “What do you want to drink, babe?” Harry looks up, realising Lou's just a step away, head in the fridge. “Jack and Coke? No virgins allowed.”
Lou doesn't let him watch the drink being poured, telling him that it will be better if he doesn't know. It sounds like the worst plan from the past few days, and that's saying something, but everyone is looking at him expectantly, so he turns his back and squirms under Nick's unwavering gaze for a minute until Lou is back, protecting him and demanding that Nick prey on someone else.
After a bit more talking, Lou seems to get bored, twitching like he wants to move on but not knowing quite what to do. Stan gets up across the room, moving to the ipod dock, and picks a song that makes Lou shriek in mock outrage.
"Stanley, I won't have our neighbours subjected to that shit!" he yells, draining his drink and giving Harry the empty cup as he vaults the couch, fighting to control the music. And just like that, Harry feels the spotlight fade, and people stop noticing him again. It's sort of magic, really.
With his new-found freedom, Harry decides to explore the balcony. The fresh air should feel so good against his skin, clearing his already fuzzy mind. Except, as he steps outside, there's nothing fresh about the heavy scent of weed.
"Harry! We didn't know you were here!"
Squinting in the dim light, he can make out Liam's face in the corner, Niall pressed up to his right and Zayn visible behind a cloud of smoke that fades quickly in the night air. There are a few more faces spread out, all with droopy eyes and hands stuck in crisp bowls. Harry squeezes in between Zayn and a girl with long legs who gives him a slow smile.
“Me neither,” he directs at Zayn, watching Niall take a drag from the joint that's passed over, breaking into giggles.
“So Lou invited you too, huh?”
Harry suddenly wishes they could have seen him, the way Lou had taken him around the room, making him seem special. His voice can still be heard from inside, laugh explosive and contagious.
"Is it an invite when it's worded like I don't have a choice?"
Niall cackles at that, and Harry starts to feel a little more comfortable.
They all look so relaxed, with the joint making them loose-limbed and happy, and a significant part of Harry feels like he might want that. Maybe nobody will treat him like a child if they see that he isn't afraid to join in with this stuff. Even if they do, he might stop caring.
"Uh... Zayn... Do you think I could have some tonight?" He keeps his tone level, as if this is something he does all the time, for the benefit of the strangers around them.
Mercifully, Zayn only raises his eyebrows once before handing the smoke over, and the other two don't say anything, just watches as Harry takes it gingerly and tries to hold it like it's a familiar shape between his fingers. He takes a quick drag and coughs, just a little bit.
“Hold it in for a few seconds,” Zayn mumbles, pressing knuckles against Harry's hip, encouraging. He takes another drag, holds it, tries not to let the tickling in his lungs show. The girl to his left reaches out to brush their fingers together, taking the joint lazily.
“Good?” she asks quietly, and Harry nods, blinking and giving her a careful smile.
She smiles back, shoulders bumping against his as she breathes it in, sighing on the exhale like it's something stronger than weed. Harry's pretty sure it isn't, because Zayn prides himself on knowing where to get the best decent weed in town, but he's already taken it into his lungs so it's too late to worry.
The balcony keeps passing a few different joints around, so nobody has to wait too long, and Harry settles in to the foggy haze enveloping him and his thoughts. Lou seems far away, even if there's only a door between them, and Harry feels safe with his best friends.
"I don't think I've seen you here before," the girl starts up, tugging gently on a curl to catch Harry's attention.
"Oh, yeah. I only met Lou around a week ago."
“Amazing, isn't he?” she says dazedly, tilting her head to look at him properly. Her eyes are red shot with long lashes.
“Uh, sure,” Harry agrees, and wonders if Lou's ever turned his full attention on her, if she knows what it feels like.
“Met him in group,” she tells him, sweeping long blond hair of her face slowly. “A few years ago. We stayed in touch.”
“What sort of group?”
She smiles at him dreamily, knees pulled up to her chest. “For fuck ups, basically,” she laughs breathlessly, and leans in, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth softly.
It takes a moment to register, but when Harry looks over at her through the haze, she's smiling gently, leaning like she'll do it again if he asks.
"I think you sort of missed," he murmurs slowly, blood pumping in his ears. Her eyes light up, and she drags the chair over to press their lips together again. Harry is a little overwhelmed by how much she tastes like lip gloss and alcohol, warm and inviting. It's been so long since he's kissed somebody, especially somebody that started by kissing him.
They don't talk much after that, and Harry's not sure he could with how foggy his head is, the rest of his body tuning into this other person, reaching out and inviting in. It's a slow push and pull of hands and tongues, lips sliding wetly, and Harry's long since lost track of the party, the conversations going on around them. He doesn't know her name, but he doesn't need to.
He only breaks their contact to go to the toilet, slipping in through the creaking balcony door and trying to make his way through the disarray of people, some dancing, some kissing and then there's Lou, standing on the coffee table with his glass raised in the air, clearly lost to his own world of screaming admirers and booze.
Harry passes unnoticed, locking himself inside the small bathroom to take a deep breath. He's quite unsteady on his feet still, but he feels good. He feels like this is what being young is supposed to be like.
He stays in there when he's done, just breathing and checking his hair looks okay. It's a bit mussed from his own hands, and the girl he's been kissing, and his eyes are starting to go as red as his flushed cheeks, but he's looking okay.
When he finally unlocks the door, everything immediately becomes louder. He spares a minute to watch how Lou is practically glowing, basking under so much attention at once, but as he starts towards the balcony again soft fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling him to a stop. It's the girl again, smiling down at him and leaning in so she can be heard properly. "Do you want to go somewhere quieter?"
“Yeah,” Harry breathes, grateful and tired as he allows himself to be led into the nearest room, pushed gently onto an unmade bed with soft pillows and cool sheets. He breathes in, and somehow figures out that it must be Lou's room because it smells like him.
Harry wants to go to sleep there, curled up and safe among Lou's things, but there are legs straddling him, hair tickling his face as he looks up.
Wet lips find his mouth, and his hands move to settle over soft hips without thought. She's wearing a dress, he thinks, and it rides up as she spreads her legs further, his fingers trailing down to find warm skin, exposed, just above her knees.
She's not bad at kissing, and confident in how her hands move across his chest, warm fingertips under his tee and tracing the waistband of his underwear above his jeans. They're just kissing, really, and that's why it's so surprising when she suddenly moves against him, fingers slipping over his jeans and rubbing over him while his own hands fall up over her thighs. He makes an odd sound, moving into the touch instinctively, and is blessed with a soft sigh against his lips. Distantly, it dawns that this is probably almost sex. That this could be it, with a girl he never bothered learning the name of, in the bed of a boy he barely knows.
And then the door slams open, startling a gasp out of him, and the room is cast in dim light, music still loud in the background.
"Get out," he hears Lou's voice float through the room. "Taylor, get off of him!"
She withdraws without protest, slipping past Lou like a shadow in the doorway. Harry struggles to sit up, tries to work his way to the edge of the bed and get up but Lou's hand is suddenly on his chest, pushing him back. The noise has receded, replaced by heavy breathing and the thumping of Harry's own heart, rabbiting in his chest.
"Did she get you off?" Lou mumbles, suddenly quiet, fingers curling around Harry's neck delicately. He shakes his head, unable to form words.
Lou is so close, and Harry can see how his make-up has smudged through the night. Somehow, it just looks better. He looks so feminine, so soft and safe.
Without thinking, he leans up, catching Lou's lips in an uncoordinated kiss, tasting cigarettes and alcohol for just a second when Lou kisses him back. But then the hand on his chest pushes him away again.
"Don't do that," Lou mutters, shaking her head, eyes seeming to catch as they trail down his body and get to his waist.
For a few seconds, they're locked in the moment. Then, Lou crouches down and starts working on Harry's belt, pulling a breathless sound from his lips as the rough material rubs over sensitive skin. It's like he's only half aware of what's happening, some part of him watching from a distance as Lou reaches inside his pants and runs fingers down his cock, eyes on his as if to gauge a reaction. Harry reaches out, twining his own fingers in her hair and she seems to deem it okay, giving him a few more strokes before she ducks and takes him into her mouth.
No one's ever brought him to orgasm before, or seen him worked up like this, with heavy eyelids and glassy eyes, groaning into the darkness. He can't stop looking at her, the way her cheeks hollow around him, lips red and puffy as she sucks, and he's barely aware of his own pleasure, lost in Lou's glowing presence, the beauty of her being.
“Are you gonna come?” she whispers suddenly, looking at him under long lashes.
When he stops to think about it, assessing the heat pooling in his stomach and how his whole body is trembling, Harry is overwhelmed by how suddenly it seems to have happened. He manages a shaky nod, feeling everything intensified as Lou smiles like she's proud, and takes him in again. It's like she's actually trying to drag the orgasm out of him, and his body is aching to give in.
Right when it's about to become too much, she pulls back, using her hand instead, and Harry's got no time to warn her before his back arches, hands in her hair tightening a little.
What seems like minutes later, but is probably seconds, he opens one eye exhaustedly and loses whatever air was left in his lungs, caught by the sight of Lou's face streaked in come while she calmly strokes him through the aftershocks. She's divine, he decides. Magical and sacred.
"If you'll excuse me." Lou stands, adjusting the bottom of her shirt. "I need to go clean up."
Harry can't breathe. The room feels suffocating when Lou's not in it, and his limbs are like lead, almost impossible to move. He sits there for a long time before he manages to tuck himself back in his trousers and push himself to his feet, realising that Lou isn't coming back. The party's still going on outside but Harry barely notices, too intent on finding his jacket so he can get out, get some proper air in his lungs.
He doesn't say goodbye to anyone, just fumbles the front door open and staggers down the stairs, finally reaching the street outside where the music and voices are just a low murmur, drifting down from the balcony above.
He makes it home in a daze, stumbling more than usual and struggling to let himself into the house without waking his parents. A glance at the clock shows it being near midnight. Early enough that his parents haven't been asleep for long, and they'd have so many questions if he wakes them in this state.
By some miracle, he makes it to his room without knocking anything over, and jumps at his own reflection in the small mirror over his dresser. His eyes are red, and he looks a complete mess, but he doesn't have anywhere to be tomorrow, so nobody has to know about that.
All he can think, as he sheds his clothes in a pile by the bed, is that Lou got him off and he enjoyed it, but it's not even the worst part. The worst part is that he kept thinking he was a girl. He made the same mistake as their first meeting, and he has no idea if he said anything, if Lou knows.
He feels betrayed, somehow, like he was tricked, led on by Taylor and then picked up by someone else, passed around like a bottle of cheap liquor. Nausea rises in his stomach at the thought of Lou telling someone, of Taylor telling someone. Maybe everyone will know tomorrow that Harry's a slut, maybe even a fag.
He closes his eyes and curls up, thinking sleep will never find him but it does. It always does.
***
The first thing Harry does when he wakes up is to bury his face in the pillows to block the second hangover in as many days. Then, he reaches for his phone and dials Lou's number. On the third ring, it picks up.
"Lou-"
"Harry!" Stan's loud voice comes through tinny on the little speakers, and Harry's forced to hold the phone away from himself as he continues. "I saw you last night, you sly dog!"
Mortified, Harry starts stuttering through an explanation, shame cascading through his body and bringing with it the familiar sting of tears. "N- No, it. It wasn't. I didn't know-"
"Did you take her back to yours?"
"What?"
"Taylor. She vanished when you did, and I saw you both slip into Lou's room. So did you-"
There's a scuffle, and some swearing, but then the phone is returned to the owner, and Lou's sleep-rough voice filters through, interrupting the hitched breaths where Harry's trying hard not to freak out audibly.
"Apologies for my obscene flatmate. He's fascinated with the heterosexual lifestyle and has a disturbing interest in the habits of those participating in it."
“But I didn't-” Harry starts.
“Yeah, he's just playing you, mate,” Lou interrupts. “Don't worry about it.”
“So he knows I didn't go home with her?”
“Didn't you?”
There's a beat of silence in which Harry opens his mouth to protest, but then Lou lets out a cackling laugh. “Oh, for fuck's sake, Harry. Nobody cares either way.”
“Stan seems to,” Harry mumbles, blinking against his headache as he tries to sit up, feet curling against the carpet.
“He's like that with everyone,” Lou states, as if it will render the point moot. Harry wants to ask if Stan knows what really happened, but something tells him he doesn't.
There's a brief moment of silence, and Harry rubs at his eyes tiredly. There's a slight chance that he might be able to go back to sleep, now. Nobody knows, and the relief hits him like a physical blow.
"Do you look presentable, Harold?" Lou asks suddenly, startling him back to reality.
"Um. I just woke up."
"No, then. Sort yourself out, you've got somewhere to be."
"Do I? Where?"
"My flat, soon."
Harry pushes several curls out of his eyes, finally rising and walking over to his dresser. "What for?" he asks, trying to sound calm despite the nervousness sparking in his spine.
"You'll just have to wait and see," Lou tells him and hangs up, leaving Harry with the phone pressed to his ear as he struggles into some clean clothes.
His mum and dad are both at the table when he makes it downstairs, smiling carefully.
"Good night?" Robin asks, looking up from his newspaper.
"Yeah, it was fun," Harry replies, scared that his eyes will still be red or his hair too messy.
"Was there alcohol?"
"Um..." Harry starts. "Yeah," he admits then, "but no one got too drunk. It was just beer."
His dad studies him for a few more seconds, and nods a little. "What are your plans today? You've been so busy lately."
"Just going to spend time with a friend," Harry returns weakly, grabbing a pack of crisps and keeping his head down. It still feels like everything he did is radiating off him, visible in waves.
"The same friend you've been with for the last few nights?"
"Lou, was it?" his mum interjects.
"We're just gonna watch a film," he mumbles, as it seems likely.
"Just make sure you're home for dinner, okay?"
Harry agrees and heads out into the hallway, finding a beanie to pull over his tousled curls. Shouting a goodbye over his shoulder, he heads out into the autumn cold, trying not to worry. At this very moment, there's really nothing to worry about.
***
Lou is dressed down, in faded sweats and a sports branded hoodie. All traces of the night before, of his make-up and nail varnish, are gone. The last time they saw each other, Lou's face was coated in white.
He must be staring, because Lou raises an eyebrow, cocking his hip as he leans against the doorway. "What? Is my hair stupid?"
It isn't, and Harry's very aware of how softly it falls across his forehead, swept to one side, flat and shiny and newly washed.
"Nothing," he says as he hangs his coat and steps out of his boots, following Lou as he turns and walks to his bedroom.
Stan is stretched across the couch, watching the TV intensely without looking up as they pass.
Lou's room looks completely different in daylight, messy and cramped, with the bed taking up most of the space. Harry hovers nervously in the doorway as Lou climbs onto the covers, pulling his laptop close.
Gingerly, Harry climbs onto the bed in a reverse of last night, clumsy in how he tries not to touch Lou's knees while he's cross-legged right in the middle of the space.
"So we're watching The Hangover. Have you seen it? It doesn't matter." He talks fast enough that Harry has no chance to say that no, he never got the chance to find a friend to see it with at home, because everyone else went to the cinema without him.
Lou leans behind the laptop, fiddling with the power chord over the sheets and grabbing a few bags of crisps. Unplanned, Harry looks at the curve of his back, how his hoodie is riding up and revealing a slither of soft skin. He can see the bumps in his spine, a faint tan line, and just below that – lace. It's a pale pink, beautiful against the shade of his skin, and definitely knickers.
Harry has never felt more confused.
Lou sits back, resting against the pillows and balancing the laptop on his thighs, starting the film up. His elbow bumps Harry's as he angles his arm to reach into a bag of crisps, and it's so disconcerting, not knowing what it all means, how Harry fits into it, what Lou really wants with him. He doesn't know how to relax with Lou so close, afraid something is going to happen, or won't.
They watch the movie, but even if Harry had been looking forwards to finally watching it, he can't keep track of the plot, finds himself as confused as the characters.
Lou makes no moves towards him, remaining relaxed and laughing along with the movie at his side, and doesn't mention the night before or the fact that he's wearing female lingerie, and Harry is left to assume that what happened last night was a one-off mistake, and that he wasn't supposed to see what he's wearing now. Maybe it's a bet with Stan.
What really makes it more confusing is that Harry had hoped to find a way to apologise for making the mistake again of thinking of him like a girl, but now he isn't sure how to bring it up without drawing attention to clothing he's actively fighting not to look for.
When the credits start rolling, Lou stretches out on the sheets, sliding down and revealing more of his soft stomach and a hint of pink lace. Harry's eyes catch on the curve of his hips, his narrow waist.
"So what did you think of the party?" Lou asks, tilting his head up to look at him. "Good, eh?"
"Yeah," Harry agrees, pulling his knees up towards his chest, protecting. They're both silent for a beat, Lou biting his nails absently while Harry watches him out of the corner of his eyes. "Taylor said she met you in group," he ventures at last, nervousness gnawing at his chest.
Lou tenses up a little, staring intently at the ceiling. "Surprised you managed to talk about anything with her tongue down your throat. What did she say?" His words are sharp, filling Harry with nervous shame, and he regrets mentioning it immediately.
"Just. She said it was for fuck ups." His voice sounds small, and he can't stop thinking about the lace, imagining how it looks and expecting to be kicked out of the flat any second.
“And she was in there because she's a pathological liar,” Lou says flatly. “Stay away from her, Harry.”
“So you weren't...?” Harry asks carefully, because there's too much he doesn't know and he can't just leave it. He can't trust someone he doesn't know anything about.
“Oh, I was,” Lou admits, “but you're still too good for her.”
And you? Harry wants to ask. Is anyone good enough for you?
Lou doesn't seem to want to talk any more, and Harry has to drop it.
***
He lets him go home in late afternoon, but only because he needs to sleep and Harry's taking up all his energy. Harry almost protests, but he's risking falling behind on work due in for class, and there's no way he can do that while he's in Lou's flat.
There's something faintly endearing about the idea that once Harry's gone, Lou just curls up in bed and naps, like a small but demanding kitten that delights in throwing you for a loop.
His parents seem content when he makes it home for dinner and they don't ask any more questions. Taking his homework out afterwards, Harry sits by his desk for a long time, head resting on his hands as he thinks about Lou's lips, the way they curve when he smiles, the way they'd wrapped around Harry so perfectly in the dark. He falls asleep at some point, dreams a vivid reconstruction of Lou's small hands and mouth, and he wakes up hard, with drool sliding down his cheek.
He tries waiting for it to go away, but with each passing second Harry remembers more and more of the dream, clearer images of how Lou had looked the night before, confidently bringing him to the edge.
He's near desperate by the time he gives in, closing his eyes against the crook of his arm on the desk and slipping his hand under the material of his sweats and boxers. Just having some sort of relief drags a choked gasp from his lips, and he can clearly see Lou, dressed up in make-up and hairspray, smirking at him for being so easy.
So beautiful, Harry thinks over and over as he strokes himself. She'd been so gorgeous, that whole evening, and she'd chosen Harry over everyone. It had been them in the small space of Lou's bedroom, far removed from the party and the people on the balcony. She'd chosen him.
He comes with a choked out moan, fingers wet and slippery as he slows down the pace, re-emerging from his elaborate fantasies.
As soon as the comfortable buzz fades, Harry feels guilt flooding in again, quickly followed by shame that he can't seem to stop getting Lou mixed up. There is, of course, a chance that his mind is making Lou seem like a girl so he won't have a sexuality crisis, but it seems too easy, somehow, like Lou would have been disappointed in him for being so cowardly.
Reluctantly, Harry pushes up from the desk and grimaces as he retreats to the bathroom for a cool shower. There's no way he's going to be able to work at that desk tonight, anyway, so he might as well take time out to get rid of the evidence.
***
He doesn't hear from Lou for several days, and he spends them daydreaming, attention slipping in class and conversation coming slowly at the dinner table. When Lou finally calls, it's Friday again and Harry is already getting himself ready to see the boys at the pub, abandoning all attempts at getting somewhere with his course work.
“You wanna come over?” Lou asks when Harry answers, his voice a familiar rasp down the line.
“I thought we were going to the pub?” Harry replies, turning down the volume on his stereo and pressing the phone closer to his ear.
“Is that The Killers?”
“Um, yeah.”
There's a few seconds of silence in which Harry wonders if he said the wrong thing, but then he can hear music on the other end, another track from the same album. He can't help but smile a little at that.
“I have beer,” Lou says over the noise, “and we don't have to show up for another couple of hours. Might as well listen to your music here.”
It sounds like a perfectly reasonable plan, and Harry's never actually done the pre-drinking thing that the others sometimes do.
He's out of the house only ten minutes later, having changed up his whole outfit at the last minute and fussing for a while over how his hair is supposed to look. He settled for dragging on a beanie, because Lou has a lot of hair product, and he hates the idea of it looking irreversibly bad before he even gets to his flat from the wind outside.
Lou looks stunning, as usual. Close fitting bright jeans cling to his legs and a buttoned shirt highlights the curve of his hip as he leans against the back of the couch, clearly giving Harry a once-over while he takes off his trainers.
"Nice hat."
"I was hoping to borrow some of your stuff, actually. I couldn't get it to work properly at home." Harry does his best to act normal, pointedly not looking too long at any one aspect of Lou's figure and hoping the flustered red in his cheeks might be blamed on the chilly October wind.
“Let's see what we can do,” Lou smirks, disappearing into the bathroom and coming back with several bottles and cans, chucking them on the sofa carelessly. “Sit.”
Harry does as he's told, pulling the beanie awkwardly from his head as Lou moves to stand in front of him, levelling him with a considering look. Harry wants to squirm under the scrutiny.
Finally, Lou moves in to start combing through Harry's locks with his fingers, pulling everything forward before sweeping it to the side, reaching for some product to massage into it. His arms are bare, no bracelets clinking with every movement, and it doesn't take long for Harry to notice the damage there, the way his tan is sliced through with thick scars on the inside of his wrists, continuing up towards his elbows.
He looks up quickly, tries to catch Lou's eye, but he seems unbothered, unaware of the stories written on the insides of his arms. When Harry looks back, he realises they must be old, healed over and white, and maybe Lou doesn't even remember they're there. Maybe he doesn't want to.
Harry closes his eyes. It's easier to just focus on Lou's small hands working through his hair, somehow making it manageable and good enough to be seen out in public rather than the tangled mess it has potential to be.
"You've got a surprising amount of hair, Harold," Lou remarks after a few minutes, as if that somehow escaped his attention. Harry laughs, having jumped at the sudden noise, and gets gently pushed back to sitting up properly. "You can't stay still when you close your eyes. I've never met someone with balance as bad as yours."
"Thank you."
“Weirdo.”
A few more moments pass and then Lou finishes with a thick layer of hairspray, leaving Harry on the couch as he walks over to the kitchen. The Killers are still on in the background, floating through the open door to Lou's bedroom, but the flat is otherwise silent, and Harry finds himself wondering where Stan is. Maybe with his lover, he thinks, blushing slightly in spite of himself.
Lou comes back with two bottles of beer, handing one over to Harry carelessly. He wonders if he's still wearing lace.
“Stay here,” Lou instructs, disappearing again as quickly as he'd come, this time into the bathroom, and Harry tries not to feel out of place. He sips his beer slowly, looking around, and waits for something to happen. It seems like it's always like that with Lou, every moment spent anticipating something better, even if Lou's more than enough all on his own.
He's gone for maybe five minutes. Long enough that Harry starts to feel nervous, mind bringing up images of Lou working himself into a similar state that he'd been in a few days ago. But that's not somewhere he wants to be, because any second now Lou will come back, and Harry isn't ready to explain why he's adjusting himself in his jeans.
When the door unlocks, Lou flits out like nothing has changed except the amount of alcohol in his bottle. But he has changed.
"So what do you think?" The question is shot at him like an accusation, a loaded thing that could so easily cause injury to both of them if he doesn't answer it correctly. Harry takes a moment to really consider the light make-up across Lou's face, how it gently compliments his natural skin tone and draws attention to his eyes. It's pretty well done, really. Alarmingly so, because that means Lou does this a lot.
Harry rises carefully, moving to where Lou's standing on the other side of the couch, watching him guardedly. It's such a delicate moment, with so much at stake even if Harry's not sure what, if it's a joke or something a lot deeper. He wants to believe it's the latter, so he reaches out, brushing a few flecks of mascara from the corner of Lou's eye.
"It's a little smudged..." he says, voice breathless as he goes on to even out the blusher, just below Lou's cheekbone. "There," he whispers. "Perfect."
Lou watches him with dark eyes, calculating, as if Harry's the one taking the piss.
Harry watches him back openly, refusing to shy away because it feels like when you meet a feral animal, and by backing down first you'd be admitting defeat and weakness. Lou finally seems to shift, shoulders dropping from their defensive position. He seems a little proud of himself, somehow.
"Put on make-up a lot, do you, Harry?"
Harry says nothing, carefully not asking the question right back like he perhaps could have.
Lou moves closer then, body shifting just enough to register, and then Harry feels her hand, her small fingers, press against the front of his jeans. She's still staring, expression blank as she rubs small circles over Harry's trousers, skilfully coaxing a reaction that Harry doesn't even try to hold back. She's radiant like this, he thinks, and doesn't feel bad anymore for the way his perception shifts, her femininity so blatant it seems purposeful – on display.
“You're beautiful,” he mumbles, the words tumbling out before he's even aware of them, and it seems to soften something in her face, placating her.
Harry doesn't try to kiss her this time, and she doesn't invite him to, instead sinking to her knees as she gets his fly opened, taking him in his mouth smoothly. There's no teasing, no time to ease into it, but Harry's already breathless and desperate, leaning against the back of the couch for some support.
Lou glances up at him, blue eyes burning underneath her eyelashes, and Harry cards a hand through her hair gently, judging her mood to be something calm enough that he can be openly affectionate like this.
Any soft thoughts he was having are quickly falling away, though, because Lou is as ruthless as she had been at the party, working him up to a breathless, needy state in barely any time at all. He'd like to draw it out some time, but Lou doesn't seem interested in that sort of thing, and they're in the middle of the flat, where Stan could come home any second and fuck if that doesn't make the whole thing hotter.
She doesn't ask if he's getting close this time, so Harry tugs on her hair, getting her to ease off.
“It's fine,” she tells him then, only stopping for an intake of breath before taking him all the way down, and Harry comes hard between her lips, hand still wrapped in her soft hair.
The moment after stretches on, with Lou doing up his trousers again methodically as he pants through the silence. The music has stopped, all noises amplified in the small space, and Harry can't help but reach for her as she gets to her feet, curling weak fingers around her neck. She catches his wrist though, stronger than Harry had anticipated, and forces his hand down.
He wants to protest, because the small bit of skin he felt was incredibly soft. But Lou is already moving away, going back into the bathroom like the experiment, if that's what it was, is over. Harry feels a little used, kind of like he's part of a study that Lou isn't telling anyone about. Maybe Lou is manipulating him on purpose, drawing reactions out of him based on what she thinks he's into, just for her own fun. It's like those dogs that were conditioned to react to the bell chiming.
When Lou returns, he's got rid of the make-up entirely, and Harry's almost finished his bottle, spiralled into self-deprecating thoughts. Somehow, they all go quiet in the back of his mind when Lou sprawls out on the seat with him, feet landing in Harry's lap, and reaches for the TV remote.
He wants to say something but doesn't know how. Ask about the sex, about why Lou doesn't want to be touched, about the scars, but it's all so heavy, and they don't really know each other yet. Lou is all emotion and calculated actions, a contradicting mess even on a good day and somehow more fragile than anyone seems to realise. Harry doesn't want to be the one who breaks him.
They watch Storage Hunters and QI re-runs on Dave until it's time to get ready to go, and Harry continues to hold back any questions he has when Lou locks up the flat and they walk the half hour to the pub together.
It barely dawns on Harry that they're going to see their friends again until they get to the door. It feels like a lifetime since all of them have been sat around the usual table. Since the first time Harry met Lou and everything started changing.
Another thing Harry didn't consider is that it could be strange for them to arrive together. When they approach the table to drop off jackets and go to the bar for drinks, everyone cuts off conversation. There's definitely surprise on all their faces, but Harry gets a weird hint of betrayal from Niall, and he immediately wants to apologise for whatever's troubling them.
“You got cash?” Lou asks him, holding out his hand, and Harry has to scramble for some change that he hands over obediently, watching him saunter off to the bar.
“What have you two been up to?” Niall asks the moment he's gone, leaning forward to give Harry an accusing look.
“Nothing,” Harry shrugs, looking around at the others. “We just watched some TV.”
“At his flat?”
“Yeah.”
Niall exchanges a look with Zayn, the moment somewhat charged, and Harry can't seem to fully grasp what's happening, why everyone's gone so quiet in his presence.
For a second, Harry thinks that maybe they know. Maybe they can just tell what they've been up to. That's a terrifying thought, and he has to subtly check that his jeans are zipped up properly. But everything is in order.
"Spend a lot of time together, then?" Liam asks, guarded as he looks between Harry and Lou's soft figure at the bar.
"I guess. We live ten minutes from each other." Harry shrinks in his seat a bit, getting more uncomfortable as the seconds pass.
There's a short silence, interrupted the second Lou comes back with beers for him and Harry.
"Scoot," he says, and Harry has to slide up next to Niall to give him space on the bench, their shoulders and thighs pressed together. "So what have you losers been up to?"
It turns out that all they've been up to is work, and recovering from Lou's party. Harry feels distantly sad for them, because life without Lou as a constant fixture must feel like it's lacking something vital. He can't remember what he filled his spare time with.
Everyone remains cagey towards Harry, but Lou seems not to notice anything different because nobody can be anything but adoring towards him. He talks loudly, gesturing and telling absurd stories that speak of a life so different from theirs, somehow both brighter and more tragic than Harry could have pictured, even for Lou.
The boys seem to relax after a couple of pints, smiling in their seats as Lou gets up to get another round. Harry can't help but watch him walk across the floor, heads turning as he passes, and he wonders briefly how long it's going to last.
“Careful there, or you'll start drooling,” Zayn comments drily, but he's still smiling when Harry turns, a bit sluggish with the alcohol sloshing in his skull.
“I'm not drooling,” he says quickly before several voices rise behind him at once, making whooping noises. As he looks over his shoulder, Lou's coming towards them, turning to flip someone off before making it to their table.
“Arsehole!” he yells, dropping down next to Harry with a huff.
“What was that all about?”
“Just some fuckers thinking they were being funny,” he says, an edge to his voice that makes Harry look back, wondering who in the world has the power to put it there.
He doesn't see anyone in particular, just a group of men smirking over at the table. Cautiously, Harry tries to rest a hand on Lou's shoulder in comfort, but gets shrugged off.
“Drink that pint before I drink it for you,” Lou mutters, throwing back half of his drink in one go. He seems smaller, less confident and more like a child trying to make himself blend into the group instead of stand out like he usually does.
The rest of the evening is spent trying to cheer Lou up, but it doesn't work too well. The only time he seems to crack a smile is when Niall buys in the next round and buys a few shots just for Lou. Everyone else ends up more drunk than usual, simply because Lou keeps drinking and nobody wants to be left behind, even if they don't drink nearly as fast as he does. Harry tries to keep up, but Lou keeps stealing his drinks before he's finished them, so he resigns himself to just making sure Lou doesn't throw up on the table, and pressing small glasses of water into his hands whenever Lou is too busy talking about something to notice.
By the time the pub closes, Lou's too drunk to stand on his feet.
“I've got you,” Harry mumbles into his ear as he manages to haul him up into a standing position. “You'll be alright.” He feels small in Harry's arms, head resting on Harry's shoulder as they make their way outside. Like this, he's soft and easy to handle, obedient even, when Harry adjusts his weight and shushes him when he starts to babble. “I'll take him home,” he tells the others, strangely possessive when they offer to help. “It's fine,” he reassures them. “I've got it. It's no problem.”
The others are barely in a position to help themselves, anyway. Harry pretends all these excuses are the main one, instead of the pure need to keep Lou safe and keep this soft version of him all to himself.
"I can walk," Lou petulantly insists, pouting up at Harry from where he's obviously struggling to keep a straight line. "I'm walking properly."
"You'll trip as soon as I let you go."
"I think you're talking about yourself, Harold." Lou starts giggling, has to turn to hide against Harry's shirt like he thinks he isn't allowed such a high pitch.
A soft laugh escapes him, a smile stretching his lips as he brings Lou in closer, cheek pressed to his shiny hair.
“Don't fuck up,” Niall yells at him from somewhere far away, and when he looks up they're already at the end of the street, leaving Harry and Lou to make the slow journey home alone.
It takes them an hour, maybe more, and when they're finally up the stairs in the right building, Harry can't find Lou's keys. Awkwardly, Harry's forced to attempt to give Lou a pat-down while he refuses to let Harry go. Knocking on the door is like admitting defeat, but thankfully there's footsteps on the other side and Stan appears with messy hair and wide eyes.
"Harry? What the fuck happened?"
"Fucking tossers took the piss," Lou announces, before Harry can try to explain.
Between them, they get Lou over to his room, and Stan smiles thinly. "Thanks for bringing him home."
“Of course,” Harry nods breathlessly, sweeping the hair out of his eyes as Lou curls up on the bed, still gripping Harry's fingers in a loose fist.
“I can take it from here,” Stan sighs. “You can leave.”
“No!” Lou pipes up, tightening his fingers. “Harry...”
“Harry needs to go now,” Stan tells him impatiently but Lou just shakes his head obstinately.
“I can stay,” Harry hurries to offer, crouching by the bed and running his fingers through Lou's hair to calm him. “I can stay,” he repeats, quieter, and Lou's grip loosens again.
Testingly, he tries to let go for long enough to get some water that Lou really should drink before he sleeps, but any sign of moving away from him results in a tight grip on his hand and what could easily turn into a tantrum, so Stan fetches some half-filled cups, and leaves them to it.
It's difficult to get ready for bed how he usually prefers to sleep, because he can't take off his shirts very easily while Lou clings to him. He eventually manages to get himself mostly undressed and climbs onto the bed, relieved when the more constant contact frees up his hand to help Lou out of his tight jeans.
"I can do it." Lou pouts up at him, sipping at the water dutifully.
"No you can't, Lou. Just stay still."
“Can you hold me?”
Harry looks up, noticing Lou's open expression, eyes large and glassy and a bit unfocused, before he nods and finishes pulling his jeans and socks off. Lou's legs are clean shaven, soft with knobbly knees, and there are scars littering the inside of his thighs, tucked away and hidden from the world unlike the ones on his arms. He's not wearing lace this time, but what seems to be two pairs of tight-fitting underwear, definitely feminine but in black cotton, straining over his hips.
Lou seems completely unaware of all of it, slowly rolling onto his side and curling up, shirt still on.
It's easy to slip an arm under his head, and the way he immediately shuffles back to fit against him is so trusting that Harry has trouble breathing, ends up burying his face against Lou's soft hair while Lou shifts around and gets comfortable.
He doesn't talk for a while, long enough that Harry feels like it's safe to sleep. He expects Lou to change his mind at any moment, to decide he doesn't want Harry's chest pressed against his back any more and can't sleep with him even nearby, but it never happens.
“Lou,” Harry whispers after several long moments, stroking his arm gently. “What did those guys say to you?”
Lou lets out a long breath, like he's only half awake. “Faggot,” he mumbles, like it takes him awhile to remember. He falls silent then, but Harry knows Lou's keeping things from him. Maybe he has reasons to, maybe he just doesn't want Harry involved, but he thinks it might be a bit late for that, with Lou curled up so lovingly in his arms. Maybe he'll never know, and maybe it's for the best.
He must fall asleep without noticing, because the next thing Harry's aware of is Lou struggling to sit up and inhaling sharply, probably over how much his head is hurting. Harry starts comforting him with sleep-warm touches to his shoulders and waist before his eyes have opened, murmuring that he'll get tea for them and slipping out of the room on unsteady legs, fuelled by the need to make the hangover easier for Lou in any way he can.
It's self-preservation, really, because when Lou isn't at his happiest, everyone around him is dragged down, too.
The living room is empty, Stan's door closed, and Harry tries to make as little noise as possible as he puts together two cups of breakfast tea, carrying them slowly back to Lou's bedroom.
He's pulled the duvet up around him, propped against the pillows, and doesn't say anything when Harry hands him the tea. It's an odd sort of silence, and Harry feels the sudden need to be more dressed, to be ready for whatever's to come.
“We're not a thing,” Lou says suddenly, eyes still glassy, face pale.
“Okay,” Harry nods, doing up his trousers and reaching for his shirt, trying to maintain a blank expression.
"You didn't think we were, did you?"
"No, I didn't."
He isn't completely sure what he thought they were, honestly. But the sudden reality that Harry's first time apparently meant next to nothing is overwhelming. He needs to get out, soon, otherwise he might say something embarrassing and Lou's opinion of him will drop further than the way he's raising his eyebrows like he doesn't believe his denial.
He's already made the tea, which is a bit of a trap, so he's stuck perched on the end of the bed, taking sips of the hot liquid and focusing on the almost-burning quality so he doesn't have to think about how insistent Lou was to keep him close. That's a dangerous route to take, and not one he can do with a distant headache in front of someone he's desperate to remain on good terms with.
“Could you check if there's any paracetamol in the bathroom?” Lou asks, and Harry doesn't feel like he has much of a choice but to go and root through the cabinet above the sink until he finds them, tucked behind a small make-up bag. He swallows one of them down before heading back, tossing the packet on the bed.
“I'll be going then,” he says, abandoning the rest of his tea and checking his pockets for his phone, wallet, keys. Lou doesn't protest, and Harry hates the way it makes him feel.
He hesitates by the door, hoping that Lou's going to cave, start laughing and tell him to come back and stop moping. But he doesn't say anything, just reaches for his phone like Harry's already gone.
The walk back is, again, like a walk of shame. Harry tries to think of what he'll do with his time now Lou is seemingly bored of him, but has no idea what to focus on. He tries to catch up on schoolwork and spends more than half the time unlocking his phone and looking at his messages to Lou in hopes of drawing out a text from him.
In the end, it's Niall that calls.
“Hey, how did it go last night?” he asks in a voice that doesn't sound as hungover as Harry feels.
“Fine,” he tells him, picking up a pen to start doodling in the margins of his homework. “I got him home.”
“Did you stay the night?”
“Yeah, slept on the couch,” Harry lies without really considering it. Niall is quiet for a few seconds, rather unlike him.
“Are you crushing on him?” he asks at last and Harry has to hold back a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly.
“No,” he says.
“He's probably gay though.”
“Probably,” Harry agrees, looking out the window and abandoning his doodles. He doesn't want to talk about Lou anymore.
"So if you were, you could totally tell him."
"Niall, not every gay man is looking to hook up with every man he sees." Harry drops his head to the desk, exhales slowly. "Can we talk about something else?"
"Um. The weather's shit?"
Harry huffs out a laugh, and reaches his free hand up to run through his hair, down to work out the kinks in his neck from how he was tucked in against Lou all night. "Yeah, it is. Thanks for that update."
“Wanna come over later?”
Harry looks down at his open pages, the blank sheet of paper with a stick figure in the corner, mocking him. “I dunno, maybe tomorrow,” he says, wondering if he should just go to bed and be done with the day entirely.
“Okay, mate. Call me,” Niall tells him, and hangs up. Harry closes his eyes.
***
Days go by, but Harry doesn't notice them too much. School is shifting from a place he enjoys to the slowest part of the day, with nobody to talk to and nothing to do in breaks. Lou has effectively left him alone, and yet his lack of presence is causing more of a problem with Harry's concentration than when he was constantly demanding his attention. It's so typical of him to still have every hold over Harry, but he can't shake it.
Most nights, he stays downstairs with his parents, watching dull shows on BBC2 and pretending he cares about what his step-dad's co-workers are up to until he's tired enough to crawl upstairs and pass out. His sleeping pattern is falling apart, and he hasn't done any meditation since he met Lou, but it doesn't seem as important any more. He can't concentrate on mindfulness for longer than half a minute these days, anyway.
Nothing of interest happens until almost a week has gone by, and Niall announces in the group chat that the next pub night is tomorrow. Everyone says they're going, but Lou's going to be working late and will go to the pub from there. That means he's definitely going to be there, and Harry's never passed up the chance to see his friends.
On the day, he wakes up with a text from Lou. “Could you pick up some clothes for me before you head over to the pub? Forgot :/” Harry stares at it with bleary eyes, trying to work out if there's a catch, but it's a simple question and he doesn't have any reason not to.
“Okay,” he types out as he makes his way downstairs for tea. Lou doesn't reply, but Harry didn't expect him to.
He makes his way over to Lou's flat in the afternoon when his classes are over, knocking and hearing Stan bustle about before opening the door, disappearing without really acknowledging Harry's presence.
"Lou said he wants clothes for the pub," Harry explains, even though Stan doesn't seem to care at all.
"You know," Stan begins, turning on the kettle on the other side of the main space in the flat, and turning to regard Harry, already unzipping his emptied-out school bag. "You don't actually have to do every little thing he tells you to. You're allowed to say no, and the world won't stop turning."
He says it with the air of someone that understands how different saying and doing are in this situation, but also as someone that's managed to achieve the impossible.
"Didn't he get mad?"
"Furious. Threw a right fit the first few times, but someone needs to stand up to him, otherwise he'll never get off his arse and make his own tea." Laughing a little, Stan starts making two cups, so Harry figures he isn't intruding as much as he feared he would be.
“Okay,” Harry says, opening the door to Lou's room and putting his bag down next to the bed.
Lou has a lot of clothes. There doesn't seem to be any order to it, t-shirts piled on top of jeans and only half of it folded, sleeves and trouser legs hanging off of the shelves. Harry reaches to sift through the nicer stuff hanging on a rail, and as his hands slip over silky material, he feels his breath catch in his throat. A dress hangs at the far back, sleeveless with silver beads covering the top half, beautiful pink silk billowing from the waist. It looks expensive, maybe even tailored, and Harry can't help but picture Lou wearing it, spinning in circles to let the silk twirl.
“He doesn't let just anyone snoop through his drawers you know,” Stan suddenly says from the doorway, and Harry lets the dress drop, turning guiltily on the spot.
“I'm not snooping.”
“No, I know, mate,” Stan says mildly, placing a cup of tea for Harry on the dresser near the door.
“Can I ask you something?” Harry says slowly, waiting for Stan's reaction.
“You wanna know what his issues are, right?” he replies easily, remaining in the doorway. Harry nods carefully. “Well, there's many,” he continues, leaning gently into the frame. “I've known him since we were kids and I think the main problem is that Lou doesn't know who he is. He punishes himself and everyone around him but god knows what for. It's not up to you to fix it.”
For a second, Harry considers arguing that he isn't looking to fix it. But the truth is that that's exactly what he's trying to do. Part of him knows that that's all anyone is doing, when it comes to Lou.
"So what do I do?"
"Just let him keep fucking with you, if that's what you're into," Stan shrugs, looking over Lou's messy room with a fond expression. "If he's letting you see all his clothes, he obviously trusts you on some weird level that nobody will ever fully understand. Just... Be careful. He's not always a joy to be around, but it isn't personal, most of the time."
Nodding, Harry turns his attention to Lou's clothes, trying to imagine which outfits will look good. Lou always makes things match, somehow, and Harry isn't so good at that sort of thing.
He picks and chooses and discards until it's all a grey haze in his mind, but he ends up with two changes just to be sure, and folds the clothes neatly before putting them in his bag. At this point he's able to tell himself that he doesn't even care what Lou thinks, because Harry already put too much effort into it.
It's better, once he's at the pub and it's just the four of them, reminiscing about old times rather than speculating about what's to come. Harry likes to think that he forgets about Lou for a while but he's not sure that's true. He catches himself glancing at the door every few minutes, biting his nails as he thinks about presenting the clothes, and when Lou actually does turn up Harry's so nervous he can barely raise his gaze to look at him.
"So?" Lou asks, standing by the table with his arms over his chest, eyebrow raised when Harry doesn't answer immediately.
"Uh," Harry stutters, using all of his eloquent prowess. Casting a glance back at the boys, who quickly pretend they're not listening, he stands up and presses the bag into Lou's hands. "I didn't know what you'd feel like, so I got two different outfits." He can't look when Lou opens the bag, can't bear to risk the disapproval. He's still observing the different drinks behind the bar when he feels a gentle touch on his arm, and Lou is smiling up at him sincerely.
"Thank you, Harry."
He's got such a beautiful smile.
“Um, you're welcome,” Harry nods, feeling himself blush uncomfortably as Lou disappears to get changed.
“What was that all about?” Niall asks when he sits down. Harry shrugs, reaching for his drink.
“Just brought some clothes for him,” he mumbles, looking back towards the bathrooms absently.
"It looked more like you were swapping money for drugs," Zayn comments, earning a round of agreement. Harry doesn't correct them, because it did sort of feel like that. The way Lou smiled at him has left him warm and fluttery, basking in the knowledge that he did a good job, and Lou was pleased.
When he emerges and starts weaving through the crowd towards them, it's in a combination of both outfits, with tight jeans and a looser top, and the infinity scarf Harry picked out of the pile on a whim. As usual, he looks amazing, and Harry gets a stab of pride out of knowing he helped this wonderful moment happen.
Some time later, he finds himself in the bathroom, fixing his hair in the mirror before pushing one of the stalls open. He's had quite a few drinks by now, lulled into safety by the sound of cheerful voices, but the hazy fog around his mind feels comforting, like a warm cover between himself and the loudness of the world.
The door swings open outside, letting in a wave of noise before it dies down again. Harry shifts, buttoning up his trousers and closing the lid, letting the toilet flush loudly. When he pulls open the stall door, the last thing he expects is a hand to push him back into it. But it's Lou, herding him into the open box and locking the door behind himself.
Harry rushes to keep a distance, backing up until they aren't touching because it feels sort of like a trap. It's too easy to get closer and pull Lou into his chest, so he curls his hands into fists and waits half a second that seems to stretch out until he's the one being dragged in, pulled until Lou is stuck between him and the door, and they're kissing without explanation or a moment to get used to each other.
"I thought we weren't gonna do this," Harry breathes against Lou's lips, gripping his shirt hard to hold him in place.
"Do what?"
"We're not a thing."
"So?"
They stare at each other for a second, and Harry feels like he should continue but he wants to kiss him more, so he leans in, allowing Lou to push his tongue between his lips roughly.
He's half-hard and panting when the door outside swings open again, and Lou pulls back, fingers already low on Harry's stomach. He exhales, almost as a whine, but it's cut off when Lou stuffs a handful of his scarf up against his mouth in an obvious attempt to shut him up. Harry stills, biting down on the fabric as a distraction, and contemplates the situation they're in. The pub isn't exactly gay-friendly, and the chances of whoever is outside being comfortable with two boys almost getting off in a stall not far away from him are very slim. But Lou's hand is burning against his skin, and he shifts as much as he can in attempt to remind him that he isn't feeling any calmer right now. If anything, he feels even more like he needs Lou's hand on him. Or his mouth, or literally anything. It's dangerous, moreso than he'd have thought, but Lou is right there, and this might be a one-off.
Lou effectively stops his squirming by pinching him, forcing Harry to swallow a yelp and bury further into the scarf.
They listen to the tap turn on and off, the hand drier starting up loudly, and then the door opens again and Harry lets out a long breath through his nose, resting his forehead against Lou's.
"It's too risky," Lou mumbles, extricating himself from Harry's hold, and he wants to whine, to pull him back, but Lou's already on his way out, leaving Harry to sit down on top of the toilet and wait for his hard on to subside.
When he makes it out of the stall a few minutes later, he feels a little deprived. But he got a kiss, a real kiss, and an unspoken promise that there could be more.
He fixes his hair again, adjusts his clothes to look less like he almost had sex in a stall, and goes back to the table.
Lou doesn't looks up from his conversation when he sits down, but Harry can feel a hand on his thigh some time later, squeezing slightly and making it difficult to keep focus. He stays close, shoulder bumping into Harry's and fingers nudging his leg under the table, like he's trying to communicate without having to talk. Harry just wishes they were somewhere else so he could try to understand.
They all leave together shortly before closing time, stumbling out on the pavement and saying their sloppy goodbyes, with Harry and Lou walking together the short bit home. Lou's laughing, still caught up in a conversation from earlier, and keeps walking into Harry's side as if he's not completely aware of it. Harry smiles and bides his time, waiting again like he always does with Lou.
And as they finally draw near to where Harry has to turn left from the main street, he pulls Lou in by the neck, kissing him for all of the three seconds that Lou allows it. A smile flits over his face as they pull apart, something mischievous in his eyes when he turns on his heel.
"Goodnight, Harry," he calls over his shoulder, and in spite of himself Harry smiles.
He practically runs home after that.
As soon as he's locked in his room, Harry starts stripping off, and gets tangled in his jeans. One second he's standing up, the next he's on the floor in the middle of his room. But that's fine. He can work with it, because it's easier to kick off the material and reach into his underwear now he's laying down. The cold floor feels a bit like the bathroom stall door, anyway, and he can happily incorporate the environment into the visuals already flooding his mind as he relieves some of the pressure building up and tries to calm down a bit.
All he can think about is Lou, the feel of him, the smell, and it's never been easier to paint a picture of what he really wants, than this, spread on his bedroom floor with lust sizzling in his veins. He doesn't second guess this time, or allow himself to feel guilt where none is due. Lou did this and Lou knows. Harry isn't taking advantage. He never did.
The fact that Lou must know what he's doing right now, might even be touching himself in reaction, actually has him muffling sounds against his fist.
He'd do anything to hear the little moans and whimpers that Lou might produce. What pushes him over the edge turns out to be the thought of Lou taking Harry into his mouth with all the skill he already has, and making wrecked sounds around him while enjoying it just as much as Harry.
The struggle, once Harry recovers from the immense relief of finally getting off after a night of relentless teasing, is getting up off the floor when his muscles don't want to work and his limbs are comfortably heavy. After a few attempts he manages to crawl into bed and curl up like an infant, falling asleep within seconds. His dreams are all pleasant that night.
***
Lou calls him the next day, and the next, just to talk about nothing. He tells stories about work and about Stan, about the TV shows he's watching simultaneously and the snacks he's eating. He never talks about his past or his feelings - Lou tells stories about other people - but Harry listens all the same, and stores it all away at the back of his mind for safekeeping.
They keep calling through the night, talking while Harry admires the pristine colour of his blank paper. It's impossible to work while Lou is talking, and if he ever misses a call, Lou screams for a few seconds as soon as he eventually answers.
He's slipping behind in class, kept up late by Lou telling him "bedtime stories" that are mostly buzzfeed articles, and it's starting to show, he's sure. His parents are casting concerned glances at him, but he's too happy to care.
"What's he like to work with?" Harry asks Niall one day when they meet up to watch the football at Liam's place. "You see him a lot."
"A bloody nightmare," Niall laughs, shoving crisps in his mouth on autopilot. "But he's also hilarious, so he gets away with a lot. Charms people. Flirts with customers."
"Flirts?" Harry questions and regrets it when all three of them turn to look at him.
"Yeah," Niall grins. "You know him, what did you think?"
Harry shrugs, trying to be casual. "Seems weird, trying to pick people up in a clothing store."
"He never does it to pick them up," Niall explains, still grinning. "I think he gets a kick out of having the upper hand, the power to draw someone in but turn them away."
Harry winces, caught for a moment on the idea that Lou could be doing that to him, and he'd have no idea. He imagines asking, when Lou next calls, but can already hear the hysterical laughter he'd get as the only answer.
"Can't imagine he has to make much of an effort," Liam chips in.
"Nah, just look at Harry," Niall snickers and the others join in, making Harry flush uncomfortably.
"Piss off," he mumbles to little avail.
"Caught him stealing once though," Niall admits suddenly, shifting the focus back to him.
"Seriously?" Liam ask. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," Niall shrugs. "What would you have done?"
"What did he steal?"
"Some make-up," Niall scoffs, shaking his head and reaching for a beer. "I mean, why risk it? What's he even going to do with it?"
Harry tunes out, not paying attention to everyone else because he's caught up in the different kinds of make-up Lou was wearing that day. He has no idea what it would cost to buy, but he can't imagine Lou having too much money to spare at the end of the month, and it must be important, he thinks. Somehow he just knows it is.
"Maybe it's compulsive," he hears Liam comment across the room. "Like the cutting."
"You don't know anything about that," Harry interjects instinctively, cutting the conversation off.
"And you do?"
Panicking, Harry looks down at the drink in his hand. Shit.
"Well. I don't think it's as simple at that," he stutters, but everyone else is already looking at him like they know he's hiding something. He's never been very good at lying.
"Harry..." Liam starts, frowning over at him. "Has Lou told you something? We know you're spending a lot of time together."
“He doesn't talk about that," Harry mumbles, more aware than ever about how little he actually knows about Lou, how firmly he's keeping him out.
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
He gets to his feet, suddenly just needing to get out, the room having gone completely suffocating in the last few minutes.
"Where are you going?" Niall pipes up.
"Home," Harry tells them, stumbling slightly as he heads for the hallway.
"Hey, it's not that we don't believe you, Harry..."
"I know, I just... Got loads of homework." He excuses himself and walks out the front door, forgetting about the football and the beer and the lad bonding time. Instead he calls Lou.
"Hey..." he says softly once he picks up, wandering aimlessly down the street. "Where are you?"
"Just on me way from work, why?"
"Can I come meet you?" Harry holds his breath, one second, two, before Lou replies.
"Sure. Go to my place, yeah?"
Harry gets there first, hovering outside the entrance nervously as Lou comes into view around the corner of the building. He's still in his uniform, hair swept back from his face, and Harry feels starved, like he hasn't seen him for ages, years even.
"Ey up," Louis greets him once he's close enough to be heard without raising his voice.
"Tell me about your scars," Harry blurts.
Lou looks up from where he'd been rooting around his bag, expression blank. Harry wonders if he'll be let in at all.
"Stopped, didn't I?" he replies after some delay, utterly unexpected, and pulls out his keys.
"Yeah, you did," Harry nods, daring to wrap his arms around Lou's shoulders, realising it's the first time they've hugged.
It takes a moment or two before Lou returns it, but it isn't reluctant like the kisses, or impatient like the sex. It's gentle, given freely.
It's like a safe ground, where Harry doesn't feel like he's asking for too much by holding him close.
"Alright," Lou eventually mutters, stepping back. "Getting weird, now."
Harry doesn't think it was weird at all. It was beautiful. It was soft and kind, like he knows Lou has the ability to be if caught at the right moment.
Lou unlocks the door to the building, adjusting his fringe and smiling almost shyly at Harry as they head up to the flat. Already, all the anxiety that had been building up with the others has begun to dissipate.
Stan isn't in, and Harry's silently grateful, sinking down onto the couch as Lou disappears into his bedroom. He comes back in joggers and a tight fitting tank top, hair pulled back with a head band.
"Why did you stop?" Harry asks.
Lou's in the kitchen area now, taking out cups and sugar as the kettle boils, leaning forward over the counter when he's done, arms braced against it. He looks calculating, like Harry's questions aren't what he's expecting.
"Had to," he says at length. "People were being nosy. Like you."
"What people?"
Lou sighs. "Doctors, teachers, everyone. Said I was killing myself."
"Weren't you?"
Lou lets out a quiet laugh, like the whole conversation is silly to him. "Maybe that was the point," he says, pushing off the counter before reaching for the kettle. "Or maybe it wasn't. Doesn't matter. My body."
"Your decision," Harry fills in quietly.
Lou nods once, finishing up their tea and carrying it over.
"Do you ever want to do it, still?" Harry asks carefully, waiting to see if he's crossed the line, reached a point where Lou won't answer any more questions.
Instead of that, he shrugs in answer, shifting to sprawl on the sofa.
"Sure. But only in that way that everyone gets when you're standing somewhere, like on a bridge or a roadside, and there's that massive physical urge to move a little to close to the edge, or the cars, or the razor. Just to see what happens if you cross the line. You know?"
Harry doesn't know, but then, he isn't sure if anyone else does, so he can't tell if that's a warning. Lou looks so calm, is the thing, and the idea of him honestly considering any of that stuff is heart-wrenching.
He thinks about everything else that Lou does, the partying and the drinking, maybe even the flirting, and wonders if it's all just a substitute. A distraction.
"Wanna watch a movie?" Lou asks, and Harry knows it's the end of the conversation. He's not going to tell him more.
"Yeah, sure," he smiles weakly, and reaches for his tea.
After starting the film up, Lou moves to sit against Harry, curled up close so he can feel Lou's warmth through the few layers separating them. They're maybe halfway through the movie when Lou reaches over, eyes still trained on the screen like nothing is happening, to slide his hand over the front of Harry's jeans. It's precise and deliberate, his fingers pushing in all the right places to get Harry in the state he wants, squirmy and breathless.
But Harry wants more than that, more of Lou, and he tries to reach for him in turn, getting a hand on his thigh only to be pushed back again, fingers wrapping around his wrist to hold him in place.
“Lou,” Harry tries. “I want to touch you.” Lou shushes him, getting his jeans open deftly with his free hand. It's like Harry has no say at all, like it doesn't even matter, and maybe he's a bit too far gone to protest when Lou suddenly lies down over his lap, maybe it can wait just a few minutes longer.
He barely has time to get a word out before Lou starts taking him in, hands resting over his thighs to offer some sort of balance.
The angle feels dirty, especially coupled with how their action movie is still playing in front of them and all Harry can do is run his hands over Lou's shoulders, into the hair pushed together by her headband.
The biggest problem, or perhaps it's the best part, is that from the way Lou is moving her mouth over him, tight and hot, he can easily imagine how it could be slightly different. How Lou would fit in his lap and probably look so beautiful for him. Move her hips in small circles and arch her back.
It's the first time he properly lets himself think like that, about sex as something more encompassing and important - life changing. They could be so good, he thinks as he lets his head fall back, a deep groan escaping as she coaxes yet another orgasm out of him. And he would love her in every moment, he thinks. He would love her with everything he's got.
Lou waits for the high to fade before lifting off, tidying him up a bit and sitting back, settling into the couch like nothing happened.
Slowly, Harry remembers what he'd tried to do, and turns with heavy limbs to look at Lou, blinking slowly.
"Why won't you let me touch you?"
Lou glances at him, wiping the corner of her mouth subtly before looking back at the TV. "I do," she shrugs. "All the time."
"But I wanna make you feel good," Harry mumbles, a little ashamed by everything he's feeling, a little lost.
"I'm just not in the mood," she says, but Harry knows that's a lie. Maybe their whole relationship is.
The conversation is over though, again, and Harry doesn't press it.
When Stan gets home, he's still curled into the corner of the couch and barely paying attention to the film any more. Not only is Lou more interesting to look at, but he's caught up in that deep-set discomfort and shame over the chance that he's putting too much weight on what's happening between them. The other boys' conversation keeps coming back to him, taunting him with the idea that Lou is just playing. Just using him to feel powerful. More than anything, she confuses him, makes him feel young and vulnerable and stupid. He wonders if she's as fluid in other people's eyes, constantly changing, always making you question your own ideas about the world and the people in it.
"Hope you're hungry," Stan says somewhere close by, dropping a pizza onto the coffee table before he squeezes down between Harry and Lou, leaning forward to grab the biggest piece.
It's fascinating, to watch the shift when other people are around. Lou appears less soft, adjusting so that he is sitting differently, lips pursing as he looks at Harry like a dare to call him out on it.
For the rest of the night, Stan is either taking up space between them on the couch or wandering around the flat, so Harry doesn't get another glimpse of Lou as he knows she could be.
When it's nearing midnight and Lou comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth, Harry realises his leaving might be overdue. Getting to his feet, he locates his bag and his shoes, just about to reach for them when Lou calls his name. Harry looks up, seeing him in the doorway to his bedroom.
"You coming?" he asks, a little impatient, like he's already been made to wait.
Harry glances at Stan but he's still watching the TV, completely tuned out by the looks of it.
If he says no this time, Harry feels like he'll never be asked again. Especially when they're both sober.
So he tentatively walks into Lou's room, ready at any moment to be laughed at and sent home.
But Lou climbs into bed, acting a bit like Harry isn't there.
"Gonna just stand there all night?" he asks, spurring Harry into closing the door and pulling off his clothes with a measured pace, because otherwise his own mind will get ahead of him and he'll over think what this could be. Lou turns his back to him, still wearing the same clothes he'd changed into when they got home, so Harry leaves his t-shirt on, slipping under the covers quietly.
He should set an alarm, make sure he makes it to his first class in the morning, but his phone is still in the pocket of his jeans on the floor and Lou's turned out the lights.
"Come on then," he mumbles from the other side of the bed, shifting slightly.
"What?" Harry whispers.
Lou sighs. "You don't have to lie on the edge of the bed, you know."
Harry isn't, but he thinks he knows what he means now.
Quietly, he shuffles closer until he can press close to Lou's back, holding him like he did that time weeks ago when Lou was too drunk to mind. He smells faintly of perfume, flowery and sweet.
***
Luckily, Harry's internal alarm wakes him at the time he would usually be awake for class. Except his usual routine doesn't allow for being pressed up against Lou with a flash of arousal.
Ignoring the second part, Harry tries to discretely nuzzle into Lou's hair, kissing his temple and hovering there when he mumbles, evidently waking up. That wasn't part of the plan, but he can't move more in case that gives him away. Lou stirs, rolling onto his back in Harry's arms, eyes shining bright blue when they open to stare right up at him. Harry counts to three, holding his breath as he gets lost in the intricate pattern of her irises, the freckles scattered across her nose. Then he leans in and kisses her, keeping his eyes firmly closed as Lou lets him in without a fight, parting her lips and sighing into it when Harry shifts closer, pressing her down with his weight. It seems like Lou is too sleepy to have any ill feelings towards kissing, so Harry keeps them gentle, not rushing her at all, and it's one of the best wake-up experiences he's had.
Lou reaches up, all fumbling and uncoordinated, and tugs on Harry's hair to control the angle, and Harry can't help the quiet laugh that falls from his lips. She must be more aware than she seems, which makes it even more amazing that he hasn't been stopped yet.
"Shut up," Lou mumbles, voice a quiet rasp against Harry's lips, and when she deepens the kiss he doesn't feel like laughing anymore. She takes control properly then, gripping the back of Harry's neck and his hip, rolling them over with a push until she's on top.
Even if she were much weaker than she is, Harry would have gone easily. Still, he can't deny the interest that sparks through his body at knowing Lou can manoeuvre him without even trying too hard.
He keeps waiting, giving his all into the kiss and pressing up against Lou's chest, but her hand never moves from his hip, pressing his waist into the bed so he can't get any friction at all.
Just when it's getting too much, and he can barely breathe for wanting Lou's hand on him, she pulls away, smirking down at him and running a hand through his hair gently.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?"
“It can wait,” Harry says breathlessly, fingers finding the hem of her tank top where a bit of skin is exposed, soft and burning.
“Well, I can't,” she tells him then, sitting up and removing his hand from her hip. “Down, boy.”
Harry holds back a groan as she climbs off of him and disappears through the door, his heart still beating furiously in his chest as he buries under the covers. He has to go to school. He has to get himself together.
He misses his first class and gets pulled aside by one of his teachers, receiving a lecture on responsibility and respect.
It's only when there's a threat to get his parents in for a talk that he really starts caring. But even then, while he's arguing his case and apologising repeatedly, he's still caught on the fact that he'd rather have spent more time in bed with Lou and missed another class, regardless of the consequences.
Against his better judgement, Harry goes right to Lou's after school, as if it's routine, and Stan doesn't even seem surprised that he's taking up space any more.
"He's in his room," he says as he lets him in, and Harry can hear music through the door, mumbled words and a quiet bass seeping through the wood.
Lou is on her bed, hair tied up into a sloppy ponytail, knee bent awkwardly in front of her as she's painting her toenails a deep purple colour. She looks up when Harry comes in, sitting very still as Harry closes the door carefully behind him and drops onto the bed, a sudden tiredness flooding his limbs. From here he can see the lipgloss, the way it reflects the light when Lou moves her mouth.
"You could have knocked," she says, caution lingering in her gaze, and Harry realises that Lou's self-conscious.
"Sorry," he breathes, stretching his legs carefully across the sheets so as not to mess up Lou's work. "You look pretty," he adds, because it seems important that she knows. Lou doesn't reply, goes back to her task, and Harry lets the music from the laptop wash over him, slowly alleviating the stress of the day.
When it's clear that Lou isn't in the mood to make an effort to entertain him, or even come any closer, Harry drags out his long overdue homework, figuring that maybe he can get something finished if he's right next to what usually distracts him, getting quietly ignored.
They're silent for a while, Lou painting her nails and Harry struggling through business terminology, but it strikes Harry that he hasn't seen Lou without a cup of tea for this long in her own flat since, well, ever. That's weird, so he sits up with a smile and happily abandons his work. "Hey, do you want some tea?"
“Sure,” she shrugs, screwing the cap onto the small vial carefully. “I'm not gonna blow you, you know,” she adds then without looking up, and Harry feels his smile slipping, chest twisting uncomfortably at the implication.
“That's not...” he tries, the words piling in his throat. “I didn't think-”
“Okay,” Lou interrupts, lying down and propping her feet onto the dresser at the foot of the bed.
Harry flounders in the space between the bed and the door, freaked out and a bit wary, but eventually makes for the kitchen, where he'll be able to panic a bit on his own.
Partly, he doesn't like how Lou seems to think so little of him that he'd put the time into coming over just because it might lead to sex. But mostly, it begs the suggestion that Lou's had a fair few male guests who do just that.
"You alright, mate?" Stan asks, setting his cup down on the counter so Harry can make him a drink, too. "You look like you just got touched up by a ghost."
"Does Lou sleep around a lot?" Harry asks, voice low but distressed – urgent.
"Not... right now," Stan says slowly, "as far as I can tell. Why?"
Harry ducks his head, trying to come up with a response that makes sense, even to himself, but Stan beats him to it.
"Look, it's okay if you've got a thing for him," he says, resting his elbows on the counter so his voice doesn't carry. "Most people do, to be honest. Are you fucking?"
"No," Harry frowns, biting his lip nervously. "Well, not... Not like that."
"I don't think there's anyone else, if that makes you feel any better," Stan tells him, reaching for his cup as Harry manages to pour some water in it. "But you know how he is."
Harry doesn't, not the way Stan does, but he doesn't really want to admit to that. It doesn't do much to calm his climbing distress either, but Stan smiles reassuringly at him and grabs the milk to help Harry finish the tea, and he supposes it has to be enough, right now, to know that Lou isn't bringing people home when he isn't there. Not that Harry could stop her.
"He said we're not a thing," he admits to Stan, as if he can give all the answers to his problems.
"Yeah... Just, wait it out," Stan shrugs, already heading back to the living room area. "It might happen. Never know, really."
Harry returns to Lou's room with his heart feeling heavier than the two chipped cups he carries.
Lou's still stretched out on the bed, feet up and eyes closed. She's so beautiful, Harry thinks like so many times before, letting his gaze roam over her body as he brings the tea over. It's not even about the sex, or the attention. Harry's happy just being in her presence, acknowledged or not.
He lies down next to her, close enough to smell her perfume, the lingering scent of nail varnish, and listens to the music he doesn't recognise – waiting.
But nothing really happens. They drink tea, time passes, and when it gets to the evening, Harry excuses himself and goes home.
He's still caught up in what Stan told him, but the first sign that things aren't fine at home should have been that his parents are both in the kitchen. Or maybe how his dad immediately hugs him before going into the living room while his mum makes them tea and politely asks him to sit down.
“I got a call from one of your teachers today,” she says as Harry sinks onto one of the kitchen chairs. He's already feeling frayed, jumpy and restless with lingering tension, and he doesn't want to have this conversation. He doesn't want any more guilt. “And I can't say I'm surprised,” she continues, making Harry glance up apprehensively as she sits down opposite him. “It's okay to get sidetracked sometimes, and I know how priorities can change, but I'd rather you talk to me than try to handle it on your own, Harry. So what's her name?”
Harry shifts, trying not to squirm away under her knowing gaze before he looks into his tea and mumbles, “It's Lou. Her name is Lou.”
It's hard, trying to explain someone like Lou to his mum. He doesn't mention the drinking or the sex, but he does talk about her ambivalence, how difficult it is to predict her moods and her intentions, how he never knows how she wants to be seen but how it feels like he's the only one who gets it right and maybe that's why she keeps him around.
“It's like she's trapped,” he tells his mum slowly. “Like she wants out but doesn't know how.”
His mum, thankfully, doesn't press for more information than Harry gives her. And by the time it's all out there, he feels drained, like he's a battery that's never going to be fully charge up ever again. It's wearing him down, is the thing, and voicing it properly hasn't made him much happier. It's almost made it more difficult to hold himself together.
"It sounds like you've got quite a handful." his mum admits not unkindly, when they're both catching glimpses of the bottom of their cups between sips and the tea is almost gone. "How do you want it to go? Do you want to get some space?"
"No. I want to get closer."
“I don't know if I can advise you on this,” she admits. “But when you care you care. If you think it's worth it then it is.”
“Thanks,” Harry sighs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just... Sometimes she makes me feel needed. Like, I make her better. But other times I just wonder if anything will ever be enough.”
“You can't do more than be there for her,” his mum tells him gently. “It's all you can ever do for people. But try not to let it consume you. You can't help her if she doesn't want to be helped.”
“I don't think she knows what she wants,” Harry confesses. “And even if she does I don't think that's me.”
The look in his mum's eye is worse than he'd expected, full of pity he never asked for. “Don't let her break your heart,” she says, but Harry thinks it might already be too late for that. She might already have.
He manages to excuse himself with some form of dignity, going through the evening routine of showering and packing his bag for the next day, keeping his turmoil down to a faint tremor in his hands. But once he's run out of things to do, the hurt building in his chest starts to feel like it's overflowing, and it's all he can do to climb into bed and pull the covers up like a shield, trying to listen to his mum, not let all of this consume him.
It almost works, except he keeps unlocking his phone between shaky breaths to see if Lou's texted him.
She doesn't.
***
A week goes by without a word from her. Harry knows he could call, or stop by her flat, but he doesn't, scared of how it'll make him feel, scared of giving too much away. He talks to the other boys sporadically but when they invite him to the pub he declines, even when he finds out Lou is going. It's like he's reached his limit, stretched thin from trying so hard that he just feels like he can't anymore. If Lou's moved on, so can he.
Except she does call on the Friday night when Harry knows she's at the pub. He watches her caller ID on the little screen, feeling the familiar twist of anticipation in his gut, but he doesn't pick up. She doesn't leave a voice mail, or text. Harry's not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
He stays strong, if that's even the right word for it. All he really manages to do is make himself sadder and lose even more sleep. It's a familiar cycle, but not one he's willing to break out of by sending a text.
He still goes to classes, because that keeps him a little more distracted. It's his only safe haven, because Lou has never been here. She can't fuck with him when his phone is at the bottom of his bag and he's surrounded by other people he never learnt the names of.
Until the day she does.
He's just coming out of class, absently rooting through his bag for his wallet when he sees her at the lockers across the hallway, casually leaning against them with her hands folded across her chest. And she's definitely passing, with her hair combed straight and shiny, a fluffy jumper obscuring her torso and reaching halfway down her thighs, a pair of see through tights beneath. Harry's never seen her dressed like that in public before, and it makes his throat go dry, just from the thrill of it.
“You've been ignoring me,” she says, voice carefully measured to sound just right. It's impressive, the way she rests her weight on one leg, knee bent slightly inwards, and Harry wouldn't have thought twice about it. No one would.
Somehow, her tone is even more judgemental.
"I've been catching up at school," Harry tries, as if that stops him being able to send one text every now and then.
"Sure." Harry's never been good at lying, so it's no surprise that she just shakes her head and reaches out, catching his hand confidently and pulling him down the corridor. He could put up a fight, except the way Lou looks is sparking up longing that makes him wonder why it was a good idea to keep his distance in the first place. So Harry follows her blindly, just like he's probably always going to.
She leads him into an empty classroom, one that Harry's never been in, and closes the door, dragging a chair in front of it like she's done it countless times before. Harry doesn't know what he's expecting but there's a nervous tremor in his hand as he drops his bag to the floor.
They stare at each other for a moment, and then she's pushing him towards the end of the classroom, away from the door and any chance of another student looking in on them.
“Are you seeing someone?” Lou asks, scowling like she's going to be able to see the truth no matter what Harry says. She'll probably see a 'yes' even though it's impossible.
“No, I-” His explanation is cut short when Lou drops to her knees with all the grace Harry never had, and makes short work of his jeans, determined as she reaches into his boxers and wets her lips in anticipation. “Lou, no,” Harry gasps, trying to reach for her. “No, s-stop...” He manages to back away slightly, his back hitting the wall and pulling down some sheets of paper that land on the floor with a rustle. The look she gives him is terrifying.
“So that's it?” she snaps, voice going lower as her control slips. “You're not attracted to me anymore?”
“What?” Harry breathes, leaning heavily against the wall as they stare at each other.
“Are you gonna tell me I'm fucked up, huh?” she continues, getting to her feet angrily. “That I need help? Just like the others.”
"Fuck, what?" Harry shakes his head, wondering how things fell apart this fast. Ten minutes ago his biggest concern was which poet to focus on for quote-picking in Literature. Lou looks ready to hit him, and for a second, he's convinced she will. So he starts talking, buying time.
"I don't think there's something wrong with you. I never have." It's enough to calm her, have her wrapping her arms around her chest protectively and glaring at him through her fringe.
"So what the hell is your problem, then?" It's less a question, more a demand.
"I thought you were tired of me," Harry confesses. "And this," he gestures between them vaguely, "is messing with my head, Lou."
"Because it makes you queer?"
"No! Because you keep telling me it doesn't mean anything. I wanna be able to give back but you don't trust me and I don't know what to do."
Lou takes a step back, whatever witty reply she had falling away, and ducks her head.
She doesn't insist that it is something, but Harry stopped hoping for blatant confirmation weeks ago.
So he just watches, until Lou straightens up and delicately brushes her fringe out of her eyes. "Let's go."
"Go? I've got classes, Lou. I'm sort of supposed to be in one right now." Harry picks up his bag, trying to ignore the tremble he's still feeling. Lou rolls her eyes and pushes him towards the door, her voice slipping up a bit as she seems to settle back into herself.
"I signed you out."
Harry's just about to argue when she takes his hand, hers small and soft against his palm, and whatever protest he had dies in his throat as his breath catches. It feels more intimate than anything they've done, more like an apology than Harry had any reason to expect. Lou is silent, and no one sees them leave, but Harry's heart is hammering all the same. If his hands get a bit clammy she doesn't mention it.
They walk into town, stopping by a coffee shop where Lou buys two cups of tea without asking what Harry wants but hands him one anyway. They've just stepped outside when Harry recognises Zayn and Liam on the other side of the street.
“Hey!” he calls, waving them over with a grin.
“Harry, what the hell are you doing here?” Zayn greets him cheerily, Liam fast on his heel.
“We were just-” Harry starts before he realises that Lou's gone and he's stood alone with two cups of tea in his hands. “Um... I got a drink for a friend,” he amends quickly. “On my way there now.”
“Is it Louis by any chance?”
The name sits weird in Harry's chest, like badly chewed food. “Maybe,” he admits.
“Tell him hi from us then,” Zayn grins. “Have fun.”
As they leave, Harry shifts from one foot to the other, waiting for Lou to emerge from the coffee shop, looking somewhat nervous. It's not a look Harry's seen on her often.
“Thanks,” she says, accepting the tea when Harry hands it to her. There's an awkward pause before she adds, “I just didn't want them to see-”
“It's okay,” Harry interrupts. “I get it. It's fine.”
She looks up, meeting his eyes as she sweeps her fringe to the side, her irises a startling blue in the pale sunshine. “Do you honestly not care?” she asks then – vulnerable, Harry thinks, and he doesn't have to ask what she means to know that the words he chooses are the most important words in the world at that moment.
“I think you're perfect all the time,” he says, trying to ignore the way his pulse speeds up and his voice sounds shaky in his own ears. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”
Lou smiles gently, and slots against his side while they wait for a gap in the traffic to walk through. After a while, Harry starts to notice Lou fiddling with the hem of her jumper, nervously twitching a hand up to her hair as she tries to subtly look around, and it doesn't take long to realise that now she'd been spooked, almost seen by Zayn and Liam, she's feeling less confident.
Slowly, Harry steers them back towards Lou's flat, telling stories to keep her attention focused in on him, but he doesn't do a wonderful job when the stories are uninteresting and long-winded.
"Has anyone told you you've got shitty anecdotes?" she asks as they climb the stairs to her door.
"Yeah," Harry admits. "Sorry."
"So what are you good at?"
"What?"
"Tell me something you're good at."
"Um. I'm... I'm quite good at baking," Harry tries, and realises that even that is a bit boring.
"Of course you are," Lou smirks, like she expected it of him.
"I'm alright at making clumsiness look intentional."
Lou outright laughs at that one, toeing off her shoes in the hallway and making her way to the kitchen with all the confidence she had back before they ran into their friends. "You wish it looked intentional."
"Alright," Harry counters, going to lean on the breakfast bar. "Either tell me what I'm good at, or tell me about your own skills." It's a win-win, if she complies, because it still means Harry gets to find out more about her.
"I asked because you've yet to show off your hidden talents," she tells him with a half-smile, fetching two beers from the fridge and sliding one over to Harry. "But at a guess I'd say you're good at following rules."
"Not that good," Harry admits. "I've barely been to half of my classes lately."
"Hm," she hums, taking a swig of her drink. "What about football?"
"In theory more than practice," Harry says sheepishly. "You?"
"I was," she nods. "Until they kicked me off the team."
Harry frowns, ready to ask why she'd be kicked off, but it's actually painfully likely that it would be down to how she acts. Who she is. So he stays quiet. He's pretty good at that.
"What else are you good at?" he asks, moving the conversation along, then answering his own question. "You're good at throwing parties."
"A Tomlinson party is the best in Doncaster," Lou agrees, moving again, rounding the counter to sink onto the couch. Harry follows. “But Stan helps."
"Really?"
"Well, no. He sort of watches me get ready and helps me drive all the alcohol from the supermarket. I was trying to be humble but it turns out that I'm shit at it."
"You're good at kissing," Harry says, turning to look at her shyly. She raises one eyebrow, bringing the bottle to her lips without drinking.
"And other things," she replies.
They look at each other over the edge of her bottle for a moment, the tension from the classroom falling back between them, but then Lou shrugs it off with a smirk, like Harry missed his chance today and isn't allowed another one. He wants to ask what other things she's good at, wants to ask what he needs to be good at to make her feel like she does for him, but she's already reaching to turn the telly on, and that means he isn't allowed to ask, now.
Lou looks quite delicate, curled up with her feet tucked under herself with the large jumper pooling over her thighs, and Harry feels the words get stuck in his throat, not even surfacing when he tries to use the beer to dislodge them. He means to tell her how pretty she is again, because there are so many times she probably didn't hear it, and he wants to make up for them. But something tells him that right now, she knows she is, and that's going to have to be enough.
***
He stays over that night, pressed up against Lou's back with his heart swollen in his chest. She falls asleep quickly but Harry lies awake, listening to her quiet breathing, splaying fingers over her soft belly. She smells so good, and he can't stop nosing at her hairline, inching closer and wishing it didn't have to end. Like this, he can imagine keeping her safe, wrapped up and happy.
For the next few days, Harry mostly sleeps at Lou's. It isn't like they talked about it, but he starts packing a clean shirt and underwear in his school bag each day when he stops off for books.
His mum tries to give him The Talk on one of those mornings, but Harry hurriedly tells her that he's heard enough horror stories to know the proper procedure, and that he doesn't want to talk about it.
In truth, he hasn't heard anything. but he doesn't need to. They haven't really done much. Not compared to all the things they could be doing, and while that's frustrating because he wants to hear how pretty Lou could get, Harry doesn't much mind that all they do is cuddle and drink tea while sharing furtive glances.
When Saturday finally rolls around, he's never been happier to sleep in. The room is already awash with pale sunshine as he opens his eyes, a flutter of pink in the corner of his vision. He stretches, rolling over and sees Lou standing by the foot of the bed, in front of the small mirror on the wall. She's wearing the dress, the one Harry had found weeks ago at the back of her closet, carefully tying the long band around her waist into a bow.
As Harry stirs she looks up, her hair so long now that it curls slightly on her shoulders, falling gently across her face.
"Morning," Harry whispers, not wanting to break whatever delicate moment he's intruded on. But really, if he wasn't supposed to see, Lou could have waited until he wasn't there.
Lou carefully rearranges the bow, looking at him in the reflection of the mirror, and she's so beautiful, with the dress accentuating her curves perfectly and her hair looking so soft.
She doesn't speak, so Harry takes it upon himself to get up and walk over, movements slow and sleep-heavy, to delicately run his fingers over the soft fabric.
"You look amazing," he breathes, eyes caught on the swell of her hips that he really wants to wrap his hands over. "Where did you get it?"
"It used to be my mum's," Lou says, and it's the first time Harry's ever heard her talk about her family. He doesn't dare ask, but his hands move of their own accord, reaching out to pull her into a kiss he hadn't even planned.
His fingers sink into her hair, the other hand finding her waist to keep her close, and she kisses him back, soft and yielding in a way she's never allowed before.
"Please let me touch you," Harry mumbles, a desperate sort of hope growing in his chest with every second.
"How?"
"How do you want it?"
She pulls back to duck her head, but doesn't move out of Harry's arms. "Not the front," she says.
"Okay," Harry whispers, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Okay, baby."
The dress looks beautiful, but he doesn't want to ruin it. Turning Lou in his arms, Harry gently pulls down the zip on the back, letting it pool at her feet. It's the first time he's been allowed to see her properly, without shirts in the way or darkness to smother details, and she's breathtaking even while she closes her eyes and waits.
Gently, with hands on her soft hips, Harry guides them onto the bed, dragging the covers to partially hide them and crawling so he's hovering over Lou, keeping her safe and warm. He wants to do everything she'll allow, to draw pretty sounds and hear how his name looks on her lips when she doesn't even know she's saying it. But it seems important to start slow.
Ducking down, he takes advantage of how pliant Lou's become and kisses down her throat, leaving hints of teeth but not knowing for sure if he can leave marks, if he's allowed to show anyone that he was there. She tilts her head to the side, sighing softly as he keeps his lips on her skin, tasting her, wishing she could be this trusting all the time.
"Can I touch your chest?" he asks, watching her turn her head slowly and open her eyes. When she nods, Harry smiles, ducking to kiss her collarbones, the dip in her sternum, the pink mount of her nipple. She sighs again then, ending on a low whine, and Harry feels completely drunk on it, the way she finally lets him in.
It's like he can't get enough, can't fully absorb the breathless sounds she's making, so he darts out his tongue, tasting soft skin and the way she presses up, sounding just as surprised as he is. Small hands reach into his hair once he starts testing the skin with his teeth, encouraging him.
He shifts his weight, reaching with his hand for the other side of her chest, and listens to the breathy moans slipping out of her mouth, sparking a confidence he hasn't felt for a long time.
When she starts to squirm he kisses her mouth and gently turns her over.
He waits once they're settled, and wonders how to proceed without going too fast. But the smooth expanse of Lou's back looks so enticing, so he starts at the base of her neck, kissing down and running his lips over the skin. One day, he wants to massage all the tension of wearing the identity of somebody she's never fitted, but that's for later.
The closer he gets to the pastel lace layered over her hips, the higher her whines reach, and it's actually more beautiful than he'd imagined it could be.
She rocks her hips forward slightly, as if by accident, and moans in a way that has the hairs on Harry's neck stand on end. He's so hard, blood pulsing loudly in his ears as he reaches for the top of her knickers and pulls them slowly over her bum. She spreads her legs for him, arching her back gracefully, and Harry feels greedy when he moves in to lick her, greedy and so very humbled to be allowed.
At the first touch of his tongue, Lou cries out, like for some reason she hadn't expected him to want to be as close as possible. Maybe he should wait longer, but Harry never really learnt about this sort of thing, and he wants it to be so good, so it's only natural that his tongue goes from flat to sharp, pressing into her carefully, and the obscene moan it earns him sends painful shocks down his body, the need to get some sort of friction almost overwhelming him.
It's all instinct at this point, he thinks as he spreads her cheeks further, driving into her deeper. It's all need and lust and wonderful oblivion, like his fears are all rendered irrelevant in the face of such intimacy. It doesn't matter if he's good or bad, just that he's there, that he's aware when she asks for more.
So he finds the lubricant in her drawer and uses his fingers to open her up. She doesn't fight him, and he thinks that if they don't do it now there may never come another chance. This might be all they get.
He leans in, mouth close to her ear, and whispers, "Do you want me to fuck you, Lou?"
It's not that he expects a completely coherent answer. But the desperate whine swallowing the quiet 'yes' Lou gives him is better than he could have hoped.
The temperature in the room seems to rocket, then. Harry can't rip off what's left of his clothes fast enough, and the minute he pulls his fingers away from Lou, her back is arching, like she needs him closer. It feels so good to be wanted that badly, for them to actually share the need instead of Harry feeling guilty for wanting so badly.
It's the first time he's actually going to do something like this, but Lou's taken so many of his firsts, anyway. This is potentially trivial, in the long run, but he wants it to mean something, wants to take the chance while they're both too worked up to think about waiting any longer.
There's condoms in the drawer and Harry doesn't stop to think about why or who as he gets one out, fingers slipping over the plastic. Lou's quiet and still as she waits, face buried in the pillows, and Harry wishes he knew what she was thinking but doesn't know how to ask. Perhaps it's enough that she's just there too, waiting.
The seconds between messing up which way the condom works and reaching for the lube as he crawls closer seem to stretch for hours, and even just the touch of his own hand feels like playing with fire.
Harry takes a moment to breathe, closing his eyes and promising himself to last longer than half a minute, and settles over Lou, getting the angle right and pushing in.
For a moment everything seems to slow down, and he can fit his nose against the junction behind Lou's ear, breathing her in as their bodies align. He takes a breath, listening, feeling her clench around him once before she lets out a sigh and pushes back.
She just gives in to him, body lax as he tests the waters with a shallow movement, but even with Lou relaxing for him, she's still so hot and tight, overwhelming as he tries to get used to the pressure. There's no danger of him finishing too soon, at least, because it's like he's slightly outside himself, distracted by learning what he can do that make Lou's voice catch in that high, raspy tone. His own pleasure fades out a bit, lost behind how from this angle, he can nose at her hairline and kiss her shoulder, and receive happy sighs instead of an irritated huff.
Everything seems hushed outside, a bit blurry around the edges as he tries to focus, but it doesn't matter he thinks, gripping her hip to get her closer. He can feel her tensing, biting back a groan as he speeds up, just enough to make her surrender. She comes silently, with her face obscured and fingers clenching in the sheets. Harry lets go then, muffling his moans in her neck as he follows her blindly, shuddering through it until it all just stops.
It takes a long time to fall back into himself, absently nuzzling at her neck and kissing her temple.
He doesn't know what's appropriate, if he's allowed to stay pressed in close, intimately holding onto her and filling her.
"Okay," she whispers, "you're crushing me."
And like that, the delicate silence is ruined, and Harry is forced go move.
She wraps the covers around herself when she sits up, so small in the middle of the bed.
"Could you make some tea?" she asks, voice raspy and uneven.
"Yeah, of course," Harry whispers, quickly pulling on his pants and a t-shirt before slipping out of the bedroom.
His hands are trembling when he puts the kettle on.
Stan wanders out of his room, likely lured by the kettle, and halts to look at him, a grin forming on his face.
"Harry," he intones, looking proud.
Harry tucks his head down, letting his damp fringe hide his face, the flush still dashed over his cheeks.
"Do you want tea?" he asks, clenching his fists to hide the shaking, the fact that his mind is spinning and he isn't sure what all this means in the grand scheme of things.
"Yeah, course I do," Stan says, and there's a heavy sort of pause in which Harry gets two cups out and tries not to cry. "Hey, are you alright?"
"Yeah," Harry replies on a shuddery breath, brushing at his cheeks when the tears start. "I'm fine."
"Don't give up on him," Stan tells him suddenly, his expression serious as Harry looks up.
"It's she," he says weakly. Stan cocks his head, letting a second pass before he replies.
"He finally made up his mind then?"
"No. I don't know," Harry sighs. "It's what it feels like. It's how she feels, around me."
"Then don't give up on her," Stan says as Harry slides his tea across the counter. "You're so bloody good for her."
In spite of himself, Harry smiles.
He stays in the kitchen for a few more minutes, letting the tears that built up overflow just because he knows the minute he tries to talk they'd come anyway. But as soon as he feels stable enough, he carries the tea back to Lou's room, so that it hasn't been too long and she can't complains that it's gone cold. Any criticism honestly feels like it would break him, right now.
She's dressed when he enters. Sweats and shirt, a beanie pulled over her hair. Maybe to fuck with his perception again, Harry thinks, but it's not working, he can't unsee her now. The dress is back in the closet.
"We're throwing a party," Lou announces from the bed but doesn't look up from her phone. "I need your help with the booze."
Harry puts her tea down on the dresser, holding onto his own.
"Will you wear the dress?" he asks, and he knows it's risky but he's not going to pretend it didn't happen. He's not going to pretend he doesn't know her at all.
"What?" she says, finally looking up. There's a faint bruise halfway down her neck.
"The dress," Harry repeats. "Will you wear it?"
There's a few seconds of silence, her eyes calculating, something rebellious flickering over her features.
"Yeah," she answers at last, as if it's a challenge, more rules for her to break. Harry didn't mean it like that, but it's too late to take it back now.
***
The party turns out to be a 'dress to impress' theme, and Stan pulls up in the morning outside Harry's house with Lou in the passenger seat, pressing the horn until he stumbles out with one shoe on and a handful of money stuffed into his pocket to help buy supplies to a party he isn't even hosting.
It's been a week since he slept with Lou, and he hasn't seen much of her since. But she texts, mostly late at night, mostly nonsense, except for the one time when she asked what he wants to do after college. He told her he doesn't know but only because he's too scared to tell her the truth. All he ever really wanted was to get out, go to London with Niall like they've talked about since they were kids, maybe travel. He'd take her with him, of course, anywhere if he had a choice, but it's not down to him. It never was.
Stan offers him a bright smile that's loaded with empathy, trying to drive the car with Lou's scuffed vans propped up on the dashboard as she shouts at him for taking too long when Harry wasn't even told they'd stop by.
She's difficult to get a read on today, with chinos rolled up over her ankles and a wide neck striped tee fitting over her hips. She's undoubtedly feminine, but in a way that would probably make it difficult for other people to tell what she is.
"So Harry, you're on snacks, because quite frankly I don't trust your alcoholic priorities. Even this feels risky, so don't go fucking it up with digestives or something. Stan, you're with me on the booze."
Harry doesn't answer verbally, trying to tie his laces where he's sprawled in the back seat and ignoring how his heart races when Lou twists in the seat to check he's paying attention. They get caught like that, just staring. It still feels strange to be the focus of her gaze. Like a small creature being noticed by a far superior being. Stan's voice breaks the moment, snapping them out of it.
"Lou, for fuck's sake, put your seatbelt on. I'm not paying another fine because you value comfort over the rules."
"Okay, mum," she replies impatiently and turns around, leaving Harry to get his own seatbelt fastened as he lets himself be whisked away. He listens to Stan and Lou bicker in the front seat, and feels like he doesn't quite fit into their world, their quick banter, the way they take up so much space without even knowing. Harry doesn't know how to do that.
They arrive at Tesco in a way that seems sudden, and Lou almost appears to forget he's with them at all, busy shrieking and running around the car while Stan tries to catch her in response to a comment made seconds earlier. It's so rare to see her acting without a clear end result, so Harry keeps out of it, quite content to leave them alone since he isn't even with them on their shopping mission.
He goes off on his own, spending the last of his pocket money on crisps, sweets and popcorn that he chooses very carefully, picking things he knows Lou likes. By the time the other two comes back to the car carrying crates of beer, Harry holds up his bag and lets Lou inspect it.
"You got Kettle crisps," she says flatly.
"Mhm," Harry nods.
She touches his waist then, her thumb pressing into his skin, and before she can pull back Harry leans in to press his lips against hers, knowing Stan is just on the other side of the car, watching.
"It'll do," Lou says, as if they didn't just kiss at all.
There's a loud sound, and Stan has put a crate of Strongbow on the roof of the car to draw their attention.
"Right. This isn't on any more," he starts, hands resting on his hips while he squints at Lou over the car. Lou steps back from Harry, eyebrows raising, and shifts so her weight is on one leg, hip cocked to one side while her arms cross defensively. She looks too intimidating to even question, and Harry can't imagine having the courage for whatever Stan is doing.
"Problem?"
"Yes, actually. This boy." He points at Harry, who silently pouts over the term. "He does everything you ask, and you're frankly being a bit of an arse to him. At least kiss him back once in a while, tell him 'well done' every now and again, yeah?"
It isn't a real question, because as soon as he's done, Stan huffs and grabs the crate, climbing into the car and leaving them alone.
"I don't see how that's any of your business!" she shouts through the window but Stan ignores her, waiting patiently in the driver's seat. Lou sighs.
"Thanks for helping out," she says reluctantly, allowing Harry to reach up and card his fingers through her soft hair. All he wants is to get closer.
"S'alright," he replies, slightly unprepared when she tilts her head up and gives him a quick kiss before ducking to finally get into the car.
"That's better," Stan mutters as they drive off. Lou ignores him.
Harry gets two whole minutes to stop at home, grabbing a selection of clothes Lou might approve of. But tonight, he isn't really sure what to wear, and is banking on Lou and Stan to have some ideas knocking around the flat.
He ends up helping to prep the flat while Lou dictates from the sofa, hands curled around a milky cup of tea and complaining that they're both too slow, and Harry keeps getting in the way of the TV.
"How about you actually help out?" Stan says at last with an irritated huff, dumping a pile of dirty clothes on the floor.
"Can't," Lou says around a mouthful of crisp. "Gotta get my make-up on."
Stan looks at Harry, still annoyed but clearly unsure of Lou's game. Harry just shrugs, an odd sense of anxiety settling in his stomach.
"Alright, fine. It had better look stunning, otherwise I'm making you do the last bits of this set up," Stan allows, waving her away and watching as Lou cheers, climbing over the back of the couch.
Harry's unease must be visible, because she stops next to him and pats his cheek gently. "Only looking good for you, love," she announces sweetly, but it doesn't seem quite real, and that hurts more than silence.
Stan waits until Lou starts playing music in her room before throwing a pillow at Harry and gesturing to the kitchenette so they can talk.
"Make-up?"
"She's wearing a dress tonight," Harry whispers, unsure if he should be breaking the news.
"All out?" Stan asks quietly.
"I guess so," Harry shrugs again. "I can never really tell..."
"You're not the only one, mate."
"I just..." Harry tries. "I just want her to be her."
"Yeah..." Stan sighs. "Whatever that means."
They stand together for a moment, united in how they're completely baffled by their friend in the next room, and then keep working on making sure the fridge is stocked with booze, and there are various stations of food throughout the main flat area. Stan locks up his more expensive items in a trunk under his bed, muttering about how not all Lou's mates are completely trustworthy.
All too soon, it's nearing the hour everyone is set to arrive, and they haven't seen Lou since she ran off to avoid doing anything towards the party.
Harry pushes the door open very slowly to her room, catching sight of her in front of the mirror. She's only in her underwear, lacy knickers and a small matching bra without padding, leaning in to finish the last touches to her eyes. As Harry slips inside, she stops humming.
"You were serious," Harry says quietly as he looks her over, back pressed to the door.
"I'm always serious," she replies, putting down the mascara. "Do you think I look stupid?"
And there it is again, he thinks. The vulnerability.
"No," he hurries to admit. "You're stunning. Don't you get that all the time?"
She reaches for the dress then, spread out over the bed. "This is different," she says.
"It shouldn't be," Harry breathes quietly. "It's you, isn't it?"
She looks at him, sizing him up, making him feel small and childish and so inadequate. "Is it?"
"Yes," Harry whispers, because to him it's always been simple. To him, she's always been exactly her, never defined by others, never limited by their ignorance.
Lou stares him down for several long moments, and Harry lets himself be an open book, allowing her to see his honesty.
And like that, the vulnerability is gone.
Lou turns, effectively ignoring him, but he's permitted to watch, observing how she lets the dress pool on the floor and steps delicately into it.
"Zip me up, would you?" she asks softly, voice shifting into a higher pitch.
Harry does as he's told, stepping close and letting his hands come to rest on her hips when he's done. He kisses her neck, nuzzling the hair behind her ear, and listens to the soft sighs she lets out, almost like relief. When she tilts her head Harry presses more kisses to the exposed skin above the line of the dress, one of his arms circling her waist, and that's when the front door bursts open, loud voices erupting the perfect quiet around them.
Lou takes a step out of his arms, readjusting her hair. When Harry meets her eyes she looks scared, but only for a second.
"You need to get dressed," she says decisively. "Here." She walks over to the closet, pulling out a shirt and jeans that are clearly her own. "Hurry up."
Once he rolls down the jeans, they fit quite well, but it becomes clear from the cut around his thighs that they're probably from the women's section. Harry finds he doesn't care.
Lou fusses over his curls for a bit, making him look halfway nice and staring at herself critically at every chance, but they can't avoid going outside forever.
Lou is on the fifth re-tie of the silk bow around her waist when there's a soft knock at the door, and Stan sticks his head in with his eyes closed.
"You both decent? Only, there's a party out here that you're meant to be helping to run."
"Fine, we're coming," Lou tells him and Harry doesn't like the edge to her voice because it isn't irritation, it's fear.
Stan opens his eyes and surprises Harry by breaking into a genuine smile.
"Looking drop dead, the two of you," he says before opening the door wider and shouting for everyone to behave and pay for anything they break.
Lou walks straight out, headed for the fridge where a large group of people have already gathered to make drinks.
"Wey, hey!" Nick shouts the moment he sees her. "I didn't know it was a Halloween party!"
People's attention shift quickly, laughs erupting and catcalls piercing the loud music. Someone Harry doesn't recognise, an intimidating looking guy, reaches for the hem of Lou's dress as if to pull it up.
"Don't fucking touch me," she snaps and this, Harry thinks, this is what she'd been afraid of.
He wants to step in and defend her, but the pronouns get tangled in his mouth, and she looks like Harry jumping in is the last thing she wants.
They escape the kitchen, and find a relatively new crowd that must have been invited by Stan. They don't know Lou to look any different, and things are fine, for a little while.
Someone asks who did her make-up, looking impressed, and Harry feels a swell of pride at how her back straightens up a bit, and she confirms that she did it on her own with a hint of defiance, and it's all okay.
Except it really isn't, and Lou keeps getting catcalls across the room as the night gets darker and everyone drinks more alcohol, feels more outspoken.
People keep trying to grab her on the way past, with one guy going far enough to try slipping his arms around Lou's waist, moving them up her chest until she slaps his hands away and steps closer to Harry.
In the end, Harry has to excuse himself to get a drink, because it's all too much, and he needs time out before he starts shouting at people and annoying Lou, but he gets caught by Nick, who seems to never leave the kitchen. He's leering before he even opens his mouth, but Harry's terrible and leaving conversations before they're over.
"You having a good time?" he asks as Harry uncaps a bottle of beer clumsily, taking a long swig.
"Sure," he shrugs.
"What about Lou then?"
"What about her?"
Nick raises his eyebrows. "You straight?" he asks. "Is that why he's all dressed up like that?"
"What?" Harry frowns, trying to keep up with Nick's conversational leaps.
"Well, you're shagging, aren't you?"
"I don't make her do anything," Harry says in disbelief when he understands what Nick is getting at.
"Is that any better?" Nick throws back, and Harry almost feels sick with this is whole thing is turning. "Look, if you are apparently straight, you're fooling nobody by having Lou prance around in a dress. But if you're not, then you don't want some nancy."
Harry can tell what's coming, but the world is moving in slow motion, and he can't escape.
"If you want a real guy to show you the ropes, I'm right here."
"You're disgusting," Harry finally manages, moving out from behind the bar where he'd been caged in, looking around wildly for Lou.
He can't find her in the main room and there's so many people that he has to force his way to Lou's room, then to Stan's when she isn't there. People are dancing or making out or shouting wherever he goes and he's starting to panic when he remembers the balcony, dodging Nick just in time before he reaches the door.
Cold night air hits him in the face as he steps out, but it's quieter here, easier to breathe.
Lou is leaning against the railing, the small balcony deserted instead of filled with their friends like it usually is. He hasn't seen them all night, so perhaps they weren't invited to Lou's debut as herself.
"I couldn't find you," he whispers, stepping up and pressing one hand against Lou's waist to make sure she's really there.
"That's because I was out here, innit?"
Her words a slightly slurred, posture lax like she needs the support of the railing, but Harry can't blame her for getting drunk. He can't really blame her for anything.
"Well, yeah," he sighs, letting his hand drop. "Are you alright?"
She laughs, a quiet, hollow sort of sound that makes something clench painfully in Harry's chest. "They think it's a joke," she says, staring down at the street below. "I guess it is."
"You're not a joke," Harry mumbles, feeling cold to the core as he wraps his arms around himself.
"Yeah? Then why is everyone laughing?"
There's not really a good answer to that, so Harry turns his attention to fixing how Lou's hair has been blown into a mess in the night air.
"I don't know why I even thought I could try," she mutters, kicking a cigarette end from the floor and watching it fall, swept away by the wind.
"It's not your fault," Harry tries, wanting to get closer but afraid to be pushed away. He's shivering now, but he can't feel the cold.
"What if I jumped?" Lou asks suddenly, leaning further over the railing. "Do you think that would get their attention?"
"Lou..." Harry whines, wrapping his fingers around her wrist tightly.
"It's not like anyone cares anyway," she says bitterly and Harry thinks she might be crying. He is too.
"Your family. They'd care." It's a wonder he gets the words out, when it feels like his lungs are caving, collapsing under the strain of what Lou has suggested.
"Would they? Haven't had a call in a while. Maybe they'd be glad to get rid of their fucked up son."
Lou practically spits the last word, and picks up a pebble from the corner of the balcony, watching in fascination as it falls to the ground.
"Lou, please."
"We should record something so nobody thinks you pushed me." Her voice is empty, terrifying in how final she sounds. It's all Harry can do to hold onto her wrist tighter, trying to keep her close.
"The body falls differently," he says but doesn't really register that he's saying it.
"What?"
"They'll be able to see," he goes on, "that you jumped. You can tell, apparently."
She looks over at him, face blank, and it's a stare that seems to last all night inside Harry's screaming head. "Okay," she says at last and leans forward.
And Harry can tell, in the way she moves too slow and how she relaxes against him when he reaches out blindly to hold her against his chest, that she was never going to jump, but he catches her anyway because she still needs to be caught.
She doesn't turn towards him and press her face into his throat like he'd expected her to, but he stopped assuming Lou might follow his thoughts a long time ago. It's more that she goes limp, all the fight and upset leaving her body once the choice is taken away, however weak it had been.
"Come on," Harry breathes, fitting snug against her back with his fingers wrapped around her hips. "Let's go to bed."
They sneak through the party relatively unnoticed, with Harry tucking Lou protectively under his arm, shooting dark looks at anyone who gets close, and lock the door behind themselves. It's the first time in what feels like years that Harry can let go of her without fearing that she'll never come back to him.
He doesn't turn the lights on but there's enough light from the street lamps outside that he can see her face, mascara running in lines down her cheeks, everything smudged and damp.
He takes her dress off, and she doesn't move other than to shiver. There's a thousand thoughts running through his head but his only focus is on her - unclasping her bra, trying to wipe her cheeks, leading her to the bed, tucking her in. She's still shivering in Harry's arms even as they tangle legs and pull the covers up, but she's closed her eyes and maybe her dreams will be a better place for now.
He wants to follow her into them, to get some relief and dream of a happier life where the kind of people who laugh at others don't exist, but the party is still going beyond the door, and he gets caught trying to identify each song, matching the beats against Lou's soft breaths ghosting over his throat.
He's not sure when it went from loud talking and music to more relaxed tunes and distant murmurs, but eventually the party fades out, and all that's left is Stan's voice, telling the stragglers to get out because he isn't sharing his bed and doesn't want to anyone taking up the couch when his hangover hits tomorrow.
The flat goes quiet, and outside the window birds start singing, signalling the beginning of dawn.
Harry slips out of bed soundlessly, moving through the rooms until he can close the door behind him on the balcony, breathing in the cold morning air. Then he calls Niall.
"Harry?" he answers sleepily just as Harry's about to hang up. "Has something happened?"
"No," Harry says quickly, walking over to the railing, the exact same spot Lou had been in. "I mean, yeah, I guess. A lot has happened."
"What do you mean?" Niall prompts on the other end, seemingly awake enough to listen.
"Lou's a girl," Harry starts, voice more resigned than anything, a little hoarse. There's a pause, the sound of breathing, and then,
"Okay," Niall agrees. Harry closes his eyes, takes a breath and goes on.
"You know how we used to talk about getting out of here? Moving to London?"
"Sure."
"It needs to happen. I'm almost done with school, it's time. Lou's coming with. And Stan, if he wants."
"I'm not really following."
"She's dying, Niall," Harry tells him with as much conviction as he can muster. "This town, it's killing her, and I need to get her out."
It's almost silent on the other end, but he thinks he can hear some movement.
"Niall?"
"Yeah, I'm here." Harry thinks it sounds like his voice is muffled, like he's actually just been eating this entire time even though he just woke up. "Let's do it, then. We'll start looking for flats. Three rooms to fit all of us."
Harry loves Niall, more in this moment than he ever has. He sounds as calm as if Harry just called him at a reasonable time to talk about how they all take their tea. It's soothing, his inability to be phased by anything.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, Harry," Niall sounds like he's smiling, now, and if they were near each other Harry would fling his arms around him and kiss him until Niall either pushes him off or plays along. "We'll get her out of here. I promise."
"Thank you," Harry breathes, hot tears of relief and sadness and hope sliding down his cheeks as he blinks against the brightening sky. "Thank you so much."
He falls asleep finally, pressed up against Lou's back with his face tucked into her hair, and wakes up some time later with a new sense of conviction fluttering around his rib age. Lou's sat on the floor, back resting against the side of the bed, knees pulled up to her chest, and Harry crawls over to press his lips to her cheek, fingers tangling in the soft hair at her neck.
"What are you even doing here?" she asks, but there's no anger in her voice, barely above a whisper.
"Where else would I be?"
She shifts, turning her head just enough to be able to look at him. "You can't fix me, you know."
"You don't need to be fixed."
"Are you just saying that?"
"I mean it."
Harry keeps petting her, staying quiet while they both adjust to how things seem to have changed. At some point, Harry drags the covers from the bed and bundles Lou up until she's a pile of blankets with only her tired eyes on show, and goes to make tea in the wreckage of a kitchen. His promise to get them away from here needs some sort of cushion, and Lou is always softer with a brew held between her small palms.
He sits down next to her when he comes back, leaning back against the bed tiredly but unable not to notice the softness of Lou's knee as it knocks against his, the warmth spreading from the touch.
"Niall and I have a plan," he says into the silence. "We've talked about it for years, actually, and I'm almost done with school so it's time."
Lou doesn't answer but she turns her head slightly so their eyes can meet. Hers are bloodshot and rimmed in black but the most vibrant shade of blue. Harry doesn't think she's ever been more lovely.
"We're moving to London, and I need you to come with me."
"You don't need me," she replies, somehow missing the entire point.
"You don't get to tell me what I need," Harry argues, possibly for the first time since they met. "And you don't get to die. I'm going to take care of you and get you help."
"Bit bold, isn't it? To assume I need your help. Or even want it." The words would be scathing if Harry couldn't tell she's trying to protect herself, find a way to feel comfortable with the conversation.
"It's your call," he says, in a way that suggests it isn't really.
"Maybe let me think about it."
Harry doesn't push, because Lou's voice sounds like an agreement that she's too proud to immediately say, and that's enough for Harry to work with. They haven't even got a flat yet, after all.
"I'm gonna buy you loads of dresses," Harry murmurs, wrapping his arm around Lou's shoulders when she nestles against his chest.
"Dresses? Now you've got my attention."
"It's a different world," he says quietly, ducking his head to find the corner of her mouth. "We'll be reinvented."
And he wishes he could tell her then, how there will always be a place in the world for people like her, how she will always be loved by people like him, but he thinks it can wait. He thinks he'd rather save it for a day when she'll believe him, and he doesn't mind waiting. With her, he doesn't mind at all.