Archive of Our Own

 “Oh, Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Tell me that’s not who I fuckin’ think it is.”

Harry blinks, pulling his gaze up from Julex—his marvellous and fetching guitar he’d gotten in France for his seventeenth birthday because dreams really do come true—before settling it on Niall, brow furrowed. The boy looks poutish and churly, his blond hair drooping at the points because it expresses all of his major emotions. He folds his arms across his chest, shooting a pursed-lip frown to Liam, who is currently nibbling on his nails peacefully, though his eyes are alert.

Which, great. They’ve only been here thirteen minutes and Niall is already throwing a fit. This does not bode well for the successful, record-label-inducing evening Harry had planned.

He sighs, taking care to toss his hair in artful frustration, the same way he’d practiced in front of Gemma’s full length mirror during his youth. (Life is art, you know.) “Who’re you…?” he drifts questioningly, feeling mildly irritated as he stands and surveys the crowded coffee house. It’s stuffed to the gills with beanies and frothed up mugs and jeggings. Really bad jeggings, to be exact.

But that’s okay. Who’s Harry to judge? Jeggings are comfy. And very affordable.

It’s currently open mic night—a prime time for Harry’s band to play. Well, it’s technically not Harry’s band (as Liam likes to remind him oh-so-often) but it’s definitely somewhat Harry’s band since he puts all of the drive into them, cleverly peddling them down the road to success.

Well, maybe more like peddling them down a road that will eventually connect to another road that leads to the road of success. But, like, regardless, it’s definitely a route.

They’re called Trio Pets—Harry, Liam, and Niall. Harry came up with the name, insisting it was memorable and cute. Liam paled a little bit when he realised he was being serious, but Niall laughed so hard he couldn’t speak and nearly coughed up all of the cake and beer he’d devoured for breakfast so, essentially, he’d agreed to the proposal immediately.

They’re relatively popular amongst the university scene here. Relatively a lot popular, actually. Since Harry has a lot of friends and Niall has still more (sorry Liam—the boy’s not that sociable and the friends he does make tend to be alienating and prickish), it’s not all that difficult to promote themselves. Any given gig usually yields a healthy crowd, big enough to ward off any inner crises or self-evaluations. A few people even have homemade Trio Pets t-shirts and burned CDs. Someone out there probably even has a ringtone of one their songs—Harry is sure of it.

The point is, they’re well known locally. People recognise their name, talk about them, nod appreciatively when they’re casually dropped in conversation. Thus concluding that Harry is, essentially, already famous. Especially in the context of these open mic nights held every Wednesday at the local coffee and tea house on Main St—The Leaf and Bean. Not a terribly original name but Harry thinks it’s actually quite nice. Approachable. Straightforward. Comforting.

So, yes. Things are good. Trio Pets have a decent following and Harry’s stunning educational endeavours in studying music are proving to be beneficial toward his dreams of taking over the musical world. All is well and fabulous in the life of twenty year old uni student Harry Styles.

However. There is but one minor issue.

One minuscule detail. One very petite and uncommonly beautiful snag in Harry’s canvas of awe-inspiring career goals.

It comes in the form of Louis Tomlinson. And it’s accompanied by the very real and daunting presence of a mythical creature named Zayn Malik.

The same Louis and Zayn that Niall’s currently leering at, that Harry’s just spotted from across the room.

Ohhhhh. So that’s who Niall was referring to before… They’ve come to open mic night. Again.

Harry sighs, forlorn.

They call themselves Partners In Crime. Cute, right? Yeah. Too cute. They’re just a duo—a wonky, beautiful duo who have more fun than anything. But Harry is trying to take his musical career seriously, thank you, so he absolutely detests them. Especially because they’re good. Really good.

Their music is this unfair two-man rubbish that’s constructed from them banging on bongos and xylophones and triangles while they effortlessly sing in this perfect harmony and seduce the crowd because they’re both [basically] models (probably met in model school doing model things with model shoes and model laughs). Sometimes Louis (the shorter, golden, breathtaking, ethereal, magnetic bundle of sparked wires and ocean tides) plays this shitty little piano while he sings while Zayn (the taller, darker, handsomer version of every stereotypical bad boy you could ever, ever think of) strums at this beginner’s acoustic or even, sometimes, a ukulele, and they’re funny and their lyrics are clever and it’s just… It’s some horse shit, is what it is.

But people eat it up—they buy their unofficial merch and everything. One little chubby boy that always comes to their gigs even got a tattoo of one of their lyrics: “Clarity is waking up next to waffles and knowing that I deserve this.” Which, quite frankly, is a ridiculous line. Harry would never tattoo such a thing on his body. Never.

They’re really good, though. Both of them. Zayn’s incredible—like, really incredible. Amazing. (Ama-zayn, as one may say.) He’s as talented as he is beautiful (which is pretty fucking unfair, Nature, you absolute bitch) and Louis’ voice is like… Honestly? When he sings, it’s akin to the sound of a kitten’s paws brushing against a soft ball of yarn. And the entire audience always just falls under his spell, unraveling like that blasted ball of yarn. Harry may or may not have found himself a little loose-limbed on the occasion. It’s such a disheartening truth of life.

So, one could probably say that they’re rivals—Trio Pets and Partners In Crime.

Okay, one could definitely say that.

They’re just so popular—they have Facebook groups and tumblr tags and ridiculous things like that and the school’s radio station constantly breaks its back to kiss their arses. People scream for them and sing their songs and laugh at their jokes and whenever they strut off the stage (Louis positively swaggers which is wholly unfair because his bum moves in this way that gets Harry really overwhelmed which sometimes Niall points out, while other times Harry catches Liam looking as well which is—just no) they always get enthusiastic applause and… Yeah.

Harry is well acquainted with the bastards. They’ve encountered each other enough around the local pubs—there can only be so many ‘happening’ bands amongst the student body, you know. But they’ve never actually met and never actually spoken (aside from the times Niall’s thrown catty comments their way because he’s a competitive hyena, much to Harry’s shock and Liam’s horror) and so it’s a very quiet war that they’re fighting. Very quiet indeed.

And now here they are, the Partners In Crime themselves. Sipping demitasse cups as they reign over the mere mortals, huddled together at the handoff plane, sharing secret intrigues and coy smiles.

They’re really nice coy smiles. And Harry kinda wants to know the secret intrigues.

But, no! They’re the enemy.

The world is a cruel mistress.

“Our best mates are here,” Niall grunts then, irritation soaked clean through his clothes as he picks up his drumsticks in a too-tight grip. He has a tendency to feel too much, that Niall. He’s sort of like a see-saw—his moods swing back and forth drastically. It’s almost always fun, though. He’s a good time, a good friend, decent flatmate. Harry really likes him a lot. Except for when he has to do his laundry.

“Brilliant,” Liam sighs flatly, shoulders slouching in defeat already. “There goes the gig.”

Which is an appalling thing to say.

“Liam,” Harry scolds, rounding on him and blinking his shock away as he touches a gentle hand to his chest. “Surely that is not the sound of defeat I hear? Surely you’re not letting them”—Harry indicates wildly to the archangels at the handoff plane—“get the best of you? Not when we are the ones destined for success? We have a future, Liam. A future they can’t take away from us.”

It’s mildly overdramatic but Harry believes in making a statement. He has a lot of feelings.

In response, Liam sighs, long-suffering and wistful as he lifts his gaze to the ceiling and rolls a shrug across his shoulders. Harry wants to punch him for his lack of enthusiasm.

(Having said that, Harry has never punched anything in his entire life and he never plans to.) (But, boy, he thinks it!)

“I’m with Harry, Li,” Niall says coolly, agitation suddenly seeped away as he stares at a leggy blonde across the way. Typical. “They’re not better than us. We’re all on the same stage, mate.”

“But they get more applause than us,” Liam whines pitifully, eyes pouted into a perfect portrait of a puppy. Shame on him.

“They do not,” Harry insists, offended at the very thought. “They just get a different kind of applause. They like us around here—we’re soulful. We really feel the lyrics, you know?”

But all Niall does is snort in response while Liam scoffs and Harry blinks, confused.

Why are they laughing? Harry really does feel the lyrics. He does have soul.

These unfeeling bastards.

“Anyway. They’re on before us,” Niall comments, pointing a drumstick to the slab of grey painted wood at the front of the room (also known as the stage) where Partners in Crime are currently hooking up their amps and setting up their equipment, laughing merrily as they haul things around effortlessly like Roman warriors. Harsh industrial lights hang from the ceiling above them, suspended by thin wires. Abstract, rusty art is cast upon the walls surrounding them.

This place is so pretentious. Harry loves it.  

“Hm. Well, that’s good,” Harry reasons. “Gives us time to steal the show, you know?”

“Or maybe everybody will leave after their set and nobody will be left in the audience for ours,” Liam grumbles, ever the wet blanket.

Liam is the most practical, depressing, awkward mess of a boy that Harry has ever met. Initially, he’d befriended him out of pity (his mum’s always told him that he has too much heart) but, over time, he’s grown to sort of adore the guy. There’s just something about his Charlie Brown ways that endears Harry, something about his short-cropped hair and ironed t-shirts and bad shoes. Plus he’s logical and rather sweet and easily swayed which is literally always a bonus. Harry quite loves Liam, actually. Even if he does want to drop spiders in his socks sometimes.

Like now, for instance.

 Niall smacks Liam in response, a harsh thwack resonating through the air. Harry, in turn, resolutely ignores him after sending a disapproving look. That’ll show him.

Before Liam can whine though, the air suddenly changes. The low buzz of microphones flicks into life, dimming the bright chatter in the room, all eyes turning to the stage. Even the baristas halt with their cleaning, leaning on the counters and espresso machines with eyes that burn into the two boys now at the forefront, mics adjusted.

Zayn’s sitting on a stool wearing a black scarf, a wooden block in his hands, a set of chimes on his left. There’s a drum on the ground next to a ukulele. (Great. One of those sets.) Next to him is Louis…

Ugh. He looks other-worldly.

The lights are setting him aglow, his lumpy jumper looking cloud-like and billowing, cushioning his very nimble limbs. His feet are tiny. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and black shoes and he sort of looks like a ballerina. A very sexy, roguish ballerina that’s just finished practice and is on his way to a skate park. Maybe he helps an elderly lady across the street in the process. Maybe he stops for a muffin and cup of tea as well. He probably doesn’t wear kneepads.

“Hey. Haz. HEY.”

Fingers are snapped in front of his face.

“Hm? Yes? What?” Harry blinks, startled, ripping his gaze away from the artistic masterpiece that is their rival band. Their arch nemeses.

Niall looks amused, if a bit suspicious. “You got a funny look. Feeling alright?”

“Why, yes, Niall,” Harry responds calmly, gently crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. “I am feeling quite alright. Rather determined, even.”

It makes Niall grin, wide and confident. “Good. It’ll be a good night.”

“It will,” Harry agrees. And then they both turn to Liam.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “It will be,” he grumbles in surrender, mouth turning a bit sour when Niall and Harry lean in for hair-musses and back-slaps, proud of the boy’s forced optimism.

And then suddenly, the sound of tinkling bells fills the room. Or, rather—Louis Tomlinson’s voice.

“Hello everybody,” he says, and Harry stills in his attempts to wrap his entire body around Liam’s in a comforting gesture. Louis smirks, calm and assessing as he smoothes hands down his thighs, surveying the crowd. For one brief moment, he meets Harry’s eye. Time stops. The world stops. Harry’s heart stops.

But then he looks away, and Harry’s heart slumps against his ribcage, exhausted.

“Thanks for coming out tonight to see us idiots. You’re brilliant. I promise.” Louis flashes a toothy grin at the crowd—it looks spiky and treacherous. Like an errant feline or leading competitor. Harry wonders if those teeth could break skin easily. Harry wonders how he could test this theory. “So, um, this first bit is a new song we’ve written. It’s good stuff. It’s called ‘Iron Man’.”

Beside Harry, Niall snorts. “Iron Man?” he barely-whispers (Niall can’t whisper—he’s a horror to bring into movie theatres) and rolls his eyes in the most obvious manner possible. His arms are folded and he’s leaned back in his chair, relaxed and judgmental. “Can already tell it’s a shit song.”

Harry bites his lip. “I dunno,” he shrugs, watching intently as Louis picks up a fiddle. Oh god. He plays the fiddle. He’s an elf that lives in the woods and eats flowers and plays the fiddle during full moons. While naked. Wearing only laurels atop his head. That’s who Louis Tomlinson is. God, how is Harry supposed to compete with immortals? “I think it’s kind of cute.”

Both Niall and Liam turn to stare at him. “Cute?” they repeat as one, eyebrows disappearing into their respective hairlines. Liam’s is higher—he has a huge forehead.

Again, Harry shrugs, cheeks a bit bright. “Well, I dunno. Yeah? I mean. He clearly likes Iron Man. He was wearing the t-shirt last Wednesday. It’s nice.”

Liam stares. “You remember the t-shirt he was wearing a week ago?”

Harry’s cheeks burn brighter. Oops.

“Uhm. No?”

But Liam sends him a knowing look and purses his lips and the matter is dropped there while Niall crunches on peanuts beside them. (Where did Niall get peanuts?)

So they sit quietly on their hands as they watch their rivals woo the entire room, making hideously clever rhymes and crooning about the wonders of being superhuman in a very human world.

If Harry thinks they’re amazing, he will never admit it.

**

When the night’s over and all bands have played (including Trio Pets who, much to Liam’s relief, absolutely smashed it, just like Harry knew they would) a burly, overweight man with a red beard and a beanie hauls himself onto the stage, a piece of paper clenched in his beet-coloured hand.

“Oi!” he calls, silencing the rowdy audience impressively. “So. Folks. I’ve got an announcement.”

“Clearly,” Niall mumbles, rolling his eyes, but he’s still smiling with the adrenaline from their gig. He did a brilliant job—he always does. It makes Harry’s heart shine because he loves his friends and he likes to be proud of them.

“Next month, on the twenty-sixth, we’ve got a ‘Battle of the Bands’ thing going on here at The Leaf and Bean,” the man continues and Harry’s body consequently goes into shock. Did he just say a Battle of the Bands? Is that what that bearded beat just said? “Alright? Ten pounds for entry. Winner gets an hour of studio time and their single played on the university’s radio station. I’ll be posting the sign-up sheet”—he flaps the paper around—“in the back, yeah? First come, first serve.” And then he descends from the stage in a mighty huff, leaving a cloud of dust and awed whispers in his wake.

A Battle of the Bands.

This is like…

This is like the first day of the rest of Harry’s life.

He’s going to win it. They’re going to win it. His band is going to win it and they’re going to be carried down the street on top of beautiful men’s shoulders before they catch their big break and whisk the world away in a storm of melody and skinny jeans.

Oh, god. This is it! This is the catalyst Harry’s been looking for!

He sends up a silent smile of thanks. The world loves him. He loves the world back.

“Lads,” he whispers, eyes closed, face pointed upwards. His tone is reverent, his smile glimmering. “We are going to win this. We are.” The words sound calm, determined, and completely confident. He lets his smile widen. “Are we all in agreement?”

“Yes,” both Niall and Liam answer firmly, swiftly, and thank god—even Liam sounds sure of this.

Harry nods, pleased. “Good. Thought so.”

When he opens his eyes, he finds the other two boys smiling at him, their faces bright. 

It feels like the beginning of a movie.

**

By the time Harry hops his arse over to the back of the room, near the toilets, he finds the sign-up sheet already occupied. Which is irritating but very understandable.

So Harry waits patiently, humming under his breath as he folds his hands behind his back and taps his toe in time to the beat in his head. It’s a lovely beat. A good, catchy tune. He should probably write it down—it could be the next pop sensation. Or, better still, the next indie sensation. The Dream.

It’s only when the person at the sign-up sheet finally turns around that Harry realises it’s Louis Tomlinson.

Unable to resist a delicate gasp, Harry blinks, wide-eyed as their eyes meet. Even beneath the grungy light of the corridor, Louis looks unfairly fit. Impossibly, metabolism-stoppingly fit. Louis looks powerful. Like a king amongst men. He looks like he’s made of iron. Oh god—is he the Iron Man? Harry wants to know, wants to ask him this over tea and biscuits as they—

No. No. No, Harry cannot weaken himself just because he’s face to face with the man, the myth, the legend. Louis is just another student, just like Harry, with a band that happens to have caught some attention. And he’s the competition—literally now, once Harry’s signed that sheet—and this is all a trial. This is the Music Gods testing Harry.

He will not fail.

With newfound determination (lust comes and goes like raindrops), Harry lifts his chin proudly and refuses to flutter his eyelashes or purr or ask Louis if his lips taste like cherries. He meets the boy’s quiet, amused gaze instead.

It feels like victory, staring defiantly into those arabesque blue eyes. It feels like the Music Gods smiling upon Harry. It feels like—

Wait, Louis is walking away.

He is literally just walking away, unfazed, his jumper settled atop the curve of his bum like the sun arching over the horizon and what?? Why is he leaving??

That was horrifically anticlimactic.

Still, though, Harry watches him, his jaw [maybe] slightly dropped as Louis strides back over to Zayn, the slant of his shoulders loose. He has nice shoulders. They make nice points.

But. Anyway.

Shaking his head of the treacherous thoughts, Harry turns around, facing the very official looking sign-up sheet. It’s attached to a clipboard and everything, along with a pen duct-taped to a string.

So. It appears Partners In Crime are have secured the first slot. And Trio Pets are second. Unfair.

Time-wise, Partners In Crime may be number one, but intention-wise, Trio Pets far surpass them because their intentions are incredible.

Determined, Harry signs their name with a flourish, taking care to do the ‘i’ and cross the ‘t’s.

There. Done.

Smiling smugly and admiring his work, he nods before he walks back to his table, preparing his body for life-changing experiences.

**

Sometimes Harry sees Louis Tomlinson around school.

But it’s not as if Harry is, like, actively looking for him or anything. It’s just that, sometimes, when Harry is meandering about and minding his own business, he’ll spot Louis walking down the sidewalk or see him at the food court or happen upon him in the library, feet kicked up on the table as he laughs and taps away on his laptop, beanie stuffed over his petite, lovely little ears.

They never talk, or anything. Obviously. Harry isn’t about to fraternise with the enemy.

He just notices him, is all. Especially because Harry and Zayn share a course. Some English thing. (It’s an awful course—they’re making him read Beowulf and it’s the hardest thing that’s ever happened to him.) Afterwards, Louis is literally always waiting for Zayn, usually chewing on a pen and flicking flecks of paper at passerby. Every time they shoot him an appalled glare, he flashes them this shiny, toothy smile and squints his fae eyes and suddenly all is forgiven. Harry would know—he’s been one of the victims.

He’s still harbouring bitterness, though, he is. He hasn’t forgotten that wad of paper that stuck to his wool cardigan on that chilly Tuesday. Just because Louis’ teeth glimmer and his skin looks perpetually warm and his face happens to be devastating, it doesn’t mean that Harry can’t be bitter about his existence.

So Harry ignores him every day, refusing to eavesdrop on his and Zayn’s conversations when they’re piling out of class together. He also refuses to acknowledge Zayn in any way, shape, or form. Except for that time Harry dropped his folder and Zayn picked it up and Harry instinctually responded with a thank you. He’d kicked himself for it later (rock stars never thank their rivals) but Liam had assured him he’d done the right thing, so he hasn’t given it too much thought since. But, other than that, Harry doesn’t talk to him. And since Harry talks to everybody, it’s a pretty big slap in the face.

Harry doesn’t want to make friends with his competition. Harry wants to win. Even if things are looking a little…unpromising.

The Battle is in little over a month but since it’s nearing the middle of term, exams are beginning to pop up, essays being thrown about, and band practice has, horrifyingly, been put on the back burner.

“Some of us have shit to do,” Niall says whenever Harry whines about it, lying pitifully in his lap and quivering his lip. Niall never looks fazed. “We’ll practice next week. Though I’m not sure what more we can practice…” he adds under a breath and Harry does not like his tone.

Niall is a weak link. And Harry tells him as much, which always earns him a smack atop his head. He probably deserves it.

Liam seems to be a little more responsive to Harry, though. He always looks regretful whenever Harry complains about their lack of initiative.

“We’re supposed to be in it to win it,” Harry explains glumly as he sits on the floor of the kitchen, legs crossed, playing with a bit of aluminium foil. He’s trying to mould it into the shape of a swan—a sad swan. One that represents the tired laments of his soul. “I thought you guys shared my dreams. I thought this was the beginning of my movie.” He frowns, blinks sad eyes up at Liam, who’s washing the dishes, his lips in a thin line. “It was supposed to be the first day of the rest of my life, Liam.”

“Right…” Liam says, weighted and uncertain as he scrubs fervently at burnt cheese. He’s wearing yellow rubber gloves and he looks matronly. It’s nice. Harry scoots closer to him. He misses his mother sometimes. “Look, Harry. I understand where you’re coming from. I want to win, too. Our band is important to me—“

“My band,” Harry corrects.

“Our band,” Liam corrects, harsher, and Harry smiles innocently in response. Liam sighs, exasperated, setting down his scrubby as he turns to face him, one rubber-gloved hand on his hip. “It’s just a difficult time of year, mate. School comes first, okay? You know that.”

Harry grumbles, but agrees in defeat.

Everybody’s weak.

“We’ve got this, Harry,” Liam continues, gentle and soothing. It’s irritating. “Don’t worry. Partners In Crime may be solid, but… But we’ve got class. We’ve got integrity. Our songs aren’t just novelties.”

Hm. Well… Maybe Liam does have a point. He is, after all, the mother figure here.

So Harry nods up at him, letting happiness touch his soul once more, his hands still clutching the misshapen swan.

It will all work out. It’ll be fine. This is still the beginning of Harry’s movie.

“We’re going to win,” Harry affirms before he sends a smile to Liam.

Liam returns it.

Yes. They are going to win.

**

They’re still not practising.

It’s been a week and a half and they’re still not practising. This is abysmal. This is a travesty. This is unheard of.

And Harry will not stand for this.

“I will not stand for this, Niall,” he says firmly, hands on his hips as he stands in the doorframe to Niall’s bedroom, feet planted into the ground. He looks like a warrior, feels like a warrior. And warriors will not stand for this.

“Piss off,” Niall grunts, flopping onto his side and pulling the covers over his head. “It’s too early in the goddamn morning for your shit. It’s not like we can practise now, can we? At the crack of fucking dawn? No. So go back to bed and talk to me after I’ve had me breakfast.” Pause. “And put some clothes on while you’re at it.”

And, okay, yes. Niall’s made some good points. Harry probably should have put on some pants, or, at the very least, a bathrobe. And, yeah, maybe it is a tad bit early. But a lot of people start their days at five in the morning, yes?

Besides, Harry can’t sleep. He had a dream that they didn’t win the Battle of the Bands and it was so unnervingly real that Harry had to brew himself a pot of tea and journal his feelings. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of drinking black tea instead of herbal, so now he’s got a decent amount of caffeine flitting through his bloodstream, right along with the fire under his arse. He also has the sudden desire to watch the sun rise and write poetry.

Hm. Maybe he can convert his poetry into songs. Maybe he can make avant garde poem-songs. Or…are all songs already poetry, just set to music?

Whoa. These are the questions of life, they are.

It’s something he should look into.

“Fine, Niall. Fine. I’ll let you go back to sleep. And I’ll put on pants. But,” he says, waggling a finger as Niall groans. “Don’t think I’m just going to let this drop. We have to win this, okay? We have to. And starting today, things are going to change around here. No more video games or porn or partying or—“

“Piss off!” Niall shouts into his pillow, longsufferingly. “For Christ’s sake!”

“Things will change around here!” Harry repeats, fist in the air, determined and proud like a Roman Emperor, before he finally retreats, feeling self-satisfied and accomplished.

They have time. Things will change.

**

Things do not change. And they do not have time.

Harry hates his friends.

“You’re dead to me,” Harry sniffs one night before Niall leaves the flat, dressed and ready to go to some house party that reeks of unremarkability. He had promised they’d practise tonight. It was his one night off—they were supposed to practise. He promised.

And now he’s leaving them high and dry. Evil.

“Love you, too,” Niall sings, already halfway out the door. “Don’t wait up!”

And Harry glares as Liam frowns above his spectacles, sat at the table amongst mountains of textbooks and half-eaten protein bars. Then the door shuts and it leaves just the two of them, along with a nice, heavy sense of failure.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” Liam asks from the table, blinking.

Harry purses his lips, folding his arms across his chest.

“We’re fucked,” he confirms.

**

It’s when Harry has finally given up on The Dream that he reaches the lowest point of his desperation.

He’s just walking out of the music building, brain whirring with too much nonsensical information, when he spots it.

It’s one of those poorly formatted student adverts pinned to the bulletin board outside the door. On it is some heavily bearded guy with glasses and a stoic face (yeah, his picture is in the middle of the paper, looking near terrifying with its low definition black and white lines) and his name is Nathan, apparently. Upon further inspection, it appears that this very fluffy gentleman proposes to “improve a beginner’s skill with guitar, lyrics, and general songwriting”.

It’s probably a load of absolute shit.

…………… But what if it’s not?

Harry pulls a tab faster than he could pull Nick Grimshaw (this grad student who’s hopelessly in love with Harry—he’s on the uni radio station and his hair does special things but Harry loves him in a very nonsexual manner so he gets a lot of merciless teasing about it from all parties) and stuffs the scrap of paper with this Nathan guy’s phone number written neatly in Sharpie into his pocket.

He feels like Charlie after he’d just gotten the last golden ticket.

Heart swimming with promise, Harry makes his way back to his flat, looking inconspicuous to every passerby who doesn’t know that he’s just changed the course of his life.

Harry Styles will be in lights, pretty soon. He’s going to be a star. Or, at the very least, a cult sensation—he certainly wouldn’t mind being an underground god.

The point is, Harry has taken matters into his own hands. If Niall just wants to party and Liam just wants to study, then Harry is going to have to carry the full weight of this band. He’s going to have to channel the greats and mould the minds. And, hopefully, with Nathan’s help, he will achieve all of this and more by the time the Battle rolls around, squishing Partners In Crime like the bugs that they are.

And thus will begin his life.

**

Harry’s life begins on a Thursday.

He arrives at the “course” or whatever, prompt and early, finding that it’s held in an empty room in the performing arts building. He’s brought a notebook, a sharpened pencil, and an open mind. He’s also wearing his cleanest Converse and a fresh pair of unmentionables. So, basically, everything spells success.

The room is small, a little stuffy. There are about five windows, all of an incredibly small size. Everybody’s sitting on cold, metal lab stools that are speckled with dents and gum wads as they pick at their nails or flick through their phones. There are about ten people—a surprisingly large number (Harry wonders if the few brave souls that dared to show up have brought their friends for moral support/safety because, honestly, there couldn’t possibly be this many people interested, could there?)—and Harry feels like a prize idiot right now.

Because this is just an empty room with a few bodies and a few more stools. Where’s the stage? Where’s his spotlight? Where are the instruments and chalkboards with written music and…stuff? Where’s the stuff??

Just when Harry decides that this couldn’t possibly get any more disappointing and he’d do better to just go back to his flat and nag Niall some more (the bastard didn’t do the dishes this morning so Harry’s got extra ammo today), it all gets a little bit worse.

Because it’s then that Harry sees, sitting amongst the common rubble—Louis.

As in, Partners in Crime’s Louis. Louis Tomlinson. That Louis.

Louis with the gilt hair and immaculate conception eyes and hips that will probably lie but Harry would forgive them. Louis. Enemy. Competition. Louis.

And he’s wearing this grey-ish shirt that’s pushed to the elbows and the pattern is, like, blotty and imperfect and it’s a touch transparent? Is it? Oh dear god, it might be. He might be wearing a damn transparent shirt, right in the middle of this room, and, yes, Harry’s pretty sure he sees the white waistband of his briefs and that is—that’s—

That is unprofessional. That is a wilful distraction.

Harry is not charmed. When he wears his transparent clothing, he always takes care to wear such items in environments that are adequately equipped or prepared. Like a party, for example. Or a luncheon. Never would he dare to flaunt such articles in an educational habitat. That’s like busting out his best nipple shirt in the middle of a library—you don’t just do that. That’s terribly unconscientious and very improper.

Still, though. Harry sits next to him immediately. Oops?

The stool creaks when Harry hops on it and, for one petrifying moment, he gets the irrational fear that he’s going to break it and land on his arse, embarrassed and alone in a heap on the floor. And then Louis will laugh and point at him and mock him and then he’ll leave, taking all the talent out of the room with him, and he’ll win the Battle and Harry will have nothing.

It may be a stretch of the imagination but Harry can see it, clear as day. And it’s a horrible vision.

Luckily though, the stool does not, in fact, break.

Nor does Louis acknowledge Harry’s presence.

Like, at all. Not even a glance. Not a glimmer. Not a shimmer. Nothing.

Shit.

Hm… How hard would it be to break this stool?

Feeling a smidge disappointed (but, like, barely), Harry remains silent as he patiently waits (the Nathan guy still isn’t here, which is rude), occasionally checking his phone in hopes that Dictionary App will send him his word of the day. Yesterday was ‘scurryfunge’. It changed his life.

Louis also remains silent beside him. Well, mostly silent. He’s jiggling his leg and laughing quietly at the billions of texts that he’s undoubtedly getting from every human being on this planet. Because Louis has lots of friends because he’s good at drawing attention and even better at manipulating it to his advantage. He’s a flirtatious, gregarious, little pile of stardust. And he’s so damn mischievous and cool and he’s really good at seeming thoroughly unfazed, like, all of the time.

Harry is so, so bad at seeming unfazed. Whenever he tries to appear aloof and deep, people think he’s zoned out or confused. Louis just looks sexy and charmingly disapproving. Fucking Louis.

They continue to sit next to each other, the space between them filled with sludgy, quiet nothingness. Which is good. Because Harry likes silence. It’s an excellent time for self-reflection.

While reflecting, Harry absolutely does not sniff the air in hopes to catch wind of Louis’ cologne. Or aftershave. Or soap, maybe. Shampoo will do. Hell, even a natural odour? He nearly falls out off the stool trying to get a whiff of something, anything.

That’s normal behaviour, though. Standard human nature. He’s just curious because he wants to know what stars smell like. Not that Louis is a star---Harry’s the star here. Louis is a mere space rock.

An incredibly alluring space rock. Or maybe he’s a black hole. Very detrimental and ominous and important?

Fuck, no. No, Louis is a star, isn’t he. Just look at him.

Shit. He’s so… He’s such a star. He’s a beautiful star. He’s literally slumped on a stool, feet spread, one of his legs bouncing downright obnoxiously, and Harry is still staring at him like he were the second coming.

Coming. Goodness.

He better knock that train of thought right on its head before things get indecent in here.

Sigh. Harry Styles is a victim.

It’s while he’s cataloguing the intervals of Louis’ blinks (did you know that his eyelashes last for days? And that, when he blinks, they stretch across his cheekbones like paint bristles because Louis is art?) that the Nathan guy comes waltzing in, fifteen minutes late, clutching a bottle of beer. Which is not a very promising start. Harry decides that he hates him. And Harry never hates anybody. (That is somewhat of a lie.) (But that’s irrelevant right now.)

“Hey guys. Glad you showed. You all got your money?” is the first thing Nathan says, voice chilled out and smooth. He’s got a mustard stain on his t-shirt.

Ten heads nod.

Louis nods like he’s bored. Like he’s a French King, sitting atop a throne made of gold and purple velvet, delicately eating truffles as he surveys his subjects during a ball. It’s a lovely nod.

And then Harry looks away, reprimanding himself harshly—he is totally and completing failing the Music Gods’ test.

“Cool,” Nathan replies, nodding in approval. He shifts, setting his beer on the floor before pulling up a stool. “If you all just wanna come up here and I’ll collect? Before we start?”

More nods.

One by one, everybody stands up, meeting Nathan at the front of the room and handing him their dues. Louis gets up before Harry—he stands and stretches, slow and cat-like, his damn transparent shirt sliding up his body like an obscene striptease. He’s positively pornographic. With eyes that threaten to fall asleep, he drifts forward, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

Jesus, his hands. They’re so…well crafted. Strong. Yet delicate. Creamy. He could be a hand model.

Perhaps Harry should suggest this to him?

Before he can though, Louis reaches Nathan, a tenner in his hand. Nathan smiles, hazy and pleased behind his enormous, black-rimmed glasses.

“Appreciate it, mate,” he says, words like green grass.

“Hopefully I’ll say the same to you,” Louis quips back, but it sounds like birds taking flight and it’s accompanied with an impish grin. It unfurls the entire chemistry of life.

God, Harry hates him.

Nathan’s smile widens, approving. “You will, mate, you will,” he says, and then Louis walks away and suddenly it’s Harry’s turn.

“Here you are!” he smiles, thrusting his money at Nathan, who grins approvingly.

“Brilliant. Thanks, mate. Glad you could make it.” It sounds genuine.

Good. He likes Harry. No special treatment for Louis, then. Excellent.

When Harry returns to his respective stool, he finds Louis already sat down and texting again, a little smirk on the thin cut of his lips. With the way the light falls on his face, Harry is certain that he is witnessing the birth of a new Golden Age. It’s entirely unfair—this is supposed to be the Golden Age of Harry. And Harry’s band. This is supposed to be about Harry.

Damn Louis Tomlinson. Damn him to hell.

(Harry would never actually damn him, though. Just for the record.)

Again, silence settles between them. Which is shit.

More than a little irked, Harry opts to focus on Nathan, who is now finishing the dregs of his beer.

“Alright, kids,” he begins once the bottle’s empty and he’s burped heartily. He has awful manners. “Time to become the best musician you could ever be.”

Harry’s eyes shine at the words as he scoots to the edge of his stool.

Ready to learn, he folds his hands and listens, forgetting about Louis Tomlinson.

**

The course goes…interestingly.

Harry can’t really say if he’s learned anything yet. All Nathan’s done is give haphazard advice about finding one’s inner music voice while not succumbing to the pressures of the capitalist pigs in the industry. Other than that, he’s done nothing but strum an acoustic guitar, asking for everybody’s favourite songs.

It’s slightly infuriating. Harry wants to leave.

But Louis isn’t leaving. And what if Harry leaves and Louis stays and learns something that Harry doesn’t learn? Then he’ll win and then Harry will never fulfil his dreams. Louis will rip his dreams away and Harry will become dreamless and there will be a black chasm left in place of Harry’s future.

Oh god. But, wait.

What if winning is Louis’ dream as well? What if Harry ends up black-chasming Louis’ future?

Oh dear. Oh no.

No, no, no. Harry cannot think like this. He cannot put himself in this mind place. No. He must be ruthless because it’s all about winning in this world and he needs to win the Battle of the Bands because this is all he’s ever wanted to do. (Mostly.)  (Well, yeah, definitely!)

So Harry stays.

**

After the class is over, Nathan leaves in an uninspiring fury that culminates into a shrug accompanied by a “See you tomorrow, same time!” that leaves little to be desired.

It’s, quite frankly, very disappointing. But for ten pounds… Harry might as well just finish the course. It’s only like a week, or something. He can swing that—patience is a virtue, after all. And good things come to those who wait.

See? There are tons of happy sayings that suggest long-term satisfaction in regards to Harry’s choice.

Mind made up, Harry closes his notebook (not one note written in it—what an absolute waste of studiousness) as everybody slowly begins to file out of the room, faces bored and uninspired. Stool legs scrape against the floor, the sound of zippers wafts through the air, and a few humorous comments are exchanged amongst peers. It’s pleasant and casual and distracting and Harry has nothing to do during this time, nowhere to be in the immediate future…

So he decides to shift his gaze back to Louis because, well. Why wouldn’t he?

This time, though, he finds Louis looking back. And nearly swallows his own tongue.

Dear. Mother. Of God.

“Hello,” Louis greets immediately, eyebrows popping up like grasshoppers, an alarming smirk smeared onto his lips and, oh goodness gracious. This boy is a snake, isn’t he? He is a reptile. He is a prince. He is a desert. He is an ocean. This boy is very attractive and it’s disassembling Harry’s brain.

He is the enemy.

“Hi, Louis,” Harry greets immediately because he’s an embarrassing piece of rubbish, and he cringes the minute the words fall onto the floor. He can practically hear the dull thump they create, echoes resonating. 

God, he just said his name. And they’ve never even really met before.

The world is over before it even began.

“Uhm?” is the response he gets and that’s plenty mortifying.

So Harry explains, “I’m in that band,” smelling burning flesh because his face is on fire, and his voice is obscured by an embarrassed husk. There’s obviously a pebble in his throat. “I’m Harry.”

“’That band?’” Louis repeats, but he’s smirking, clearly amused, and—

Oh? Is he playing with Harry? Or does he genuinely not know…?

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly, brow scrunching. “Yeah, uhm, Trio Pets?”

At that, Louis just bursts out laughing, throwing his head back and sucking every particle of light from the room, housing it in his body instead. His bright, pretty body. Maybe he’s a nice person despite his heartless laughter? How could such a pretty thing be not nice?

But Louis continues laughing, actually thumping a hand on his thigh, and it’s really not that funny. It’s been a good forty seconds now. He can stop.

Harry fails to see the humour.

“I’m just taking the piss,” Louis eventually chuckles, eyes slitted and bright, reflecting all the lights he just stole. “I know who you are, Harry. Though I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced, have we?”

Obviously, Harry perceives this as an excellent opportunity.

“Hi Louis, I’m Harry,” Harry introduces without a beat, grabbing Louis’ hand to shake (a little too overeager) as he beams, and Louis’ eyebrows shoot still further up, glancing down at their hands. “Nice to meet you, finally.” He grins so wide it actually feels like he’s stretching his skin but he barely feels it, too caught up with the way a blade of Louis’ hair is currently flopped over his right eye, slicing into the sky of his blue. The blue of his sky. All the poetic nuances for Louis Tomlinson—all of them.

…… This behaviour probably isn’t conducive to his plans of steering clear of the enemy, is it.

But. Surely there’s no harm in mutual respect, right? Harry’s band is going to win, anyway, right?

So. No harm in it.

This time, Louis’ lips quirk more genuinely and he seems amused as he observes him. So Harry holds onto his hand because it seems polite and his skin is delightfully smooth. He must use very good moisturiser.

“Nice to meet you, too,” comes the sound of satin rubbing against silk and Louis doesn’t drop his hand either, just half-smiles at Harry in a very calm and curious way. He doesn’t drop his hand, dammit.

Clearly, this means he’s in love with Harry, too.

Oops—did Harry say ‘love’? He meant ‘mutual respect’.

“You signed up for the Battle of the Bands,” Harry then blurts without transition, mind short-circuiting because his palm is still pressed against Louis’ palm and he’s never touched perfection for this long before, if ever. He wonders if it’ll leave a mark or if, perhaps, tomorrow he will wake up more beautiful.

As if on cue, Louis removes his hand from Harry’s.

Dammit.

What an awful thing to happen—it’s a feeling equivalent to going to bed on Christmas Eve and waking up on January first. Just awful.

“I did,” Louis agrees easily in an even voice, unaware that he just ruined Christmas. “And I’m assuming you did as well?”

Harry’s nodding before the words are even out. “Yeah. I was behind you in line—when you were signing up. You were wearing that chinchilla-colored jumper.”

Dammit again. Why on earth did he feel the need to mention that detail?

Louis looks highly entertained, his half-smile evolving into a full-fledged grin. God. His hair is so fluffy, so artful and dimensionally brown. His face is so pointy and sculpted. His eyes are so quick, his stubble is even. And he’s smiling at Harry.

No no no no no no.

He’s the competition, the competition, the competition. He’s the enemy, the enemy, the enemy.

“Oh, were you? Yeah, I guess you were…” Louis smiles, slow and dawning, and he’s observing Harry with such blatant amusement but it’s not unkind. It’s beautiful.

This isn’t good.

“We’re enemies,” Harry suddenly hears himself saying, voice a little dazed. He blinks, mentally chastising himself. God, he’s acting like such a tit. What would Liam say?

At that, Louis’ eyebrows shoot up again, clearly surprised. “We are?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry nods seriously. “Our bands are in competition, you know.”

The corner of Louis’ lips twitch. “Yeah, I know.”

“So, we’re enemies.” It’s a logical train of thought.

“Ohhhhh,” Louis drags out before he clicks his tongue, mirth etched in the corners of his eyes as he slides his phone into his pocket and tilts his head. He looks like a cat playing with a mouse. “Does this mean we hate each other individually, then? Out to destroy each other’s lives and all that?”

“Absolutely not!” Harry gasps on instinct because—no. Like, sure, in a perfect world, he would be able to destroy Louis’ life to benefit his own. But, alas, Harry has a soul and a heart and Louis has a very special face. “Not in the light of day, at least. Nobody can hate each other in sunshine.”

The grin on Louis’ face widens. “Naturally.” His eyes search Harry’s face, a smugness filtering into his expression. “So is that why you signed up for this course, then? Because you wanted to make sure you could beat me and Zayn?”

“Perhaps,” Harry sniffs, looking away. Nearly everybody has left the room now. “I mean… I’m going to be famous, Louis. Might as well speed up the process.”

And this seems to delight Louis even further, sending him into a crack of genuine laughter as he leans back and claps his hands once. It’s like he’s ignited, his entire body reacting, every atom bright with amusement. It’s magic.

“Isn’t that why you signed up?” Harry counters, challenging, as he folds his arms.

“Of course,” Louis chirps, bright as rainbows. “In it to win it, aren’t I?”

“Me, too,” Harry counters, steely and determined and icy. Well, perhaps not ‘icy’. Maybe chilly. Lukewarm.

“So maybe we really are enemies then, little Har-bear.” Louis stands, casual as anything.

Did he just call Harry ‘Har-bear’? That is unacceptable.

“Rock stars don’t have nicknames,” Harry informs him pointedly, his brain-to-mouth filter all but evaporated from the heat radiating off of Louis’ thighs.

Another pearl of laughter, tumbling from the mouth of a celestial being. Harry hasn’t blinked once in the duration of this conversation. He may never blink again.

“My bad, Rockstar, my bad,” Louis grins, smirking and amused, and it’s entirely addicting. Harry wants more. He would pay large sums of money and steal cars to fund this habit. “Regardless, though. Looks like this is the end of our road. Can’t consort with the likes of you, now can I? Zayn would never speak to me again.” It’s said teasingly, he’s teasing Harry.

He’s also begun to walk away, which is the most devastating thing to ever happen to Harry ever. Ever.

“Liam and Niall would be mad at me, too,” Harry calls, stuck to his stool because he isn’t sure if he still has legs and he can’t look away from Louis long enough to check. “It would create inner-band tension and I’m not prepared for that emotional rollercoaster.”

Again, Louis laughs, genuine. “Emotional rollercoaster? Honestly kid, the way you talk…” He shakes his head, smiling, heading to the door. “Until tomorrow then, mine mortal enemy. Stay pretty.”

And then he’s gone and Harry’s entire brain has a moment of silence.

Did he just say the word ‘pretty’? Or was it ‘pity’? But that wouldn’t have made sense, right? Right??

Harry is going to die.

“This is the first day of the rest of my life,” he whispers to himself, now alone in the room, staring at the empty doorway.

So. Just hypothetically…

He could absolutely win both the Battle of the Bands and Louis’ heart, right? That’s not entirely impossible, is it?

Even if it is. Harry likes impossible, likes to prove it wrong.

With that thought, he finally gets up, legs a smidge wobbly, before he makes his way to the door, smiling from ear to ear.

**

For the next two weeks (five days a week, so ten days altogether), Harry goes to this “class”. It’s shockingly unhelpful and it eats enough of Harry’s freetime to create a sizeable dent in his homework and social life.

And it’s the best twenty pounds Harry’s ever spent.

After that first fateful day, Harry had been in a mild state of denial in regards to his opinion on Louis, returning to his flat with a strangled expression and uneven heartbeat. Wordlessly, he stood in the doorway, plopping his bag to the ground with a thump as he stared sightlessly ahead. Liam peered up at him from his trapper keeper.

“You alright, mate?” he’d asked a little worriedly, brow furrowing.

“Not even a little bit,” Harry responded faintly, before locking himself away in his room for the rest of the night.

He’d been determined to keep his tiny crush a very big secret; there was absolutely no way he could tell the boys that he was besotted with their opponent. Especially not when Harry’s been such a prick to them about this whole battle. No, it was Harry’s burden to bear, and Harry’s alone. It was karma from the Music Gods for failing his test. Ugh.

So, the very next day, Harry’d arrived to the course with a newly determined mindset and professionally buttoned shirt. He meant business.

“Hello, Louis,” he’d greeted stiffly the minute he sat down, refusing to give him more than a three second glance. Though, to be honest, he wasn’t even sure if they were at the greeting stage—Louis had said only the day before that they should be enemies. Was this a poor choice on Harry’s part? He was merely trying to prove that he was completely unaffected by Louis’ shapely legs and lickable collarbones.

But Louis had looked up from his phone, sleepy and amused.

“Hello there, Rockstar,” he’d said mildly. His voice was a bit raspy, like he’d just woken up from a nap, and it distinctly reminded Harry of sex.

Which was literally the worst thing he could’ve possibly thought about in that moment.

Turning crimson and crossing his legs, Harry had stared ahead as the minutes ticked by, waiting for Nathan to get his arse there. In his peripherals, Harry could see that Louis was watching him blatantly, head tilted to the side curiously.

It was only because Harry is but a mere mortal that he turned back to Louis after a solid forty-seven seconds of determining not to.

“How’s your day been so far?” he’d yapped, all professionalism being tossed out the window without a second’s hesitation. “Have you been napping? You sound like you’ve just woken up and your eyes look tired.” And damn it all to hell, why couldn’t Harry think before he spoke? He was being too obvious. Far too obvious.

And hadn’t he just promised himself that morning to not chase Louis?

At that, Louis’ smile was quick to form, his head still tilted in that lovely little angle, slowly blinking as he gazed at Harry unabashedly. “You notice the smallest details, you know that? You’re an odd one.”

“I’ve been told I’m remarkable,” Harry blinked dumbly.

(He really has been, you know. By several people. His mum, his step-dad, Nick Grimshaw… Liam probably said it at one point. Niall’s definitely thought it.)

The glorious sound of Louis’ laugh tinkled inside the room. It made Harry lightheaded.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” he smirked, one eyebrow rising.

Okay, so forget promises. Promises are for lost souls. Harry doesn’t need to promise that he won’t chase Louis because promises are awful things that should be broken. And, really, it would be wrong to fight his true feelings, wouldn’t it? Since rock stars are all about not giving a fuck and going against the grain of things, it would actually do Harry well to chase Louis. It would be anti-rock star if he didn’t lust after him.

There. Problem solved.

Feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders, Harry beamed, inclining his body closer to Louis’ immediately.

“I don’t want you to win the Battle of the Bands but I like your music,” Harry had said, honest and smiley as he rested his chin upon his palm. “Your voice sounds like Fabrizio Moretti’s. But better. You sound like you’re made of gold. Just so you know.”

Harry bit his lip the minute the words were out. Niall would’ve beheaded him if he’d heard such talk.

Louis’ smile never wavered. “That’s because I am made of gold. Good observation, young one. And I quite like that comparison as well, so I’ll tack a few more points onto Hufflepuff.”

“Hufflepuff?” Harry then squawked, smile falling off of his face. He was utterly appalled. Ravenclaw is his house, everybody knows that!  He’s wise beyond his years.

“Absolutely Hufflepuff,” Louis nodded seriously. “And I’m Slytherin, so. I’m right.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest—before promptly closing it.

Dammit. Louis really was Slytherin.

“Well. Whatever. I’m not Hufflepuff, though,” he mumbled glumly, slumping. “And I’m not young either so you shouldn’t call me ‘young one’. I’m the same age as you, Louis.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Well, I’m twenty-two.”

Harry blinked, open mouthed. “You’re old!”

“Uhm, no. I’m young, thank you,” Louis said primly, eyes flashing briefly. “I’m just a bit more experienced. I took some time off before I came here.”

“Doing what?”

“Magical things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know. Just making the world more fun than it wants to be.” Louis waggled his eyebrows, his smile dripping in knowing mischief. “I’m very persuasive when I want to be.”

“And so you persuaded the world to entertain you?” Harry’d asked, completely enamoured.

“Of course,” Louis chirped. “And, I think you’ll find, the world has never once regretted its decision.”

“Hm,” Harry’d smiled dreamily, wondering what Louis’ ring size was. “Where can I go to ask it myself?”

And Louis smiled, wider and even more prettily, before leaning forward and tapping Harry twice on the temple. “Right there,” he’d said, voice crackling against Harry’s heartbeat.

Harry was just opening his mouth to respond (or vomit up tiny cupids clutching pieces of his fluttering heart) when suddenly the door opened and there was Nathan, waltzing in twenty minutes late.

“Hey, friends,” he’d greeted lazily, and Harry immediately straightened up and opened his notebook, adorning his best student face—even if he was still watching Louis in his peripherals.

And so the course continued, proving just as useless as the previous day’s lesson; its monotony was only broken up by the occasional joke said under Louis’ breath and the sound of his yawns which tickled Harry’s spine. Sometimes he would doze off a tiny bit and Harry would gently poke his knee every time, trying not to smile so hard it hurt his eyes. And Louis would blink at him, returning a small grin before fluffing his hair in the most unconsciously sexy manner possible.

Afterwards, when Harry was packing up, Louis handed him his notebook.

“Make sure to take some notes next time,” he’d said, eyes glinting. “You’re going to need them if you want a chance in beating me.”

It was the most attractive thing Harry’s ever heard.

“I would love to beat you,” Harry swallowed, eyes wide and shoulders slumping. “But I don’t need notes to do so. I’m remarkable, remember.”

“You’re gonna need to be,” Louis practically sang, but his eyes were squinty and delighted and Harry clutched onto his notebook with all his might, restraining himself from doing something horrifically awkward like hugging Louis. Or sniffing his shirt. Or pressing his face into his bum.

“I like you,” Harry’d blurted instead.

God, he was embarrassing. He felt his face heat immediately but he didn’t retract the statement. Honesty is the best policy, after all.

“I like me, too,” Louis’d replied easily. And then his smile became glitter before he vanished, leaving Harry in love.

Ever since that day, they’ve essentially been friends. Secret friends, though. Neither will admit it, obviously, too busy teasing each other and feigning hatred and sabotage. But Harry likes Louis, likes him a lot, and it’s not just because he’s the most sexually alluring creation on this planet. He likes Louis because Louis is youthful and confident and so, so fun. And unexpectedly nice. Harry likes all of those things.

He likes those things a lot. Enough to keep, even.

In fact, at one point, he’d offered Nathan twenty more pounds to extend the course for another two weeks.

“What for, man?” Nathan had asked, bleary eyed and confused. “I’ve taught you everything you could possibly need to know.”

“Yeah, but,” Harry shifted his weight impatiently, voice taking on a delicate whine. He did not have time for this. Louis could be there at any moment. “I’ve got a battle of the bands coming up next month, okay? I need all the help I can get.” He paused. “Also, you know. Louis.” He tried to convey a meaningful look.

Nathan stared.

“Louis? That Tomlinson kid?” he’d asked slowly.

Harry nodded so fast, his head almost rolled off. 

“Yeah, he’s cool,” Nathan then said approvingly, eyes lidded. He looked very fond as he said, “Quite the little troublemaker but, man, has he got talent. Funny too, eh? And quite pretty.”

Did he just say ‘pretty’? That’s Harry’s word. He can’t use that word, that word is specially reserved for Harry because Louis calls him pretty sometimes and, hell no, Nathan cannot use that word to describe Louis.

Nathan was a threat.

“On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Harry glared, tone sour, as he promptly shouldered his bag and stood up. “I think I’ll be just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

And he stomped away before he could change his mind.

Unfortunately, the effect was slightly dampened the moment he realised he needed to turn right back around and re-enter the room since that day’s course was about to begin and Louis had just turned the corner and was heading down the hallway towards him.

But, whatever.

During class, he’d made sure to tilt his body towards Louis in a way that was very, very clear about his intentions. He likes to think it worked since Nathan only called on Louis once that day.

Maybe Harry was intimidating?

In any case. Things have been nice, regardless of Nathan’s potential passionate love for Louis.

And, sure, Harry really shouldn’t be actively chasing Louis, probably. The prospect doesn’t bode well. If they fall in love, it’ll be like Romeo and Juliet and Harry’s just not willing to die yet. Even if Louis probably kisses like Aphrodite and has the thighs of Ares. The face of Apollo. The arms of Hephaestus. The power of Zeus. The grace of Poseidon. The delicate ankles of Hermes. Who’s the god of wit and cheekbones? He should get a shout-out, too.

But, no, really. Harry shouldn’t be pulling up his little knowledge of Greek Mythology just so he can wax poetic on Louis Tomlinson. Especially since Louis Tomlinson is in a rival band and it’s just… They have very little to work with here.

Besides, Louis is probably most likely dating, or at least sleeping with, Zayn. Zayn bloody Malik. Because Zayn could be his own Greek God, couldn’t he? And that’s just not fair at all—the world can’t just take the two most beautiful people and stick them together. That is not fair in any way, shape, or form.

It’s partly for that reason that Harry has been trying to rein it in lately. He hasn’t been casually sniffing Louis’ neck as much, nor has he been staring at him during class for thirty minute intervals and, yesterday, he even managed to stand up while talking to Louis—without even a hint of a wobble in his knees. He’s basically becoming immune to him. Basically. Yeah.

And so he’s just been letting their time together run its course. In fact, today’s the last day of Nathan’s class. And Harry’s not even mad about it as he dons his blackest winter jacket and black mittens and black hat. He’s not sad at all. Not even thinking about it, really. Louis? Louis who? It’s fine, it’s whatever. He’s in a weird rival band and they’re going to be battling it out in about two weeks, anyway. Why should they be friends? That would just be a whole thing.

No, alas. Their friendship ends here.

Yep. Good times.

Good, good times…

**

When Harry arrives to their final course together, he finds Louis sitting in the usual spot, looking resplendent in a puffy hoodie and formfitting jeans that prove the existence of God.

However.

Rather than sitting impatiently as Harry often finds him, tapping his hands against his thighs, or texting or listening to his iPod, Louis appears to be on the phone. As in, talking on the phone. Having a conversation. With someone else. Just chattering away like there’s no tomorrow. As if today wasn’t his last course with Harry.

And, worse still, he looks happy and buoyant and his voice is loud and filled with smiling emojis—like the one with the blushing cheeks and closed eyes. (It’s Harry’s favourite, always number one on his ‘Recently Used’—except for that one month when he was obsessed with the idea of becoming a father and kept using the baby emoji.) (But that is neither here nor there.)

To sum it up, it’s the last thing Harry expects to see on this most tragic and painful of days. Why, he’s been so damn disheartened about the prospect of his and Louis’ time ending that he’s been wearing black for an entire week, even for his Music Theory’s Christmas party, which encouraged festive-wear and elf stockings—which are normally Harry’s specialties.

He has been in a state of downright mourning and here Louis is, bright as a bird, opting to talk to other people during his very last moments of Harry Time.

Harry knows a slap in the face when he sees one.

Louis Tomlinson is dead to him.

Harry’s going to crush his band at The Battle. He hopes Zayn breaks his heart.

Everything is horrible.

Striding forward with all the wounded pride of hunted deer, Harry tries to remain aloof and confident as he approaches Louis, making sure to sway his hips just so. He can do this.

Only briefly does Louis meet Harry’s eye, accompanying it with an acknowledging nod as he laughs and listens to someone else’s voice. And then his eyes flitter away like the heartless pinpricks that they are.

Harry feels like he’s been stabbed from behind a curtain. He’s in Hamlet. It was never Romeo and Juliet—just Hamlet. And this is his death scene. He’s Polonius.

Pursing his lips, Harry sits down on the stool, posture stiff as a board. If Louis wants to chat with other people, then fine. What does Harry care? So what if it’s their last day together, potentially forever? Who cares that their book is on its final chapter, that this is the last song of their concerto, that these will be the last words of Louis’ that Harry will ever hear?

Exactly—nobody cares.

So Harry folds his arms, shooting a not-so-subtle glare Louis’ way.

He hates phones. What a shitty invention. Maybe he’ll turn his off, just to prove a point.

“HAHAHAHAHAH” comes the sound of Louis’ laugh which, under normal circumstances, would extend a good four years onto Harry’s life expectancy. But as of now, it’s mostly irritating and Harry sniffs as he turns his head away from the noise, fingers digging into his flesh.

How long can one person stay on the phone, anyway?

He’s just about to make a catty comment (one that would be more helpful than anything, of course) when suddenly Harry blinks and Nathan appears in the room, standing at the front with a pair of drumsticks, blinking past his glasses and chewing gum. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with a wolf howling at the moon. He may or may not be chemically altered. And, what’s worse—he’s on time.

He’s on bloody time.

Harry tries not to bite his fist, a surge of frustration washing over him.

Of course, of course, Nathan becomes punctual on the very last day of class, of course. Of course Louis is on the phone right now. Of bloody course! What a time to be alive!

Everything is horrible. All colours have become grey. Nothing has meaning. Harry is a shell of a human.

“Hey!” he finds himself whispering harshly, sending his most piercing glare Louis’ way.

Louis pauses mid sentence, phone still pressed to his ear, eyebrows shooting up as he meets Harry’s eye.

“Yeah, you,” Harry says, not kindly. He doesn’t even feel guilty about it. Nope. “Nathan’s here. Get off the phone, yeah?”

It’s the meanest thing he’s ever said.

He feels horrible.

Louis, however, merely winks, seemingly unbothered as he mutters a cool, “Alright, sorry, mate. Gotta go. I’ll text you, bye.” And then he hangs up the phone like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like he wasn’t just shredding Harry’s soul apart.

Hmph. Rude.

Steeling his jaw, Harry turns his body fully to face the front, watching Nathan with a determined scowl on his face.

“Hey. My bad,” he hears Louis whisper as Nathan starts talking about god knows what.

He feels a poke on thigh—Louis’ finger. His pretty little finger that would fit so well in Harry’s mouth. (Just an observation.)

Still, though, Harry ignores him, firmly watching Nathan.

“Hey, Rockstar. Hey.”

Begrudgingly, Harry turns to Louis, despising the way his weak human body immediately unfolds, all the tension evaporating, the minute he sets eyes on him. God, he’s got the warmest eyes in the world. The sweetest smile. He’s sweet and warm like cake. Fresh out of the oven. Devil’s Food.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, softer than means to. He may or may not be fluttering. Would it be weird to lick his cheek right now?

“Thanks for keeping me in line,” is all Louis says, offering another wink, and Harry might have a stroke in response.

“I’d rather you be a hexagon than a line,” Harry whispers back, staring at his mouth because it’s hard not to. “Lines are boring.”

Louis grins, fingers still on Harry’s thigh. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yes it does. Lines really are boring—all they do is go up and down.”

“So does the sun.”

“But it’s bright. Like you,” Harry murmurs, word-vomiting once more.

Which, fabulous. How fabulous. Today’s fabulous.

Louis doesn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, he beams, briefly tapping his fingers up Harry’s leg before snatching his hand back and straightening, turning his bright eyes to Nathan, an unintelligible smile on his lips.

God. Harry could marry him. He wants to marry his mortal enemy.

This really is Romeo and Juliet after all. He’s going to die.

With a sigh and a heavy heart, Harry turns back to Nathan as well, trying to savour his last moments.

**

The course ends in an unremarkable shebang of Nathan thanking everybody for their time as he hands out his e-mail and gently self-promotes himself and his new demo. It’s suspicious but Harry supposes he understands. He’ll probably end up buying a copy. It’s good to support friends, even when they’re not friends.

After the speech, everybody begins filing out at impressive speed.

Harry, meanwhile, is stalling to leave, putting his notebook away with such incredible slowness that it probably appears worrisome to onlookers. He doesn’t care though, not when Louis is still beside him and itching his stomach, revealing speckles of stomach hair and, jesus—are those abs? Those are abs. Really wonderful abs, at that.

They would probably pair excellently with ice cream. Harry laments the fact that he will never experience such pleasures.

It’s just as he’s pulling himself up to his full height, ready to bite the bullet and wish away his eternal sadness as he bids farewell to the divine creature that is Louis Tomlinson, that Louis steps up to him, hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans, a crooked smile on his face that’s laced with quiet amusement and…something else. Like he’s got insider knowledge or something equally powerful and mysterious.

“What?” Harry asks, feeling a grin form already as Louis continues to observe him quietly.

There’s a moment’s pause. Then Louis shrugs, grin widening. He’s got pretty teeth. Perfect teeth. Harry wants his teeth to touch those teeth.

“I’m hungry,” Louis says. His voice is so loud. He’s so obnoxious. Harry never wants to leave his side. “Let’s get food.”

And whoah, wait—what? What did he say? Something about food? Get food? Louis wants to get food with Harry? Now? Hang out? Food???

“Yes,” Harry says calmly, despite the raging chaos of his brain. He nods sagely, gently folding his hands. “Food, yes. Let’s get food.”

Harry loves food.

A brilliant smile erupts in the room, cascading down Harry’s soul.

“Perfect,” Louis sings, already taking off, grinning over his shoulder. “Because you never had a choice in the matter. Now come along, Rockstar. Let’s enjoy the sunshine.”

And, yes, okay. Maybe it’s not the end of the world after all?

**

Food is nice. Food might be Harry’s new favourite thing.

They end up going to The Leaf and Bean—how fitting, no? Going to the place where all of this began? Harry wants to write a haiku about it. Maybe he could sew it into a quilt and pass it on to his children.

It’s overall a very pleasant experience, the entire thing. Louis leads him to the counter when they enter, chatting away about how birthdays are inherently selfish celebrations (which Harry found appalling, unable to resist calling Louis a “soulless shrew”, much to the latter’s pure delight) and they debate over what to order. Harry’s always enjoyed a nutritionally beneficial snack himself, so when he suggests they split a package of dried fruit and some ancient grain seed crackers (homemade!), he isn’t quite expecting the look of abject terror on Louis’ face.

“That’s neither pretty, nor is it dipped in chocolate,” is the flat response, and it should’ve sent Harry into a tirade about the benefits of a wholesome diet, but instead it spiralled him into laughter.

Because, you know—Louis is magic.

So they sit at one of the tables in back, each with their respective snacks and beverages, casually picking away as they make small talk, which very quickly turns into bigger talk.

They’re very good at conversing, Harry’s decided. Mostly because Louis is brilliant at filling all the empty spaces and even more brilliant at making everything that Harry says seem interesting. And he talks quite fast—completely at odds with Harry’s own, erm, rather calm style—and Louis’ voice is tinkling whereas Harry’s is bumbling and sometimes they speak over each other but they always listen to the other and it’s nice. Harry just speaks earnestly, staring into Louis’ eyes, and Louis fidgets as he flicks his hair and occasionally paws at Harry’s arms and fires off quick jokes and is always, always elusive and inconsistently sincere.

At one point, Harry is struck with the very real desire to secretly record Louis’ conversation—just so he can listen to it later tonight with his headphones, tucked up in his bed, because he’s almost positive it will help him fall asleep. But then he decides that that’s probably creepy and very invasive (he never wants to disrespect Louis or Louis’ rights or anything about or involving Louis) and so Harry pushes the urge away, instead focusing on the way Louis sounds out of breath when he discusses David Beckham.

Eventually though, time gets the best of them.

“I best get going. I’ve got things to do, Rockstar. Worlds to create and all that,” Louis says, crinkly-eyed, as he throws away his empty cup and waits for Harry by the bin. “Empires to conquer. All in a day’s work.”

Harry is so charmed.

They exchange numbers after that, Harry watching Louis tap the digits into his phone with stars in his eyes.

“I’m going to text you every day for the rest of my life,” he says seriously and Louis laughs because he thinks he’s joking.

And so they leave, twin smiles on their faces as Harry holds the door open for Louis.

“I’m going this way,” Louis says once they’re outside, pointing left as he squints in the sun.

“I’m going that way,” Harry says, pointing right. He’s proud of himself—he resisted the urge to lie, just so he could walk with Louis a bit longer.

“Two ships, passing in the night,” Louis says poetically, smirking, and Harry suddenly has the desire to tattoo a ship onto his body.

“Only to return to each other before long?” Harry asks hopefully.

“Well, yeah. Anything for you,” Louis grins, rolling his eyes. “Text me.”

He’s walking away into the sun. This is what dreams look like.

“I will!” Harry calls, wanting to push himself up onto his tiptoes and carry his voice with Louis all day. “And text me back, please!”

All he hears is a chuckle before Louis turns the corner, vanishing from sight.

Harry doesn’t stop smiling for the entire walk home.

**

Being friends with Louis is the hardest thing in the entire world.

And it’s not because Louis is difficult to be around, or anything. Quite the contrary—Harry wants to sew his pants together with his pants and he wants to hold his hand and kiss his eyelids and bake him whole grain bread and rub lotion onto the dry parts of his elbows and fold his socks and listen to the way his voice sounds when Harry’s ear is pressed against his chest. He really is quite smitten—how could he not be? Louis is very special, the most special kind of balloon, and he’s floating Harry away, lifting him up into the clouds.

Which, naturally, Harry tells him. Because Harry tells him everything because he can’t help but splutter every horrid thought that comes to his mind whenever he’s around Louis.

Only good things, though. If you’ve nothing kind to say, then it’s best to not say anything at all, you know.

And Harry has no trouble saying the kind things.

“I don’t even care that we’re mortal enemies anymore,” Harry says one day as they sit on the steps to the music building, sharing a sandwich.

Harry’s wearing sunglasses—he’s trying to be inconspicuous, lest Liam or Niall should happen upon them. He hasn’t yet told them about his undying adoration for Louis yet, but he also hasn’t been able to be very subtle in his affections, either.

All in all, it makes for a very stressful situation.

“Like, I still want to win The Battle and become the music sensation that I was born to become,” he explains matter-of-factly, ripping off a bit of crust and tucking it into the grassblades—a snack for one of nature’s creatures, hopefully. “But I won’t be mad if you win, either.”

Louis grins, mouth filled with cheese and bread. “Good,” he says, muffled. “Zayn will like that.”

And part of Harry is sad because he wants Louis to say something more along the lines of ‘Oh! Be still my beating heart! I feel the same, Harry, let’s run away together!’ but…

Whatever. Harry understands that his demands can be a little outrageous. He’s always been a bit of an idealist.

Even so though, the two weeks leading up to The Battle are the best of Harry’s life.

Really, the only downside is the secret nature of their friendship. Because, no, Harry will not tell Niall or Liam—especially not Niall. The boy will only get satisfaction out of Harry’s predicament or, worse still, he’ll be an absolute bitch about the whole thing.

So Harry keeps his mouth shut, even when Niall eyes him suspiciously one morning when he’s standing by the kettle.

“Why are you always smiling so much lately?” he asks with probing eyes, hair spiked in thirty different directions.

“Because,” Harry says primly, getting out his best teacup. “You haven’t been around.”

It earns him a smack on the head and Harry can hear Liam’s chuckles from the other room, where he’s busy coordinating the different shades of white in his socks.

Still though, it’s worth the secrets and the head smacks. Being Louis’ friend is so completely worth it. It’s just nice, is all. This whole ‘being friends with the enemy’ thing is actually just lovely. Louis is lovely. And Harry loves spending all of his free time with him, loves getting to know him, loves learning the details of his life and all of his flaws and all of the aspects that apply to his very existence.

Like, he’s going to school for theatre. And it’s because he likes when people watch him and he likes playing someone that’s not himself because “as much as I love me, I sound better with other peoples’ words in my mouth.” His favourite colour is red and he owns a pair of bright red skinny jeans which he only wears when his “soul is feeling lackluster,” in hopes to make up for whatever he can’t “bring to the table”—that is exactly how he phrased it. Isn’t that adorable?

He loves music passionately. He loves his little band and loves singing all the time (especially in public places, especially when those public places are quiet—it’s slightly mortifying and scary but Harry lets him do it because his eyes get all bright whenever he causes mischief) and he sometimes scribbles out new songs in his notebook while Harry studies notation and plucks out meaningless tunes on his guitar. He works at a toy store which is hideous—he makes these little faces at all the babies and he’s always the first to help the children (squatting so he can look them in the eye and muss up their hair and smile so hard that it splashes crow’s feet across his temples and that is some horse shit, that is, because Harry always, always has to clutch onto the toy trucks for support when that happens) and he has a big family apparently and he’s a mama’s boy and his mother just got married recently and Louis tells stories about it which are irrelevant and adorable.

Louis also likes flowers, which is a disgusting fact that Harry didn’t need to know because he absolutely did not need to be going to a florist at eight o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, searching for lavender and white daisies. Faintly, he wonders if he should buy a marijuana plant and sprig up the bouquet a bit with it because Louis smokes a fair bit and he’ll probably be charmed. Then he ponders the idea of adding poinsettias because Louis was born on Christmas Eve (the world’s gift, obviously) but that might be a bit creepier, considering Harry Facebook-stalked that information rather than having heard it from Louis himself.

These are the things Harry thinks about now. This is Harry’s life.

And it’s only been one month. Give or take.

But they have really great times together, meeting at intervals throughout their days because their conversation is easy and Louis is hilarious and magnetic and Harry texts him an awful lot. But Louis almost always texts back, he does, and he actively makes plans with Harry so it’s not completely one-sided or anything. It’s mutual. They haven’t discussed it but Harry knows it is. It has to be, considering the shit Louis puts up with in regards to Harry. All the terrible conversations…

“I want to know why it’s frowned upon for men to openly wear tiaras,” Harry says one day, pouting as he delicately unpeels a banana. “I hate that society tries to dictate my feelings because, you know, I really like tiaras and I fully intend to wear them, should the feeling arise.”

Louis is staring at him, lips curved into an enormous, huge smile as he chews on a pastry, chocolate smeared on them. (That in itself is the best looking dessert Harry’s ever seen. He’ll have ten, please.) “Tiaras, eh? I didn’t peg you for that type.”

“’That type?’” Harry splutters, appalled, stilling in his banana-peeling. “That’s—you see, people like you are the problem and—“

But he stops when he sees Louis’ shoulders shaking, his laughter (giggles? Those are giggles, goddammit, no) spilling out of his full mouth, and it would probably be gross on anybody else that wasn’t Louis. But seeing this golden, woodland sprite clutching his mouth, trying to hold the food in through his laughter, his entire body scrunched up and quivering with joy…

This is like art and Harry stares, unblinking.

“You are so easy to rile up,” Louis laughs, squinted eyes stuck on Harry’s.

Harry has to remember to swallow, the drool filling his mouth.

“I’m just teasing you. I fully support your tiara endeavours. Power to you.” Louis raises his tea in salute, mouth still twitching as he swallows the remnants of pastry. Then he takes a sip, shaking his head as his eyes take on a fonder feel before he sets down the cup. “You’re too cute, Rockstar. Maybe the cutest ever.”

Maybe the cutest ever. Where can Harry go to get that engraved and what can he get that engraved into? He makes a mental note to look into this later.

“Would you wear a tiara with me?” Harry then asks, after their smiles quiet and Louis takes another sip of tea.

He looks up, one eyebrow raised. “With you? Of course,” he says, without an ounce of hesitation. Sets down the cup. “Anything with you, Har-Bear.”

Oh, god. Another thing to get engraved.

And so they continue in their happy fashion. And so The Battle of the Bands quietly draws nearer. And so Liam and Niall continue in their lives, unbeknownst to Harry’s new best friend. And so Harry’s life is sort of weird.

But it’ll all work out. It will.

Harry is sure of it. This is, after all, his movie.

**

“The Battle of the Bands is tomorrow,” Liam says seriously when Harry wakes up the next day, scrubbing at his eyes as he flops down at the table. He’s eyeing him, almost pitifully. “We haven’t practised once in a month.” It’s said very quietly, very carefully.

“Oh,” Harry hums, scratching his chin as he checks his phone—no new texts from Louis. The worst possible way to start one’s day. “I guess we haven’t…”

Maybe he should text Louis?

Liam stares. “Harry? Harry, did you hear what I said?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I responded, didn’t I…?” he asks, half-paying attention as he tries to take an enigmatic selfie. He’s aiming for ‘poetically sleepy platinum youth with disheveled hair, disheveled thoughts, and a penchant for insomnia’ but, alas, he lands somewhere near ‘uncouth preteen with a penchant for meth’.

Hm. Maybe he’ll wait on the selfie. At least until his face settles.

“Harry,” Liam says again, visibly worried now. “Don’t you care at all? Before, you were nearly manic about winning this thing. Now you barely even mention the band, let alone the battle.” His lips create a line when Harry doesn’t answer, following the careful avoidance of his eyes. “Harry,” he prods further, voice dropping an octave. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

And Harry really does plan on keeping the lid on it. He does.

“I’ve befriended Louis Tomlinson and I want to marry him and I won’t be mad if Partners In Crime wins The Battle of the Bands and we don’t,” he says instead.

Which promptly sends Liam into shock.

After talking him down from confused hysterics (his pupils are finally back to their normal size, thank god) Harry takes a careful sip of tea, pinky out.

“So…” Liam says slowly, unsurely. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Ah. That’s the big question, isn’t it?

“In due time, Liam,” Harry says calmly, setting the cup down with a gentle clink.

“What?” he blinks, clearly confused. “What does that m—“

“In due time,” Harry repeats, sharper, and it silences Liam.

But Harry sees the amused twitch of Liam’s lips and he sniffs and looks away. He will not be mocked by trusted friends. This is not a time for judgment. He will not let himself be exposed to the elements, to be ridiculed by loved ones. He is vulnerable right now.

“Are you going to tell Niall?” Liam asks at last, and now he just sounds blatantly amused, not even attempting to disguise it. Fabulous.

Harry shifts uneasily in his seat, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Dunno...” he says. He glances up, meets Liam’s eye. “Do you think he’ll mind?”

“Mind?? Harry, he’s going to punch you in the—“ And Liam cuts off, glancing pointedly down at Harry’s crotch.

Gulping, Harry clutches his nether regions.

“So, uhm, yeah. Maybe we’ll wait to tell Niall? Until after The Battle?”

“Yeah,” Liam nods, seeming to suppress a laugh. Et tu, Brute? “Yeah, definitely wait.”

And then they pause, staring at each other in the silence, Harry still clutching himself protectively, Liam blinking wide eyes as the clock on the wall ticks by, second by second.

Then, as one, they burst into laughter.

“Only you, Harry,” Liam laughs, shaking his head.

Harry giggles, tossing his hair out of his eyes and leaning back in his chair, lifting his smile to the heavens.

“Only me,” agrees, but he lets his smile soak into the words.

**

“Tomorrow’s The Battle of the Bands,” Harry says the minute he drops into the seat across from Louis, who looks up from a magazine and raises one brow. Harry beams, manic. “And I hope you’ve been preparing.”

Smirking, Louis closes the magazine, setting it down gently atop the table. They’re in The Leaf and Bean, again. Aren’t they always? Having their daily lunch together.

It’s so domestic. It’s Harry’s favourite thing in the world.

“Oh, I’m very prepared,” Louis assures, smile twitching. “More than you know. Wrote a song and everything. All by meself. No help from Zayn at all.”

“Really?” Harry asks in wonderment. Louis is so talented. So on the ball. “I didn’t know that!”

He shrugs, casual. “Maybe it’s a surprise.”

Wait, what?

Harry feels his eyes light up like Christmas trees. “A surprise?” he repeats, excitement colouring his tone.

But all Louis does is smile coyly before he sips his tea, cheeks hollowing and lips pouting to blow the steam away, encompassing all the beauty of the Renaissance.

Life imitates art, they say. They were correct.

“What about you then? Are you prepared, little Rockstar?” he asks, chipper and cute, his tea clutched between both hands.

“Not even a little bit,” Harry admits happily. “But that’s okay. I’ve been doing great in all of my courses since we haven’t been practising. So, like. Not all is lost.”

And Louis is just about to reply, his pretty little mouth forming a surprised ‘oh’, when suddenly his eyes catch on something over Harry’s shoulder, his eyes slitting in pleasure.

“Oi! Zayn!” he calls, happy as a clam, waving his arm like a man lost at sea. “Zayn!”

Harry stills.

Did he say Zayn? As in the Zayn? Potential lover Zayn? (Admittedly, that’s an unlikely prospect, given how little Louis talks of him and how much time he spends with Harry, but. All the same. It’s a potential.)

Pursing his lips, Harry waits as he hears the click of footsteps near their table. Boots, from the sounds of it. And only one person on this planet wears boots—Zayn Malik. (Okay, that is not entirely true either. But, details.)

“Mate,” Zayn greets, purring like an Egyptian cat that sits on tasseled pillows. He grins lazily, bumping a fist against Louis’. “What’s up?”

Louis smiles, coy and cute and fluffy, before sighing long-sufferingly. “Oh, you know. Just carrying the earth on my shoulders and trying not to shrug.” He flutters his lashes and crosses his eyes briefly before he relaxes his face, smirking. “Hey. Have you ever met Harry, Z?”

Ah. So. Louis is introducing him, then. And he hasn’t labeled Harry’s relation to Louis—are they friends? Best friends? More than friends? Are they courting? Harry would like to know. And Zayn—who is he? Just a friend, right?

(Oh, please, Music Gods. Please, please, please, may he be just a friend. Please.)

When Zayn’s cashmere eyes settle on him, Harry nearly gets the breath knocked out of him.

Damn these beautiful people.

“Hi,” Harry greets a little dazedly, extending a floppy hand. “I’m Harry. I’m in that band.”

“’That band’?” Zayn repeats, amused, and it feels just like when he and Louis met.

Ah, memories. Beautiful times. They had joy, they had fun, they had seasons in the sun.

“Yeah,” Harry says, glancing at Louis—whose lips are twitching. “Trio Pets!”

Zayn blinks. “Who?”

Harry’s smile falls. “Trio Pets,” he repeats, frowning. “We’re—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know who you are,” Zayn smirks, chuckling a little awkwardly. “Louis just told me to give you shit when I met you, so. Just trying to do what the king tells me.”

Oh, so Zayn also refers to Louis as a king? Interesting. Only a man with a very high opinion of Louis’ cheekbones and general regal manner would refer to him in such a way. How very telling.

Zayn is now a threat.

“All hail,” Louis quips happily, hands in his lap.

“All hail the bag of dicks,” Zayn corrects. “But, anyway. I’ve actually to get going. Perrie’s waiting for me to pick her up and I told her I was on my way an hour ago, so. I’ll see you guys later?”

Perrie? Who’s Perrie? And why is he picking her up?

Perhaps Zayn isn’t a threat, after all….

“Yeah, ‘course,” Louis says easily, waving goodbye before kicking his feet up on Harry’s legs. Harry beams. “Bye, baby!”

And Harry’s smile vanishes.

Did he just say ‘baby’? What the hell. Harry’s been trying to get Louis to call him that for at least twenty-three days now.

Zayn, however, merely rolls his eyes. His ungrateful little eyes. “Yeah, sure. Nice meeting you, Harry. See you guys tomorrow. Bye.”

And with that, Zayn is gone.

“So who’s Perrie?” Harry asks immediately, resting his hands atop Louis’ feet which lie so perfectly in his lap, even from this awkward position at the café table. He, maybe, lets his thumbs stroke the smooth bone of his ankles. Louis doesn’t seem to mind.

He tilts his head before he responds, regarding Harry with an unidentified look, his lips quirked. “His girlfriend.” Pause. “And why are you asking?”

Harry shrugs, his gaze dropping to his lap. Louis has nice feet. Maybe he can get him to step in wet paint and walk all over his floor, or something. Immortalize his pretty feet. Maybe he could walk on Harry’s body. Or tap dance down his hall?

“Just making sure he’s not your boyfriend, is all,” he states simply before lifting his gaze back up, smiling sunnily.

For one moment, Louis looks genuinely taken aback, mouth moving wordlessly like a fish. It’s surprising, actually—Harry’s never seen Louis speechless before, didn’t even know it was possible.

But then his gaze settles back and he smirks, shaking his head. “The things you say sometimes…” he mutters quietly, but he’s grinning now, toeing into Harry’s stomach playfully.

So Harry grins back, gripping his ankle tight enough that Louis can’t break away, and presses a kiss to the top of his shoe.

Louis bursts into surprised laughter. “What did you do that for?”

Harry shrugs, blinking dopily as he sways in his chair. “My lips felt heavy and your feet felt light. I think they wanted to find each other.”

“You’re incredibly odd,” Louis grins, settling back in his chair, his gaze never breaking away. “I love it.”

Angels sing.

“Good,” Harry nods, beaming. “Me, too.”

And it’s then that Harry decides that Louis Tomlinson is the only one for him.

**

It’s about eight PM when Louis calls Harry that night.

“I didn’t feel like texting because my fingers are cold,” is the first thing his tinny voice says on the line.

Harry’s already smiling, mouth warm against the cool plastic of his iPhone.

“Come over?” Louis asks, sweet and lilting. Harry can perfectly envision the expression on his face. “There are shadows on the walls and I don’t like them. I need you to chase them away.”

“I’ll make sure they don’t return, Louis,” Harry promises solemnly. “I’ll protect you.”

“Good, because I only want you to.”

Harry’s smile could float off of his face. He feels bouncy. Like dancing sheep.

“Good, because I want you to only want me to,” he mumbles, grinning too much for the words, and he hears Louis’ laugh, followed by a put-upon sigh.

“Just come over, please. I can’t sleep. And wear your best curls.”

“Hey. I always do!”

There’s a brief pause then, the crackly silence filled with quiet grins, before Louis speaks again.

“See you soon, Harry.”

“Super soon, Louis. Bye. Miss you already.”

“Jesus,” Louis laughs, and then he hangs up and Harry’s putting on his shoes, mind whirring as he begins to gather himself, taking care to bring little somethings for Louis, things he’s stashed here and there.

Maybe he should stop by the florist on the way there?

It’s just as he’s reaching the door to leave, that he’s spotted.

“Where you off to?” Liam asks from the couch, where he and Niall are sprawled like kittens, watching some teen drama as they stare sightlessly at their textbooks.

Dammit.

“Uhm. A night walk!” Harry supplies immediately, twirling on the spot. “Because the moon is singing!”

Niall stares. Then blinks.

“Are you on E, Harry?”

Oh goodness.

“No,” Harry frowns slowly. “’m just happy…”

He frowns even deeper when he’s met with two blank sets of eyes.

“Okay… Well. I guess I’ll just move my happiness along, then.”

“Sounds good,” Liam nods before turning back to the TV. “Be safe.”

“Text us when you get to where you’re actually going,” Niall adds, managing to look both irritated and protective. “And text us when you’re on your way back, too.”

“Will do,” Harry promises, and then he’s shutting the door, heart skipping ahead and hopping down the stairs.

The world is beautiful.

**

Harry’s never been to Louis’ flat before. This feels special.

Maybe Louis’ going to ask him to be his boyfriend?

When he answers the door, he looks sleepy but wide awake, all rumpled up in a sweatsuit. Which, consequently, is the sexiest sweatsuit that Harry has ever seen. He used to hate them but, the way Louis wears one… He thinks it might be his new number one quality he looks for in a mate. His second quality is that his mate must look like, act like, and be named Louis Tomlinson. Not hard requirements, right?

Regardless, Harry arrives with a flower (he’d picked it on his way here—just a little purple thing) and a book (with a handwritten note inside, addressed to Louis) and a few tea biscuits made with flax seed.

“For me?” Louis asks, lips parted in delighted surprise as he accepts the treasures. He smiles when he sniffs the flower, the petals brushing his cheeks.

“For you,” Harry grins, refusing to let his body collapse into a puddle. He cannot dissolve right now, thank you very much. He doesn’t want to die. Not yet. Not before he’s kissed Louis and pledged his undying love.

And so Louis lets him in, still smiling and clutching his flower, and the air is cool and quiet and calm inside the flat as they chat lightly, their voices a little tired, before drifting to Louis’ room.

They spend the night sitting on Louis’ bed, lights off (save for one string of white Christmas lights that are wrapped around Louis’ bed frame) as haphazard snowflakes flutter beyond the moist glass of the window. Louis’ putting the finishing touches on his new song, a guitar in his lap. He looks gorgeous.

“I’m gonna perform it tomorrow,” he says in the dark, voice soft and scratchy.

Harry smiles, sniffing Louis’ pillow because he’s creepy and he doesn’t care. “Can I hear it?”

“Tomorrow.”

And Harry doesn’t push. He respects Louis like that, you know. He respects him a lot and if Louis doesn’t wish to present Harry with gifts, then Harry will respect that. (And Harry loves gifts.)

He hopes Louis wins tomorrow, sort of. Like, sure, he wants to win as well. But…

At this point, he’d consider smashing his guitar onstage just so Louis could win because love is all about being selfless and he loves Louis an awful lot. Well, probably not ‘love’. That takes more than a month, right? He’s definitely in the first stage of love, though. Or the third. Or fourth stage. Something like that.

Regardless. The entire night is lovely in all its simplicity. Just lovely. It’s only the two of them, half asleep as they lie side by side and Harry can smell the copper of the guitar strings and feel Louis’ hums, resonating down his arm and through Harry’s clothes, and Harry closes his eyes because the room smells like Louis and his sheets are warm and there are no shadows on the walls.

“I want to crawl inside your throat and use your voice as a blanket,” Harry mumbles as Louis hums, strumming the guitar absently.

“That’s weird.”

“I bet it’s warm, though.”

“I bet it’s warmer inside your throat. Your voice sounds like Christmas morning.” He can hear the indulgent smile in Louis’ voice, can hear the teasing tone laced in his soft words.

Harry beams, leaning up on one elbow. “Louis! Do you mean that?” he asks sincerely. “Because that’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

There’s a pause, filled only with Louis’ breathing and the soft plucks of guitar strings.

And then he says:

“Yeah, I meant it. But only with you.”

It’s the most beautiful eight words in the world. And so Harry really can’t be blamed when he grins wide enough to split his cheeks, settling down to curl into Louis’ side, head resting on his chest.

After that, they say nothing more, their eyes heavy as Louis’ fingers begin to slow on the strings. And Harry smiles to himself, happy to finally know what Louis’ voice sounds like from the inside, rattling against his ribs.

(For the record, it’s the most wonderful sound in the world.)

When at last they part for the night, standing in the doorway of Louis’ flat, Louis is smiling and sweet, tugging on the strings of Harry’s hoodie and looking up at him through feathery eyelashes. Harry’s jaw is probably dropped because this man is made of pure sexual allure and galaxy dust.

Because Louis is like…. Physically beautiful, okay? He is. But he’s even more beautiful, so, so much more beautiful because he is an even mix of teasing and tender and soft and loud and that’s too much for Harry to handle. Because he wants to stare at Louis and listen to him speak and exist. He wants to watch him rub his eyes when he’s tired and muss up his hair when he’s stressed and fiddle with his clothes when he’s self-conscious and he wants to hear him sigh and burp and grumble and chuckle and hum and cluck his tongue when he wants attention and can’t keep his hands still.

God. Harry’s like…really, really smitten. Extremely smitten. A smitten kitten.

And Louis is so beautiful right now, standing here in the dark, so very close to Harry’s body.

It’s just when Harry decides that he wants to kiss the shit out of this boy and throw caution to the wind, that Louis rests an open palm on his chest and pecks his cheek, a smirk delicately holding his lips together.

Harry blinks, seeing spots.

“Until tomorrow, Rockstar?” Louis mumbles, quiet, lips curved up. His eyes are puffy with exhaustion, the stubble on his face more pronounced.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, floating into space. He pauses, dazed, before he speaks again. “Maybe we could get married.”

Another smile pushes at Louis’ lips. “You’re full of the weirdest shit,” he says fondly as he gently pushes Harry out the door, never breaking his gaze.

“I want to write songs about you,” Harry calls, just as the door clicks shut, and he hears Louis’ delighted laughter from the other side.

“Beat you to it,” is all he says, muffled, and then the creaks of his footsteps carry him away and Harry’s hear is stuffed in his throat, red and full and pulsating. Beautiful.

Louis makes him so stupid and honest.

Harry doesn’t even care.

**

“I’m a little nervous,” Niall says suddenly, the careful composure of his face waterfalling into a twitchy, anxious clusterfuck. He looks to Harry, drumsticks in his clutch, sweat slicked along his neck, as he reaches out for him with subtly shaking hands. The boy is damn near terrified.

Gently concerned, Harry blinks at him questioningly. “Why, Niall? It’s just like any other gig we do. Except prizes.” He beams. “And world fame.”

“Well, not world fame,” Liam points out, and Harry is quick to glare.

“World fame,” he repeats, indignant, because—what is a world to a band?

Liam sighs as he shakes his head, his own eyes (which are also nervous and rather dark) surveying the crowded room.

Harry can understand why they’re nervous. Being the empathetic soul that he is, he can feel their discomfort at the sheer size of the crowd that’s gathered here and he can see that the whole affair is a bit pressuring, considering they’re being judged and all. Especially because, at one point over the course of the last month and a half, Harry had absolutely threatened to pluck out their eyelashes, should they fail him.

But that was said after a night of Harry drinking vodka mixed with actual glitter, so. He can’t exactly be held responsible for his actions.

“We’re going to do fine, guys,” Harry states calmly, feeling centred and infinite because he has evolved into a better, wiser state of being. And also because he’s watching Louis from across the way, testing out a xylophone with his tongue bitten between his teethies, his laughter etched in the lines of his face as Zayn sniggers next to him (who, by the way, appears to be wearing space boots, which Harry absolutely feels the need to point out) and just the sight of his Golden Delicious makes Harry feel more content, more confident, and more positive that everything in this world will turn out right.

He sighs a little dreamily, watching as Louis taps fingers to his lips before he picks up a sheet of paper, eyes glued to the scrawl written on it. He’s reading intently, lips moving along as his eyes dart to and fro… Zayn whispers something in his ear (a little too closely, thank you) and rolls his eyes as Louis smiles prettily. Harry wants to know what they’re talking about. Probably something special.

Harry likes to talk about special things. Maybe he should go over there? Just to…see?

“Harry, have you been listening to one word I’ve been saying?” Niall suddenly asks, sounding thunderous and appalled.

Dragging slow eyes over to the storm in question, Harry adopts his most cherubic smile—the one that gets him out of trouble with his mum. “No,” he says honestly, but it’s punctuated with a dimple, so that forgives everything. Harry’s been down this road before, he knows how the rules work.

As expected, Niall’s eyes flash with irritation as he emits a low whistle, hands now on his hips. But he looks on the verge of begrudgingly fond the longer Harry smiles, his mouth twitching when Harry wraps his long arms around and him and pulls him close for a cuddle. He loves embarrassing Niall.

“Get off, you ape,” Niall mutters darkly, but Harry absolutely feels the speck of a kiss he pecks atop Harry’s head, followed by an affectionate hair ruffle.

Harry loves Niall. Niall’s a good mate. Even if he is overly emotional and self-involved and sometimes smells like feet.

“Can we have a group cuddle before we take the stage?” Harry asks hopefully, blinking Bambi eyes as he lingers around Niall’s torso. He looks to Liam, pouts his lip.

Liam, in turn, looks confused. “Don’t you mean ‘huddle’?”

“No,” Harry replies promptly, shaking his head. “I meant cuddle.” He grins, opening up one arm in invitation.

Of course, Liam succumbs, after a full minute of looking embarrassed and disapproving.

“Fine,” he sighs, and Niall laughs, loud and jangling as Harry squees like a pixie, hauling his boys in for a good luck embrace.

Maybe Harry should haul Louis in for a good luck embrace? Would that be…?

It’s just as he’s seriously considering disentangling himself to pounce onto Louis (and he literally means pounce, like a cat—Louis would laugh, he know he would) when he suddenly feels a tiny tap on the exposed bit of his shoulder, beneath the tangle of limbs.

He blinks, wedged between Liam and Niall’s chests.

“Did someone tap me?” he asks, muffled.

“Someone did tap you,” church bells say. “It’s an angel. Come to tell you he’s got his wings.”

Louis!

Harry extracts himself from the cuddle at the speed of light.

“Louis!” he voices, joyous and unkempt as he shoves past Niall’s dead weight and falls into Louis’ chest, embracing him before he can stop himself.

Dammit. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

Because has he ever even properly hugged Louis before? In such casual context? Is he coming on too strong?

Then again, he did ask Louis to marry him last night… His intentions are probably quite clear by now. Which is nice. Harry likes clarity. What’s that one lyric Partners In Crime has? “Clarity is waking up next to waffles and knowing I deserve this”? What a perfect line. How charmingly odd and insightful. Louis probably wrote it.

Yes. Harry does deserve this.

“You smell like clean clothes and honey,” Harry mumbles in a smile, still clutching onto Louis because nobody said he can’t.

He feels Louis laugh, gently trying to pry him off. “Don’t I always?”

“Nooo,” Harry drags, feeling his eyes goo into puddles as he meets Louis’ gaze—which, by the way, holds more light than any galaxies discovered thus far. “Sometimes you smell like sleep and sometimes you smell like snow and sometimes you smell like your shampoo and sometimes you smell like me.” Harry beams. “I like when you smell like me.”

“Creepy,” Louis grins in reply. He pokes Harry’s cheek.

“Not creepy,” Harry counters evenly. “I just have a good sense of smell.”

“Uhm, hi, nice to meet you and all,” he suddenly hears Niall’s voice say from somewhere beside them, irate and dumbfounded. “But what the actual fuck is going on here?”

Oops. Harry sorta forgot about that whole…band rival thing.

Dammit.

“Hiiii Niall,” Harry sings faux happily when he finally pulls away from Louis and turns to Niall, at a loss for anything else to do. He keeps his arm around Louis’ waist, though. Because he’s a good person and he deserves nice things. “So. I found the love of my life. His name’s Louis and he’s the same Louis from Partners In Crime. Surpriiiiise!”

 In celebration of this Christmas miracle, Harry throws his hands up in the air, hoping for contagious enthusiasm. He wishes he had jingle bells—nobody can resist jingle bells.

Beside him, Louis blinks, looking startled and pink. “Did you just say love of your life?” he asks, gaze boring into Harry’s.

Harry nods, beaming, as he drops his arms. “Yes, Louis. Of course.”

Louis stares, eyes shining.

Niall, however, is staring betwixt the two with a look of complete disbelief. “Wait, this guy?” he asks Harry, pointing to Louis in a not-so-tender manner.

And, just like that, the spell is broke and Louis’ expression morphs, his eyebrows popping up.

Before he can open his mouth though, Harry rushes out a, “Yes, Louis. He has a name, Niall. And he’s talented and his brain is beautiful. Extremely beautiful. If I could, I’d crawl inside it and establish a small homestead there.”

“You really are getting creepier every day, you know” Louis comments, but he’s sniggering and holding his hand in a small fist near his mouth, looking simply delighted. “You can’t just spring things like that on me. We’ve never even discussed homesteads before.”

“Well, that’s because I’ve already made my decision,” Harry reasons, and they grin at each other.

“Such an odd little grasshopper,” Louis smiles fondly, tending to a stray piece of Harry’s hair.

It feels like heaven, the barely-there swipes of Louis’ fingertips.

“Okay, that’s enough, keep it in your pants. Shit,” Niall exhales, sending an amused-meets-disturbed look to Liam. Then he glances back at the pair, brow furrowing. “How did this happen, again? Last time we were here, you hated him, Harry.”

Well, shit. Thanks, Niall.

“Erm,” Harry begins nervously, glancing to Louis who looks completely charmed by this newly acquired bit of information. “I didn’t hate him, per se…”

“You really didn’t like him, though,” Liam points out reasonably and, oh, okay.

Harry sees how it is. Liam was all about being the trustworthy confidant yesterday but now, suddenly, he’s the very dagger in Harry’s back.

So that’s how it’s gonna be.

“Don’t act like you didn’t already know, Liam,” Harry glares, folding his arms across his chest.

“You knew?!” Niall squawks, spinning around.

Liam shrinks, looking guilty. 

And Louis just looks alarmed. “Right. Er, I think I’ll just move along, then? Stretch out these new angel wings o’ mine.” He catches Harry’s eye and smiles. “Just wanted to wish you good luck, anyway. And, uh. Pay attention to my set, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course, always,” Harry gushes, smiling and reaching out to hold his hand briefly because holding hands is nice and it displays affection.

Louis glances down at their linked fingers. “You’re very sensitive, aren’t you?”

“I just have a lot of feelings.”

“Right. Well.” Louis’ grinning wide enough that his entire face is glowing. He really is a star. Harry wants him to win. “Until later, then. We’ve got a gig to perform. We’re first up, you know.”

“We’re second,” Harry smiles, and then Louis smiles still more (somehow) before he retreats his hand and walks away with a tiny wave, swallowed back up by the crowd.

Harry sighs, staring after him, a dazed smile painting his face.

“You’re absolutely disgusting,” Niall grunts.

“I know,” Harry beams.

“Especially after all that shit you gave me about practising and wanting to win—and here you were, shagging the competition!”

“We haven’t been shagging, Niall,” Harry explains, annoyed. “And even if we were, it wouldn’t be called that. It would mean more. It would be significant and special. Like a homemade card or your favourite memory. But, like, even more better than those things.”

Both Niall and Liam raise their eyebrows. “More better?” they repeat, amused.

“Well.” Harry blushes. “Yeah. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Niall smirks, “I think I do. You’re a hot mess, aren’t you? All caught up in Louis Tomlinson.” He simpers the name, cradling his cheeks. Asshole.

“We are not five, Niall,” Harry reminds him, prim and haughty as he rises to his full height. He will not be swayed by teasing.

Niall completely ignores him.

“Harry and Louis, sitting in a tree, f-u-c-k-i-n-g!” he sings, apparently finding himself very clever, and Harry sighs, defeated, as Liam tries to hide a smile.

“Well. At least you’re not mad, I guess?” Harry says, hopeful, eyeing his potentially insane best friend with doe eyes.

“Oh, I’m pissed right the fuck off,” Niall assures him happily, flitting a careless hand through the air. “And I’m going to give you hell for this, I promise you. But, having said that…” He drifts off, his glinted smile being swapped for something a bit softer. Or maybe it’s just the lighting. “Just for the record,” he continues, “it’s kinda cute. You’re cute with him.”

Once again, Harry beams. He beams a lot these days. It must be all of Louis’ light.

“Yeah, we’re pretty cute,” he agrees, feeling bumblebees and butterflies in his chest and stomach. Maybe he should get some tattooed. In honour of what Louis makes him feel.

Wouldn’t that be romantic?

But, anyway.

Suddenly, the beat-man takes the stage. In effect, the entire room quiets. Harry’s heart shoots out of his bum.

“Alright, so we’re going to begin The Battle of the Bands,” he says grandly, and it’s met with applause and whoops and, probably, the sound of people shitting their pants. “First up, we’ve got Partners In Crime. After them will be Trio Pets.”

The entire place bursts into enthusiastic applause (the little chubby boy with the tattoo has got a sign—Harry chooses not to read though, lest he get upset, because he’s almost sure he sees the words ‘Louis’ ‘lick’ and ‘bum’, which…no) and everybody shouts happy things as Zayn uses his long, lean, black-clad legs to hop onto the stage, his hair gelled and coiffed to the nines, his face looking impassive and soulful. Behind him is the universe itself—Louis. He’s wearing a Christmas sweater and black skinny jeans with these pretty little blue Adidas shoes and he looks sweet and festive—Harry’s two favourite words.

“We’re Partners In Crime,” Zayn mutters silkily into the mic, settling down on a stool and hoisting bongos onto his lap. 

“And we’re here to win, obviously,” Louis adds, a mischievous smirk on his lips. People titter, smiling appreciatively.

Harry laughs so loud that several people jump and Niall shoots him a glare. Oops.

Louis is just so funny, is all.

“Okay, so, the first song we’re going to play for you tonight is actually a new one. Just wrote it this past week, in fact,” Louis grins, and he finds Harry’s eye from across the room. “It’s about someone very…odd. And very lovely.” He grins wider.

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god.

Please let this be the ending scene to Harry’s movie, please let this be Louis’ public love declaration for Harry.

Please, please, please. Please, Music Gods, please??

Harry waits with baited breath, feeling ready to burst out of his skin. He has to support his weight on Liam.

And then suddenly Louis sits down at the rickety piano, rolling his sleeves up. Harry might throw up at the anticipation of it all.

The first notes of the piano tinkle, slow and introductory.

Harry’s skin sizzles.

“More than just a dream,” Louis and Zayn suddenly echo, their voices mystical and harmonised because they’re unicorns in a world filled with horses.

And then…

And then they start making these pretty little noises, ‘ooo’ing like songbirds, before Zayn suddenly comes thumping into life with the bongos, his hands flying in a rhythmic fashion.

And then Louis proceeds to sing.

Alone.

“Forty days and forty nights
I waited for a boy like you to come and save my life
Recall the days I waited for you
You know the ones who said, "I'd never find someone like you."

You were out of my league
All the things I believe
You were just the right kind
Yeah, you are more than just a dream
You were out of my league
Got my heartbeat racing
If I die don't wake me
'Cause you are more than just a dream

From time to time I pinch myself
Because I think my boy mistakes me for somebody else
And every time he takes my hand
All the wonders that remain become a simple fact

You were out of my league
All the things I believe
You were just the right kind
Yeah, you are more than just a dream
You were out of my league
Got my heartbeat racing
If I die don't wake me
'Cause you are more than just a dream

More than just a dream”

And then it’s over.

And Louis looks up.

Harry, whose heart has spasmed, combusted, glued itself back together, and combusted again, seeping out of his body in the form of tears, looks right back.

Louis smiles like the king that he is, looking on his most loyal subject with all the affection the world has to offer. If he sees Harry’s tears, he doesn’t make a show of it, instead opting to send a wink and a gentle smile that holds enough promises to last Harry for lifetimes and lifetimes. (Hopefully all lifetimes spent with Louis.)

Everything feels brighter, more special, lovelier. Everything feels more. 

This is the first day of the rest of Harry’s life.

And he’d like to be poetic and graceful about the entire thing, he really would. But, alas…

“He loves me back!” he sobs instead, collapsing into Niall and Liam’s awaiting arms as Partners In Crime begin their next song. He wishes he could listen—unfortunately, his body is filled with saltwater and pure, unadulterated joy.

“Yes, Harry, we know,” Niall sighs, sounding annoyed, but Harry spies the smile on his face.

“It’s actually really sweet,” Liam agrees, soft-eyed and simpering.

And, bless. He has the approval of his best mates.

The world is utterly beautiful.

“Now, shape up,” Niall informs after a few moments of rare, sentimental silence, sponging at Harry’s tears with the sleeve of his flannel. “We’ve got to get our game faces on—we’re up next!”

Harry nods then, smiling as he hiccups, now dabbing at his own eyes. “Okay,” he says, feeling determination flood his veins. “I’m ready. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” both Niall and Liam say.

Okay. Good.

They’re ready.

**

Trio Pets’ set is smashing. It really, really is.

Harry croons on his guitar, singing songs that never used to be about Louis, but suddenly are. Briefly, mid-set, he proposed the idea of doing an impromptu love ballad (“I’ve got this, guys, trust me, I’ve been making poems about his eyes for weeks now, I’ve got this!” “Not now, you tit!” Niall hissed from the drum kit. “And get up off the floor! Everybody’s watching us!”) but, other than that, it goes flawlessly.

Harry watches Louis the entire time from the stage, fluttering at the way he nods his head appreciatively in time to the rhythm of every song, his eyes ever straying from Harry.

It’s wonderful. It makes Harry feel alive and beautiful and indie.

“I am a god amongst men!” he cries into the microphone after their last song, triumphant and proud, as Niall wails on the ending drums like Animal from The Muppets.

From the crowd, Harry can hear Louis’ laugh.

And when they finally descend the stage, Louis is right there.

“That was terrible,” he teases, tilting his head coyly. “You sounded awful and you didn’t look sexy at all. Not at all. Not even a little bit, in your indecently tight Ramones t-shirt and painted jeans.” He grins lavishly, small and proud.

The most beautiful rare bird.

“You wrote me a song,” is all Harry can gush back, probably spilling hearts out of his eyes.

Louis laughs, nodding in amusement. “Yes, I did. Did you like it?”

“I love it,” Harry beams. “And I hope this means that I can start writing some for you now? And that it won’t be creepy? And that it won’t be creepy if I kiss you and call you at three in the morning because sometimes I think about your voice and how it would sound against my sheets?”

“Uh—“ Louis laughs, clearly a little taken aback, but Harry only beams patiently, batting his lashes.

He’s smitten, okay? Might as well be honest about it.

“Well, then,” Louis remarks, pleased and a little flushed. “That was oddly specific. But, uh, yeah, Rockstar. You can do all of the above. Though… Just for the record. It wouldn’t have ever been creepy. Just so you know.”

“But you never did anything to pursue me,” Harry protests, jutting his lip in woe. “I’ve literally told you that I want to marry you and you never say anything back! So how I was supposed to know?”

“Well, considering you never actually made a proper confession, I wasn’t quite sure how to take it all, now was I? From the moment we met, you’ve always just been saying those charming little things that you do.”

Hm. Perhaps he has a point.

“And, in any case, why on earth would I settle for just telling you how I feel?” Louis smirks, rolling his eyes. “I had to make a grand, romantic gesture, didn’t I? I’m studying theatre, remember. I have a flair for dramatics.”

“You’re perfect,” Harry deadpans immediately, completely swept away, and Louis laughs.

“I agree.”

Harry shines at the words.

And then, amongst sweaty bodies and garage bands, they kiss, Harry lunging at him with all the speed of a panther, sly and sleek.

Except for how it’s not sly or sleek because Harry keeps laughing into the kiss and gnawing on Louis’ chin—“What the actual fuck are you doing right now?” Louis asks, blinking his confusion, before Harry responds with a wisened, “Fulfilling every fantasy I’ve had in the past month and a half.”—and he can feel Niall and Liam’s eyes on them, but he doesn’t care.

He feels a lot of eyes on them.

Good. Better, even.

So he kisses Louis and he kisses him some more, and he feels the way his hands tuck into the curve of his neck and it’s love.

It’s pure, beautiful love.

**

Neither of them ends up winning—not Trio Pets and not Partners In Crime.

It’s the biggest upset since ever and Harry is crushed, utterly crushed, his soul splintering apart.

He really wanted Louis to win.

“I wanted you to win,” they say to each other simultaneously, mouths sad.

And then they blink, surprised, before bursting into laughter.

“Oh, well,” they then say in unison.

And laugh still harder.

“God, what have you done to me?” Louis huffs, but he’s bright and chipper as he clutches Harry into his chest, placing a soft bite onto his cheek.

It’s the most romantic gesture Harry has ever experienced.

“The same thing you’ve done to me,” he reasons, pulling Louis in all the tighter and sniffing his hair. “Fair’s fair.”

“Hm, I suppose,” Louis sighs, smiling.

Yes, fair is fair.

**

For the rest of the night, all five of them—Harry, Louis, Niall, Liam, and Zayn—end up hanging out, ditching The Leaf and Bean for other, more alcohol-friendly locations, buying each other rounds as they mourn their losses, attack the victor, and make solemn, drunken promises to collaborate.

“Tomorrow,” they promise, clutching shots, all arms around each other. “Bright and early! First thing in the morning!”

And it’s rather ambitious, Harry thinks, but he agrees anyway, his arm wrapped around Louis’ lithe waist, his smile pressed into his hair. When he looks down, Louis’ already looking up at him, sweet and pink and shiny and it’s the loveliest thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles in his ear, but he tries to enunciate each word.

He pulls back to see Louis sparkle out a smile—it’s like watching sunshine dance on rippling water.

“Funny,” he shouts over the noise of the pub and the sounds of Niall thundering out Irish obscenities. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

Harry, very adamantly, resists the urge to cry happy tears. (Though a sheen does coat his eyes, truth be told.)

Instead, he pulls Louis closer, pressing a worshipping kiss to his mouth which worships his in return, before they break apart, laughing because someone’s just knocked an entire pitcher of beer onto Liam’s head—who now looks traumatised and drippy. Harry offers him a cocktail napkin, trying to hold in the giggles that Louis is unabashedly spewing forth.

All in all… It’s a pretty amazing night, his body warm and thrumming in all the places it’s pressed against Louis. His Louis.

He smiles at the way it sounds in his head, watching as everybody laughs around the table, sponging soggy napkins on Liam’s skin.

It’s perfect. Everything’s perfect. 

A perfect ending to Harry’s movie.