Chapter Text
Harry
“Consider the benefits,” Harry begins, sweeping a hand through the air as he addresses the class. “This hypothetical factory isn’t just a building. It’s a lifeline for families, ya know? Jobs mean stability and economic growth, and a chance for people to finally step up out of poverty. Isn’t it our responsibility to support development that can change lives for the better?” Harry gives the class a cocky side smile, knowing it's part of his charm. As much as this Corporate Social Responsibility and Ethics class is kicking his ass, he does love a good debate. And if winking at the cute girl in the front row of the lecture hall gets her on his side, what’s the harm?
“And at what cost to the environment?” Louis Tomlinson counters from the second row, like the evil nerd he is. Realistically, this class would be a lot more fun if Louis were not a part of it. That fucker irritates Harry to no end. Just because the prude is top of the dean’s list he thinks he’s better than everyone. Harry can’t fucking stand him. “We’re talking about potential deforestation, water contamination, air pollution! We can’t just consider economic benefits without acknowledging the irreversible damage to the very planet we live on!”
“You’re just looking at the trees and missing the forest, Lewis” Harry snaps. “Sometimes, you need to make small sacrifices for the greater good. You want families not being able to afford food because you're worried about some endangered snail or some shit?”
Louis’ cheeks go angry red. “Hey! There’s 5 endangered snails in North America alone! All of which are critical to the ecosystem and clearly you’d sacrifice the health of our planet for a quick buck, hmmm Styles?” he shoots back, voice full of contempt. Fucking nerd. “You really think plastering over the environmental cracks with a handful of jobs is responsible?"
Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes as he responds with a matching tone, "Oh, come off it. Not everyone has the luxury to hug trees when their stomachs are growling. Real people need real solutions.”
Louis stands abruptly, his chair scraping back loudly. “And what about when those ‘real solutions’ leave nothing but scorched earth for future generations? You’re advocating for band-aid fixes on bullet wounds and It’s reckless and shortsighted.”
“Reckless!?” Harry’s nearly shrieks, his body shifting from nonchalant to visibly annoyed. Louis does this EVERY time Harry talks without fail. “What’s truly reckless is letting people suffer in poverty under the guise of environmental protection. Maybe if you stepped out of your eco-bubble, you’d see that.” The class is hushed, all eyes on Harry and Louis. Anyone that knows of Harry, and unfortunately his name tends to precede him, knows how much Harry and Louis despise each other.
“Or maybe if you pulled your head out of your ledger once in a while, you’d realize there’s more to life than profits!” Louis retorts, his stupid eyes narrowing. “You finance majors are all the same, thinking money is the magic potion for all the world’s woes.”
Harry clenches his jaw and resists the urge to throw something. He’s too tired for that shit anyway. “Better than living in a fantasy world where we all sing Kumbaya and live off the love of bunnies and daffodils,” he shoots back.
“Yeah, let’s fill the world with brutalist architecture and smog. Maybe all the chemicals in the water will do us all a favor and sterilize you!” Louis practically shouts, face turning red.
“You know that stick in your ass isn’t very environmentally friendly!” Harry hisses back, folding his arms and smirking at the round of giggles that comment elicits.
“Gentlemen, this is an academic debate, not a personal attack forum. Let’s return to the facts, please.” Professor Johnston finally steps in, as she calls for order. "Mr. Styles, take your seat. We're moving on," she commands, her eyes briefly flashing with the authority she wields effortlessly. Harry shoots Louis a final glare, wishing looks could kill before turning and walking back to his seat. As he slumps down, the professor begins discussing a case study from the early 2010s about a company that polluted local waterways. Harry tries to listen, he really does. Professor Johnston's voice becomes a monotone drone, fading into the background as his thoughts churn and he fiddles with his watch. He's not ignorant or stupid. He understands the importance of protecting the environment and all that. The lectures on corporate ethics, the case studies of ruined ecosystems, blah blah blah. They aren’t lost on him. But jobs and livelihoods, they're just as crucial. It's the way the world works, a balance of give and take. Harry rubs his temples, feeling the onset of yet another headache. His eyes drift to the back of Louis’ head. There’s something about that fucking nerd that gets under his skin. It's the way he speaks, so sure and so earnest, that makes Harry feel inexplicably inferior, as if his practical concerns are trivial. He resents feeling this way, how it seems to shrink him down to something less in front of everyone. He doesn't like it.
At all.
Harry’s hands tighten into fists on his desk. He hates this, how a simple class debate can make his blood boil. There’s a part of him that wants to understand where Louis is coming from, maybe even find some common ground. Yet, another, louder part of him just wants to win, to prove that he’s not just a stereotypical finance major, blinded by dollar signs. Because that’s so fucking far from the truth that it makes him want to set something on fire.
As class is dismissed, the classroom erupts into activity as students back their bags and GTFO. Harry, caught up in the mass exodus, is almost to the door when Professor Johnston's voice cuts through the chatter, "Mr. Styles, a moment please." Heart sinking, Harry turns back, approaching her desk with a reluctance he can't hide. His palms are sweaty, and he shuffles his feet, bracing for what’s coming, because realistically, he knows. "Your ethical audit on Arrow Electric was 40 minutes late. Again. And was missing several sources." Professor Johnston says as she closes her laptop.
Harry scrambles for an excuse, "Yeah, about that, the internet at the house has been really spotty, and–"
She cuts him off sharply, "College is for more than just frat parties, young man. You’re already on academic probation and risk losing your–"
Panic flares up inside him as he interrupts, "No, no! I promise it won’t happen again."
Disappointment is still etched on her face as she waves him away, and Harry turns to leave, his mind racing with the implications of her warning. Shit shit, fucking grandma’s shitting on shit shit shit.
As he reaches the door, Louis is there too, seemingly in no rush, methodically packing and unpacking his bag like a fucking dweeb. They step out into the hallway together, the always awkward tension between them. Without looking at Harry, Louis' voice drips with condescension, "Do you enjoy being the dumbest one in the class?"
Harry burns with shame and anger. He retorts, snapping back with equal venom, "And do you enjoy not having any friends? Because that’s a real contest you’re winning, Tomlinson."
Louis scoffs, face contorting. "At least I’m respected for my brains, not my binge drinking and mediocrity."
"Respect doesn't keep you warm at night," Harry shoots back because fuck this guy. Their voices rise almost instantly, drawing curious looks from a few stragglers in the hallway. Realizing they are causing a scene, Harry forces himself to step back. "Whatever, Tomlinson," he mumbles as he walks away.
🙎♂️🏫🎒📃🤬
The Phi Kappa Psi house is chaos, pure emerald drenched, bass thumping, beer soaked chaos. It's Saint Patrick’s Day, and their annual party has once again obliterated any prior campus record for volume, questionable decisions, and density of green plastic shit. If the Kappas are known for anything, it’s this. Harry’s the social chair, which means he throws the parties. Well...he's supposed to be at least. Niall and Charlie basically put this one together, the event having slipped Harry’s mind completely. He’s not bothered much by that fact, the other boys tend to pick up a lot of Harry’s slack which he’s immensely grateful for, he barely has enough time to breath lately. He shakes his head and downs the tequila shot in his hands in one gulp before sliding up next to Cee, the pretty girl from his Macro class he's been flirting with for weeks.
⌚
Harry is druuuuuuuuuuuunk. Like, really really drunk. He’s slumped against the sticky kitchen counter with a solo cup that’s filled with both green beer and glitter, doubtful it's the edible kind. His cheeks are flushed, his curls damp with sweat, and his shamrock sunglasses are sitting crooked on the bridge of his nose. From the crowd, Zayn, Harry’s best friend and roommate, stumbles over, currently in a state of being so crossfaded his eyes are bright red. His pupils are the size of dimes and his shirt is gone for reasons unknown but no one is complaining.
“H,” Zayn gasps, gripping Harry’s arm like he’s just found the holy grail. “H. I got the mechanical bull.”
“What?” Harry squints at him.
Zayn gestures grandly toward the backyard, where, beneath a canopy of string lights and drunken cheers, a mechanical bull shudders violently, Harry doesn't know how he missed it. At that exact moment, their beloved frat president Niall, shirtless and painted with an Irish flag across his chest, gets launched from it. He lands against the blow-up barrier and immediately throws his fists into the air like it was intentional.
Zayn clutches his chest in awe. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
Harry takes a long sip of his beer, feeling the glitter grit on his teeth, then says flatly, “You named the bull, didn’t you?”
“Moorice.” Zayn nods solemnly, grabbing the drink from Harry’s hands and taking a swig. This is why everyone thinks they're secretly fucking. Although most people think Harry is secretly fucking everyone.
"Course you did.” Harry chuckles before taking his drink back. Someone plugs in the green Christmas lights taped to the ceiling, and it makes Harry’s head spin a bit.
“Get on him,” Zayn pleads, poking Harry in the side. “Go on. You’ve got that slutty lower back strength. Ride him for the brothers. For the Irish!”
Harry snorts, tipping his cup back and letting the liquid fall down his throat. “Nah. Too drunk or not drunk enough. Both. Plus, I prefer someone else doing the riding.”
Zayn pouts, wobbling dramatically for effect. “You’re no fun.” he slurs. “Also. Heads up. I might be bringing someone back to the room tonight.”
Harry groans, letting his head fall back. “Christ, Z. Can you at least remember to put a sock on the door or something.”
Zayn looks delighted. “I love that you think I’ll remember this conversation.”
Harry sighs, already resigned to walking in on Zayn fucking some poor soul into the mattress. “Fine. I’ll go ride the fucking bull.”
Zayn shrieks with joy, and shoves a foam cowboy hat from the counter on Harry’s head.
Great.
⌚
It’s sometime after 2 a.m.
The backyard is filled with beer cans, shamrock shaped glow sticks, and bodies collapsed in lawn chairs.
Harry stumbles out the back door, shirt unbuttoned and glitter inexplicably in his chest hair. His curls are stuck to his forehead with sweat and a temporary tattoo reading “Property of Cee” is smudged on his bicep. He bumps into a girl dressed as a sexy leprechaun and mumbles, “’Scuse me, Your Honor,” before tripping sideways into a guy in a green morph suit. They shout something at him, but he just keeps going. He's on a mission.
Water.
Like a desert wanderer chasing a mirage, he makes his way to the garden hose. He fumbles with the spigot, cursing under his breath when it doesn’t immediately cooperate.
But finally…GLORY! A weak, sputtering stream bursts forth and Harry throws himself at it. He starts drinking straight from the hose, both hands gripping it.
“Hey, hey! You’re not supposed to drink from that, it’s not filtered!” comes a voice that’s familiar but unplaceable at this level of inebriation. It's whiny and way too awake for this hour.
Harry lifts his head slowly, water dripping from his chin, his eyes blinking out of sync to the blurry figure in front of him. “’S not for you, is it?” he mumbles, then takes another slurp from the hose. The annoying voice keeps yapping, something about bacteria and parasites, but Harry’s already dropping the hose, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and stumbling inside. He weaves through the house like a Roomba, bouncing off walls and muttering nonsense under his breath.
⌚
Harry comes back from the depths of unconsciousness at some point. He’s slouched on one of the living room couches, one leg hanging off the edge, head tilted at an unnatural angle. His throat feels like sandpaper, and his stomach sloshes unpleasantly with whatever ungodly mix he drank earlier. He runs his tongue over his teeth and feels the grit of the glitter still glued to them. This is his first night off in weeks and God he’s so fucking tired.
There’s a girl in his lap. Pretty and warm. He doesn't know her name.
She’s talking.
A lot.
Her voice is high and chipper, bouncing off the inside of his skull like a ping pong ball.
Her bony ass is pressing into his thigh and making his leg go numb, but her body is warm, and she smells like watermelon, probably from the lip gloss she keeps smearing on while she talks. She's leaning in close now, whispering in his ear.
“You know,” she says, fingers brushing over his arm. “If you weren’t, like, totally drunk, I’d drag you upstairs right now. You’re stupid hot. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Harry grumbles something noncommittal, offering a sleepy smile, then sits up slowly. “I need to piss.”
She giggles and slides off his lap without protest, adjusting her ‘Pretend I’m Irish’ crop top as she settles next to him. He pauses, thinking. She’s gorgeous. Long legs, great boobs, knows how to flirt. He’s cold and wouldn’t mind an orgasm. But there is absolutely no way his dick is going to work tonight. Not with this much alcohol in his system and the subtle threat of throwing up if he moves too quickly. Plus he’s trying to curtail his slutty habits just a little. He's sure the rumor mill will link him to several people tomorrow.
So, he doesn’t tell her to wait for him before he gets up.
The party is thinning out. The music has shifted into early 2000s pop punk and most of the heavy drinkers have either passed out or migrated somewhere else. He can still hear faint shouts from the backyard, where the mechanical bull is somehow still operating.
“OH!” The crowd says all at once. Probably someone being flung off again.
Harry drags himself up the stairs. Each step creaks under his weight and makes his head pound harder. He finally reaches the second floor and stumbles toward his room, pushing the door open with his shoulder. It’s dark except for the pulsing blue light from Zayn’s obnoxious neon Yu-Gi-Oh clock hanging above the desk. Harry squints at it. 3:27 a.m.
Zayn is curled up in his bed across from Harry’s, a huge grey hoodie, hood up, completely cocooned in his comforter. He’s lying on his side in the fetal position, breathing steady and slow. Platonic cuddling is never off the table between the two roommates, so Harry hesitates for only a second, then peels off his sticky jeans and shirt and collapses into the bed behind him. The sheets are still warm. He wraps an arm around Zayn’s middle, spooning him without comment. Zayn smells like weed and one of his expensive colognes, like he always does. Although there’s something a little sweeter this time, he likes it.
Harry presses his forehead to the back of Zayn’s hoodie and exhales, finally still.
Within seconds, he's out.