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“Niall, I love you,” Harry said, leaning across the wide wooden table to make certain he was heard. Harry glanced up at the TV behind Niall’s head, one of dozens of televisions broadcasting every sports channel in existence into the bar. He’d smoked a bowl before Niall picked him up tonight and already finished his first beer and people were swimming on TV. “And you love me which means you have incredible taste. You also love Zayn. But, you know, different love.”
“Different love,” Niall mimicked Harry's deep voice, so Harry reached over and poked Niall in the chin dimple.
“He’s Zayn’s best friend. And you like him!” Taking Niall’s hand, Harry promised, “There is absolutely no chance of me hating him. Or of us not getting along.”
“Sure, yeah, I know, it’s just…” Niall smiled, biting his lip, so blatantly happy Harry can’t help but smile right back at him. “I want to marry this guy.”
Harry winced. They’d been together for maybe two months and Niall was going to break their lease. He could sense it. “I should tell Zayn you called him this guy.”
“Don’t,” Niall said, but Harry hardly heard him.
Zayn had arrived, his beard longer, his hair shorter and darker than the last time they’d hung out, but Harry had hardly registered his presence when Zayn’s best friend Tommo came into view, wearing an obscene pair of dark grey sweatpants with matching Fila hoodie and sneakers.
“Is, um… Is Tommo short for Thomas?” Harry asked quietly, but Niall’s never not been loud.
“Nah!” Niall shouted across the table, and then the bar, “Tommo’s short for Tomlinson! His first name is—”
“Louis,” Louis interrupted, reaching their table alongside Zayn, but facing Harry with his arm outstretched. If only Harry could bring himself to be rude and decline his offer to introduce himself. They clasped each other’s hands and Harry squeezed, pleased at how large his hand seemed compared to Louis’ delicate fingers and bitten nails. “And you’re Niall’s best friend since kindergarten.”
“Harry!” Niall yelled as Zayn slipped into the seat beside him, leaving only the space next to Harry.
Louis turned and grabbed a chair from the empty table behind him, spun it around and up to the edge of their booth, dropping into the backwards seat with his legs spread wide. Harry'd only gotten a glance that night but Louis’ cock couldn’t need that much room; he clearly wanted to avoid Harry who chugged his second ice cold beer, belched and said, “And you’re Zayn’s ‘If we hit 50 and aren’t married we marry each other.’”
Whipping around to frown at Zayn, Louis hissed, “We said 40.”
“You said 40, I said 50, so let’s split the difference at 45,” Zayn said with practiced patience, cuddling into Niall’s side.
Harry looked at the space on the bench seat beside him and figured he might as well, sliding to the middle of the booth and spreading his legs too. From the way Louis’ eyes darted down, he remembered what Harry was hiding in his corduroy trousers.
“We actually know each other,” Louis said with that same contagious, onomatopoeic laugh that Harry had been hypnotized by the night they met.
Harry almost gave him a genuine smile. He’d never had the rug pulled out from under him so quickly. Somehow he thought he’d be able to get Louis to play along as if they’d just met. Silently. Telepathically. With eye contact. Obviously, he’d been wrong.
“You do?” Zayn asked and Niall kissed his forehead.
“Nah, babe, this is the first time they’ve met,” Niall said with a wave at the waitress as she approached with a fresh pitcher of beer. “They don’t know each other.”
“No, we do— Well, we don’t know each other,” Louis conceded, exaggerating a shrug.
“Remember the guy with the sweatpants from Grindr?” Harry said, watching Louis’ confident grin slip. He’s not the only one who can pull rugs.
“Sweatpants Guy?” Niall asked, sitting up straight and jostling Zayn.
Narrowing his eyes at Harry, Zayn said, “You’re the guy who kicked him out mid-fuck?”
“We were not mid-fuck,” Harry insisted, gesturing at Louis with his now empty beer glass.
“Sweatpants Guy?” Louis scoffed and repeated, “Sweatpants Guy?”
“You’re literally wearing sweatpants now,” Harry said, pointedly staring at Louis’ crotch until he realized he was staring at Louis’ crotch and had to redirect himself to the new pitcher of beer.
“Yeah, so what?” Louis said, peering over the edge of the table. “You’re wearing jeans.”
“I am not wearing jeans,” Harry said with an annoyed roll of his eyes. “They’re cords. Corduroy. Trousers.”
“Fine. You’re wearing corduroy trousers,” Louis said, then ducked down to look under the table, sitting back up to add, “Niall’s wearing jeans, and Zayn’s got on a pair of track pants which, by the way, are a different shade of black than his t-shirt.”
“Rude to draw attention to that, man,” Niall said, slipping a comforting arm around Zayn’s shoulder.
“My point is that no one’s judging anyone else by their clothes,” Louis said, tugging at the cuffs of his hoodie. “And not that it matters, but this sweatshirt was like $80 and the sweatpants weren’t cheap either. Unlike your secondhand grandpa shirt with the hole in the armpit.”
“How did—” Harry cut himself off and tightly crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing a cardigan over his thrifted Ralph Lauren blue and white striped Oxford shirt; the hole wasn’t visible.
“Lucky guess,” Louis said with a smirk that Harry simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss off his face. Probably just the combination of weed and beer. Beer before liquor, never sicker. Liquor before beer, all clear. Pot before beer… Beer before marijuana? Harry shook his head which did nothing to clear it. He’ll have to ask Niall how that particular rhyme goes some other time when Louis isn’t around.
“This is not at all what I expected from tonight,” Zayn said, obviously enjoying the drama alongside an equally entertained Niall.
Harry frowned into his beer and took a fortifying gulp before meeting Louis’ stupid blue eyes with those completely unattractive laugh lines at the corners and saying, “I want to know what other lies you said about me.”
Nose twitching, lip curling into half a smile, Louis asked, “Lies?”
“Yes, lies,” Harry said with a quick nod at Zayn. “We were not mid-fuck when I asked you to leave.”
“Debatable,” Louis said.
“What do you mean—” The bubbles in Harry's beer snuck up on him and he burped mid-sentence, but carried on, “Nothing about that is debatable. You didn't even take your sweatpants off.”
“I’ve fucked with my pants still on,” Niall said, tucking his chin and muttering to Zayn, “Remember?”
Cringing at the reminder that his best friend now had a more active sex life than his own, Harry turned back to Louis, and repeated, “We were not mid-fuck.”
“Okay,” Louis said with an easy shrug.
“You’re an incredibly frustrating person,” Harry said. He was starting to regret hitting the bowl before leaving for the bar, his stomach rumbling and head beginning to ache. “And actually, I need to piss, so…”
Harry did not need to piss, but he went to the bathroom and pissed anyway, then he slipped out the back of the bar into the alley. Fresh air should help. And maybe he shouldn’t drink anymore beer.
Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, Harry inhaled deeply through his nose, then slowly exhaled through pursed lips. The door to the alley opened on squeaky hinges and Harry jumped, clutching his hands to his chest.
“Hey, man,” Louis said, reaching out to touch Harry's arm, then clearly changing his mind.
“What?” Harry made himself take another deep, slow breath.
“I, um, just wanted to check on you because we were sort of bantering and then you started to look a bit pale and I saw you go out here and—”
“Bantering?” Harry snorted a laugh, then frowned. “You call that banter?”
“I mean, yeah. What else would it be?”
“I don’t know? Annoying? Bickering? Verbally sparring?”
“Oh, um… Okay, I get how you might see it that way.”
Harry rolled his eyes, and said, “I’m glad you can look at things from my point of view.”
“Look, Harry, I know we got off on the wrong foot or whatever. I mean, the other night was kind of shitty, and I thought you know, maybe things didn't work out then, but we could at least try to get along for the sake of our friends.”
“What do you think I was trying to do?” Harry shouted, his voice echoing off the brick walls of the alley. “You could’ve pretended that we just met! You could’ve not brought up the other night! You could have said almost anything other than that I threw you out mid-fuck!”
“I didn't say that,” Louis said, propping his hands on his hips.
“Zayn said—”
“Zayn said,” Louis interrupted. “Because I’d bitched about it to him because I was disappointed about the way things went and—”
“You were disappointed? Maybe you shouldn’t’ve called my pectoral muscles ‘hills’ and you wouldn’t’ve been disappointed!”
“Who the fuck says ‘pectoral muscles’ like that?” Louis laughed and said, “You called them tits the other night.”
“I am not having this conversation with you,” Harry said, swallowing a rising belch. “I don’t feel well and—”
“Are you sick?” Louis asked, his smartass tone replaced by what sounded like genuine concern.
The swallowed belch made its way back up and Harry swayed, burping in Louis’ face. “Oops.”
“Hi,” Louis said with a wince. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his stupid, clingy, dark grey sweatpants, and tapped at the screen. “Telling Zayn that you’re sick and I’m putting you in a taxi. Do you need me to ride with you?”
“I don’t need anything from you,” Harry said, head throbbing and beginning to spin.
“Okay, well,” Louis said, pocketing his phone and starting towards the mouth of the alley. “I’m just going to get one of the cabs out front.”
Like a little duckling, Harry followed Louis without hesitation, eyes trained on his shoulders until he just couldn’t stop them from drifting a little further south.
“Talk about two perfect hills,” Harry said to himself, and then frowned. He could do better than that.
It was difficult to focus on anything other than Louis’ ass in dark grey sweatpants, but he tried. A pun would be the best thing. Harry loved puns. Something about beer. Harry's stomach rioted at the thought. Something about Louis specifically. He was a finance bro or a banker or something businessy. Something businessy about Louis’ butt. Louis’ stupid, bitable ass. Asset.
What’s your biggest ‘asset’, Louis?
Your ‘assets’ are criminal, Louis.
Are your ‘assets’ liqu— No.
You’re an ‘asset’ to the firm, Louis.
“An asset,” Harry laughed to himself.
Louis looked back over his shoulder and said, “What?”
“You’re an asshat,” Harry quickly supplied, eyes widening at his ability to lie on his increasingly unsteady feet.
With a scoff, Louis faced forward again, and said, “I’m just trying to help you out, man. Not trying to get into your pants or anything. No need to be rude.”
Harry reached the end of the alley and joined Louis on the sidewalk where a Lyft stood waiting. “How’d you know I’d need a ride home?”
“The Lyft was for me, but clearly you need it more,” Louis said, opening the rear door and attempting to usher Harry into the backseat.
“I’m not taking your car,” Harry said as he grabbed Louis’ hand and tried to drag him in after him. “We’ll ride together. It’s not like you don’t already know where I live.”
“Fine,” Louis said, but instead of sliding into the car after Harry, he turned around, hitched up his sweatpants, pulled the fabric tight around his ass, and sat down haughtily, as a king might on his throne.
“What the hell are you doing?” Harry found himself asking.
“Thought you might like another look at my asset,” Louis said, winking at Harry as he made himself comfortable.
“Move,” Harry said, cheeks flaming while the rest of his body felt cold and clammy. “Get out of the car!”
This time Louis didn't argue. He simply nodded and climbed out of the car. A great decision on his part, because Harry leaned over, stuck his head out the door and puked on the street, just missing Louis’ pristine sneakers.
“Oh, shit!” Louis jumped backwards out of the way of the splatter.
“Oh… shit,” Harry moaned, peering up at Louis before slamming the door and apologizing profusely to the driver who reluctantly took him home.