Archive of Our Own

Half the night I waste in sighs,
Half in dreams I sorrow after
The delight of early skies;
In a wakeful doze I sorrow

And I loathe the squares and streets,
And the faces that one meets,
Hearts with no love for me:
Always I long to creep
Into some still cavern deep,
There to weep, and weep, and weep
My whole soul out to thee.

Oh, Tennyson.

With a smile that Harry tilts back into the sun, he closes his emerald leather-bound book with a soft plunk, its pages sending dust motes up into his nostrils. The gilt edging of it catches in sunlight, flashes white across his closed lids, and for a moment the world is speckled in platinum and ebony… Like a glorified zebra.

Then he opens his eyes, taking in the world around him.

It’s such a beautiful day. Bright gold and blue everywhere, green trees swaying, fresh grass lying soft and perfuming the air. Students mill around, books tucked under their arms as they laugh and flirt and impress each other, as bodies skip and cycle and skateboard down sidewalks. There’s the whisper of a breeze, one that ruffles the curls at the back of Harry’s neck, and there’s just this overall feeling of pleasantness. It’s only midday, he’s sat under a tree reading romantic poetry for one of his favorite courses, and everything smells sweet. Such a beautiful, beautiful day.

“Kissing the sun, Harry?” a dictionary-dry voice asks from somewhere to his left.

Blinking, Harry smiles, feeling the light stick to his eyelashes as he not-so-purposefully flutters them in innocence. “On the contrary, Zayn,” he mumbles, lips warm, “the sun is kissing me.”

With an oof-y chuckle, Zayn plants himself on the grass next to Harry, bringing about a nice whiff of smoke, old books, faded cologne, and self-imposed bitterness. His black leather bag is stuffed to the brim with, what could be, about twenty-some novels, seven notebooks, and two textbooks—one in Old English and one that delves into the magical realm of linguistics.

Studying English is fun. Teaching English will probably be even more fun.

“You’ve got quite a load today,” Harry muses, setting his own little book aside as he stretches his limbs, palms sinking into moist dirt. “Somebody must hate you.”

“Or they trust me too much,” Zayn grunts, already fishing for his cigarettes as he props open novel number one—Camus. L’Etranger. Poor soul. “I mentioned that I really loved reading one time—one time, Harry,” he mumbles around a stick, lighter already flicking into action. He moves as fluidly as the smoke that’s now pouring from the ember. “And now all these professors are loading me up with their recommendations. Look—“ He fishes out another novel (a collection of Poe’s short stories, jolly) and opens it to a random page, displaying dog-ears and layers of multi-colored highlighter soaked into the text, thin, penciled notes scribbled onto the sides in a haphazard cursive.

Harry snorts, caught between horror at such book-mistreatment and intense amusement at the intricate pain of it all.

Zayn, in return, gives Harry a dead look. “Professor Gillum gave me this gem today. Said it’s her favorite and thought I’d connect with it as much as she did. I didn’t know how to convey a ‘no’ with just my eyes since my ruddy mouth’s too goddamn polite, so now I’ve landed meself more homework. Fuck this life, honestly.”

“Sounds like she’s wooing you with literature and annotation,” Harry beams, swaying his feet and watching the tips of his brown leather shoes glow in the sun. The thin, ratty laces clink against the leather and it procures an unsteady beat, one that Harry tries to maintain as he sways against the grass because life is a musical. “Proper romantic. Your superior’s smitten, I reckon.” He grins moreso at Zayn’s dark look, shielded beneath his floppy fringe and raven-thick eyelashes. “Should probably mention to her that you’ve got yourself a Darcy.”

That, happily, makes Zayn’s withering disposition crumble like soft cheese, a faint smile quirking his stubble-framed lips. The cigarette smokes softly between his long, slender fingers, brazened caramel in the brightness of the day. “Maybe I’ll bring Liam to m’course,” he mumbles around a drag, eyes slitted. But he exhales in what could be a sigh, smoke tickling the tip of Harry’s nose as Zayn gazes into the abyss that is the university school grounds.

“Where are you bringing me?”

Yet another voice is procured from thin air and, this time, both Harry and Zayn tilt their sun-squinted smiles up and above.

As expected, there’s Liam—backpack slung over one shoulder, white t-shirt glowing, his jeans clean and tucked into his workman’s boots. In an act of grungy-chic (Zayn’s trying to make him more fashionable and it’s not really working), he’s tied a flannel shirt ‘round his waist today; it gives him a lumberjack-meets-Depression-era-migrant-worker vibe. Harry admires it and hopes it’s conveyed through his smile.

Softly, Liam’s brown eyes nod to Harry before they glue themselves to Zayn’s face. “Are we going somewhere, then? Finally taking me out for the first time in two months?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Zayn immediately mutters under his breath, but both parties are smiling as Liam settles beside him, immediately snatching the book out of his hands.

“What’s this? Pick it up from the dumpster, Z? I told you—you’ve got to stop doing that. We’ve too many books and not enough shelves—“

“It’s from his professor,” Harry corrects, feeling very pleased when Zayn shoots him a look of pure contempt. “She lent it to Zayn because she thought it would inspire him.” He lathers the word in suggestion before he tilts his head back into the direction of the sky.

Everything is so summery and golden. It would be a beautiful day to fall in love.

“Your professor lent you a personal copy of her book?” Liam’s voice suddenly intones flatly and Harry bites back a snigger because nothing is quite as humorous as Liam when he’s miffed. “And you took it?”

“What else was I supposed to do? It was awkward!” Zayn protests, cigarette fluttering with every movement of his lips.

“So awkward that you’re already reading it? And are already halfway through, by the looks of it?”

“Liam, I’ve just randomly opened to that page, I haven’t started reading it—“

“He’s telling the truth, Li,” Harry murmurs peacefully at last, lolling his head on one shoulder because the day is lazy and he can’t be bothered to hold it up. He squints one eye, stuffs an errant curl back into the scarf knotted clumsily around his head. “Was just showing me, is all. So, obviously, I took the piss.”

“Obviously,” Liam mutters wryly, but he’s shaking his head fondly as he dumps the book back into Zayn’s bag. His short-shorn hair looks gold right now. “But anyway, moving on. Are you lot on a break? Any time for a lunch?”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies immediately, hand already slipping into Liam’s in an unconscious way; Harry supposes that’s only to be expected, though. Their mannerisms are so programmed after being together for nearly five years. It’s like watching a well-choreographed dance and Harry’s always really swept up in the simple weirdness of it all.

Being in love is strange, Harry reckons. It’s probably wonderful. So many beautiful poems have been written about it.

“How about we get tacos,” he suggests, sitting up, book already in tow. “I’m starving. Let’s get tacos, Li.”

“Yeah, brilliant, sounds good.”

“What if I don’t want tacos?” Zayn mumbles, eyeing Harry as if his input is in any way important.

“You want tacos, love. You love tacos,” Liam coos placatingly, a hand coming to rest on Zayn’s bony shoulder. Which, naturally, prompts an agreeable hum from the latter. Simple as pigeons, the two of them.

“Alright, cool. Decided, then. So let’s go? I’m going to start licking my hand for the salt soon if we don’t get a move on. Haven’t eaten since this morning,” Harry sighs, hopping up off the ground with a bounce to his step as the others follow suit, their eyebrows climbing their foreheads. Without sparing a glance back, Harry dusts off his faded jeans, the ones with holes in the pockets (the only kind he has, really) and smiles as a fresh gust of wind assaults him, carrying flowers on its breath.

A beautiful day, indeed.

Always a beautiful day here, with his friends.

His smile widens as Liam and Zayn fall into step beside him.

**

Harry Styles has this weird little quirk about him.

It’s just a thing he enjoys—words. He really loves words. Being an aspiring English teacher, studying texts, writing creative prose diligently, and working his arse off to keep his scholarship, it’s hardly surprising that he’s grown accustomed to his own tool—so to speak. Because, see, there’s a comfort in finding a really beautiful passage or assortment of really small words that make a really big impact. It releases little parts of him he never knew he had and so, obviously, he’s going to write these quotes down, all the beautiful quotes he collects and finds and discovers and, sometimes, thinks up. Everywhere.

He writes them in the university journal—River Currents, it’s called—that’s printed once every term—a nice little booklet of poems and essays and short stories, interspersed with artwork and smudgy fingerprints. He drops dollops of quotes in his prose, highlights them and hopes that the reader will enjoy devouring them as much as he does.

He writes them in his own journal as well. A red-brown book with this decrepit chord he wraps tightly around it to keep it closed; he’s got a lot of shit stuffed inside. Ticket stubs and gum wrappers and fortune cookie fortunes. That sorta shit.  

He writes them on his milky white arms with the pens that are always in his hands, goopy black ink everywhere it shouldn’t be. He scribbles words, words, words on his wrist bones and the soft part between his thumb and forefinger, and, well, anywhere he can reach, really. He’s going to get a tattoo soon—just you wait.

He also writes them on public surfaces. Like, picnic tables. Bathroom walls. Bulletin boards. Stuff like that. Nothing horribly damaging. He only ever does it if someone’s already written something there before. He’s not a vandalist, he’s a gentleman, he has manners, mostly.

And, lastly, Harry writes his quotes all over his flat. It’s something he just does. It’s already a shitty single with leaky pipes and mismatched walls and carpet that’s seen more than four different colors in its lifetime. It’s actually sorta garish and daunting, a harsh reality against the colorful, inspiring exuberance of his university life. His flat is shit—grey and completely shit—and he can’t afford any better (can only afford university at all because of previously mentioned scholarships and a fierce determination to fill his brain with everything he can grasp) so it’s all he has for now; he’s stuck with the place.

Soooo… Might as well make the best of it, right? He figures he’ll just clean it really well when he moves out. Paint the walls and scrub the windows, the like.

“’Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti. Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.’ Sylvia Plath,” Liam reads aloud as he squints at the dirty glass of Harry’s front window—the one with the crack that everybody always thinks is a spiderweb. He raises his eyebrows, turning a pretending-not-to-be-disapproving-but-really-is look Harry’s way. “You need to stop writing on the windows, mate. You could get in trouble.” He spares a flashed glanced around the room. “And the walls—you should probably stop writing on the walls, too.”

In response, Harry just laughs, bright as can be as he adorns an oversized black jumper while simultaneously stuffing his mismatched socked feet into his favorite (and only) pair of black boots. The ones with the heels and the cracks and the stains that Harry can point out individually, retelling every one of their origins. His feet are like little diaries, really. Little diaries he carries around with him, that make him smile whenever he looks down.

“I kinda like it,” Zayn mutters from his spot at the door—he never comes all the way inside Harry’s flat unless he’s drunk or stoned. Says it skeeves him out. “Gives it character.”

“Exactly,” Harry beams, fingers fumbling with the soft, worn cloth of the scarf in his hair. It’s got sunglasses printed all over it and Harry wears it almost every day because he’s trying to grow his hair out but can’t stand how the wind always splays it across his eyes. He’s a little impatient—sometimes he considers just cutting it, taking scissors to his own hair in the dead of night, when he’s barefoot and watching Netflix and none of the lights are on. “Zayn gets me. Us English students get the vision.” He waves a hand as he says it, all grand and demur, and Liam’s eyes narrow just as they always do whenever Harry joyously excludes him. Liam’s easy to ruffle.

“Right,” he clips, and Zayn sniggers softly, shaking his head. “Shall we be off, then?”

They’re going to have a few drinks at their favorite pub. It’s called “Lifters” and nobody knows why; it just consists of creaky wooden booths, affordable shots, a shoddy karaoke stage, and bathrooms that only pretend to have stalls. Everything’s dingy and low-lit but there’s a sporadic blue lightbulb every now and then so the entire atmosphere in there is sickly and warm and weird and Harry adores it. Once, he brought his laptop in there so he could write, feeling properly inspired. Zayn and Liam wrestled it out of his hands, though—he was a little too strung out on uppers and Jager so, like, he was apparently a little belligerent or something? Said he was tapping furiously and narrating really bad poetry? It’s a fuzzy story to this day.

But anyway.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Harry beams, dressed and ready to go. He grabs his green corduroy jacket, adorns the nearest hat on his kitchen table (he never eats there so he just keeps his hat collection atop it) and grabs Liam’s arm. “You can read my quotes later. After we’re piss drunk and we come back to crash here, yeah?”

“Mate, just crash at our flat,” Zayn frowns, trying to play it aloof as he surreptitiously glances around at the water-stained ceiling and potentially mold-encrusted trim. “It’s easier. We’ve got peanut butter.”

“I only like cashew butter,” Harry drips, blinking slowly to signal his disinterest.

It earns him a thwack as he’s pulled through the door, grabbing his keys just in time before the door closes, rattling on its hinges.

**

Harry ends up going back to his flat, anyway. He was going to join Zayn and Liam back to theirs but… They seemed a little preoccupied with dry-humping in the backseat of the cab, so. Harry opted for a politely spoken goodbye (met with silence, save for saliva smacks) and walked the short distance back to his flat alone, the sidewalk lit by moonlight. No harm done.

He doesn’t mind it all that much—his flat, that is. Sure, it’s shit and it’s mildly depressing, especially after a night filled with laughter and warm air and the heady scent of an unwashed pub. It was fun—they played pool (Harry hates pool, the balls always bounce…) and monopolized the karaoke, crooning out Disney songs which earned them initial glares, then raucous applause. Afterwards, they stumbled out into the warm, summery night, stars glimmering above them like ripples on an ocean, and wandered to a nearby park. Harry swung on the swings, drunkenly whispering all the quotes he could think of that centered around the cosmos, while Zayn and Liam snogged against the slide like teenagers. Overall, it was a nice night. Fun and simple and only a little bit lonely.

Yawning, Harry tosses his keys atop the cracked surface of his countertop. It’s this dingy peach color and he wants to like it, he does—but it’s essentially the color of vomit. So.

He stumbles to his room, shuffling off his jacket, his boots, and unraveling the scarf from his hair, his curls pulling away sticky and tangled. He’s still a little sweaty and smells like cigarettes and other people but he’ll probably just shower sometime tomorrow. He has to get up super early for his shift at the bakery, anyway. No point in cutting himself another twenty minutes in precious sleep.

With a groan, he thumps down onto his lumpy mattress, face immersed in his chunky, mismatched pillows. His mouth tastes cottony and his teeth feel like cheese. Meh. He exhales with his whole body, peeking bleary eyes open as he revels in the walls surrounding him, black as can be under the cloak of nighttime. They’re peeling in places, adorned in seventies wallpaper that used to be orange paisley but is now…grayish. Somehow. Not that it matters, since they’re all peppered with Harry’s handwriting.

It’s a simple room, though—one window with long, dusty curtains that brush against the scratched wooden floorboards. A desk that barely fits, given how small the space is. A closet that houses his three outfits, a floor that provides as a bookshelf, and his mattress with the mismatched pillows and piles of fluffy blankets. It’s not much but it’s enough. Because, hell, Harry’s just really happy to be here in general, at university, in this city. He fought tooth and nail to get excellent grades in school, worked his bum off to save money for this exact uni, and begged his mum and dad to let him go once he was (miraculously) accepted.

“Please? I promise to get a proper job and marry rich and buy you four cars apiece. Three summer homes. An island for Gemma so she stops coming ‘round to eat all our food.”

It earned him fond laughter and pats to his fluffy curls. “Course you can go,” mum said, just as dad stood up for a hug. “Why wouldn’t we let you go?”

A little bashful, Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Thought you grew too attached?”

His blushing cheeks were swallowed up whole by two sets of parental arms, warm smiles, and very gentle “We’re so proud of you, love”s.

Harry really loves his family. Even Gemma—who is a pest, who always teases him mercilessly and likes to roughhouse him because she thinks she’s so cool. Purple hair and a tough-as-nails job as a bartender will do that to you, though. “Good fucking luck,” she grinned, yanking a curl as she spoke. Harry could only yelp before he was assaulted into a hug.

So it’s a blessing to be here, really. Not just because he’s finally able to spread his wings, but also because his family just doesn’t have all that much money. His mum always stayed at home with him and Gem while his dad flittered around jobs that never paid quite enough. Things were tight and things were sometimes stressful but Harry honestly wouldn’t have it any other way; things may have been limited in his childhood but they were loving, strong. He’s got few possessions but what he has, he loves. And, besides—he cherishes people and words and all those other un-buyable things far more than anything he could pick up in a shop.

 And so now, starting his second year at uni studying English, working at a bakery to pay his rent and feed himself, and living a life that’s stuffed with good mates and good times and a beautiful, enriching education, Harry can only smile at his shitty flat with the faded paint and smelly drains. Because it’s all in the eye of the beholder. He’s got Zayn and Liam (who he met here—Zayn and him had shared almost identical schedules that first term, on account of them both wanting to be English teachers and with Zayn came Liam, obviously) and he’s got a pretty good outlook on things.

He yawns, the sound echoing in the empty walls.

Without another thought, his eyes drift shut and he falls asleep.

**

It’s an ungodly feeling to be awoken at four o’clock in the morning. Especially when you’ve set your alarm to the most obnoxious, startling noise that the iPhone has to offer. But alas, ‘Alarm’ is the only thing that really does the very harrowing job of pulling Harry from his very restful sleep. He loves sleeping, loves to live in dreams; sometimes he carries the feelings they evoke in him all day. And he thinks that’s pretty special, considering it’s all just a product of his subconscious.  

Groaning with all the over-dramatic sadness of one who’s just been teased with a mere four hours of sleep (why does he do this to himself?), Harry rolls his body off of the bed before his muscles can persuade otherwise. Thoughtlessly, he sets warm feet on a cold floor and trudges to the bathroom, ready to start his day as the walls sleep all around him, grey as they stand. Paint peeling, corners dusty.

He yawns and the dust doesn’t move.

Hopefully it’ll be a good day, will be worth the sleep deprivation and soggy feeling in his eyelids. Maybe something nice will happen.

**

It’s actually a very dreary morning, weather-wise.

When Harry arrives at the bakery on the very crisp hour of 5AM, there’s one lone bird chirping intermittently, somewhere out of sight. It’s sporadic and quiet, as though it were singing lazily while still lounging in its nest, half asleep, and Harry figures that that’s probably gonna be the vibe for the day. He sympathizes with the bird. He hopes it’s a nightingale. Maybe it’s on the brink of death after having sung its last song, piercing its heart on the thorns of a rose, bleeding all its lifeblood into the red hue of the flower. Maybe it gave its life for love. Harry wonders what it would be like to love something so passionately, so recklessly.

Inside the bakery, much is the same as every other morning that he’s pulled himself out of bed to dust pastries with sugar, flour, and globs of warm, sticky frosting.

“Morning,” he rasps with a smile that feels lopsided on his numb-with-sleep face. His vision’s still a little blurry—he walked into the door twice.

“Morning,” they all rumble back at him, glancing up with over-caffeinated and under-slept pupils, fiercely rolling out dough, buzzing around to extract loaves of bread from the oven, putting the finishing touches on napoleons and danishes. Everything smells sugary and doughy and there’s an enormous pot of coffee sat on the counter, communal cups all clustered around it. The radio’s on—some news program which Harry finds very dull, indeed—and the sky’s only just begun to gleam puce.

All very typical but all very…cozy, sorta.

“Want me to glaze the danish?” Harry yawns as he ambles up to Mary, hands tingling because they’re frozen; everything’s always so cold before the sun fully rises.

Mary wipes flour-dusted fingers on her apron, flicks a spare bit of chocolaty hair out of her eyes. “Actually love, could you frost the cupcakes for that Brecken order? They’re coming ‘round at seven and I just haven’t had time to give them the attention they deserve.”

“’Course,” Harry smiles immediately, secretly very pleased. He hates glazing—it’s the messiest, most unrewarding job and his hands are always sticky afterwards, no matter how many time’s he washed them. Plus, glaze tastes awful. Just truly awful. Frosting is much nicer.

“Lovely,” she smiles in return, gesturing vaguely towards the basement stairs. “They’re down there, on the work table. Set up for you and everything.”

It’s music to Harry’s ears and he grins brightly despite the drizzle that patters against the windowpanes, the lingering fog that rises from the damp earth.

Today’s already started out rather nice, hasn’t it? Shoddy weather be damned.

**

One of the best things about working at the bakery (aside from the tips, free food, and excellent company—he’s always gotten along with older generations the best) is the fact that, every day, his first break always seems to land on the exact moment that the sun begins to crest over the horizon. It’s the little things, you know.

During this time, he always sips his tea, steam feathering against his nostrils, as he nibbles on a misshapen bit of bread roll or bagel or whathaveyou (sometime’s he’s lucky and he’ll have a bit of quiche) as he sits outside on the creaky iron chair, sat at a table that comfortably fits one, and he’ll watch sunbeams stream above uneven buildings and roofs, slowly dusting the city in gold. It’s wonderful and he writes about it in his journal while he feeds the stray cats very covertly (he’d get told off if anybody saw) and hums the last dregs of sleep away from his eyes.

“Yes, I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

He smiles to himself as he caps his pen, watching the stickier blots of ink dry upon the flimsy paper of his cup of tea. Rain patters the awning overhead and the sidewalks and streets glisten like tarnished silver all around. The collar of his polo smells strongly of grease and bread and he’s got lilac tinted icing stuck to his wrists still, but it’s all very peaceful, zen. Briefly, he considers texting Zayn and Liam about how much this morning feels like Hemingway’s “Cat in the Rain” (they hate when he wakes them up with his nonsensical observances, heh) but then he decides that he probably shouldn’t be that pretentious or boring. And, while Zayn would at least appreciate the reference (maybe even quietly thrill at it because he’s just as much a nerd as Harry, to be quite blunt) Liam would only be pissed off at their camaraderie that’s lost on him; he finds literature pretentious, finds Zayn and Harry to be even moreso. Naturally, they both delight in the fact, playing it up to the most ample degree.

But, yeah. Anyway. In conclusion, he probably shouldn’t text them.  

 Instead, he just continues to sip his tea, watching as the sun struggles to rise amongst mostly cloudy skies and sporadic rain, and smelling the damp earth all around him. His bones feel nice.

It’s been a good morning.

**

It happens around 10AM.

Harry’s only got an hour left—just long enough to charm the two ladies who come every day and split a chocolate croissant while they work on a crossword—and his bed’s calling his name. Since his first lecture today is at one, he’s got enough time for a quick shower, a power nap, and a small meal—probably toast because that’s all he’s got in his cabinets. Right now though, he just wants a power nap more than anything. Fuck the toast.

It’s while he’s wooing an older gentleman into purchasing a honey tart for his wife that the bakery door suddenly dings pleasantly, as it always does, and two bodies drift in from the rain, as is customary. It’s while Harry’s grinning his best grin as he dusts clumsy hands on his apron, preparing to box up the tart as he jokes pleasantly with the man—Eugene’s his name and he’s got a killer cap—that Harry hears a very smooth Irish voice suddenly drown out the croons of Frank Sinatra drifting through the speakers.

“C’mon, Lou. Just gotta grab something to eat before lecture. I’m hungover as fuck and still more irritable. Stop being a ruddy child.”

“I don’t like bakeries,” another voice says, somewhere off to the right. Petulant, bored, and delicate. “I’ve no use for them. I only like cupcakes and it’s too early for cupcakes.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Curious, Harry glances at the two figures as he collects Eugene’s money with practiced hands. Two lads—one blonde, wearing a newsboy cap, an oversized jacket, skinny jeans that cling to stick legs, and suede boots, all dusted with moisture. The other, a rain-speckled sprite wearing Oxfords and no socks, rolled up black trousers (tight, very snug fitting, Harry notes carefully), black braces, a white shirt rolled to the elbows, and black rimmed glasses. Quite the posh pair, aren’t they.

Glasses boy’s got his back facing Harry, though, his arms crossed against his chest as he stares out the window, the tips of his artful hair glazed with rain. He’s pale and petite and his bum’s…very noticeable. And he’s got quite a very romantic figure, doesn’t he? Harry reckons that, if he were to fall in love with someone, he’d really like it if they looked like that. Not that it really matters, he supposes.

“Thanks again, Harry. You have a good day, lad,” Eugene smiles, gathering the bag in his little hands as he departs.

Ripping his gaze away from the pair, Harry turns warm eyes back onto the man before him. He really likes Eugene. “Anytime, sir. You have a nice rest of your day, alright? Come visit me on Thursday!”

Chuckling as he exits, Eugene lofts over a “Will do,” and then the door dings shut and Harry’s eyes fall back to the two lads.

Blonde newsboy walks right up, hands in his pockets and bags under his eyes. Glasses boy is still petulantly stood by the door, still looking outside stubbornly. A bit of a child, that one.

“Good morning,” Harry smiles as Blonde nods, eyes surveying the pastry case. From his peripherals, he sees Glasses turn his head infinitesimally. “How are you today?”

“Shit. But better than I was last night,” Blonde grunts but it’s not wholly unkind; he flashes a tired smirk. “And I’ll be still better once I have some of this lot. What d’you recommend?”

“Uhhhm,” Harry drawls contemplatively, tapping absently against the glass as he surveys the lot. His tastes are a bit weird so he’s always hesitant to recommend things to anyone under the age of forty; he really loves raisins and prunes. Figs are nice, too. “Well. I really like blueberry muffins?” That’s always a safe bet—everybody loves blueberry muffins.

But before Blonde can reply, a voice suddenly interrupts:

“Gross.”

Startled, Harry looks over to the source—it’s Glasses. And he’s turned around now, slowly sauntering over with one eyebrow raised, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He also happens to be…exquisite.

Something in Harry’s chest tightens infinitesimally.

“Sod off, Lou. You’re just being a prick because I made you walk in the rain for one day of your life.” Blonde’s eyes glance at Harry, a wry look about his mouth. “I told him I wouldn’t hold his goddamn umbrella for him and he had a strop.”

“Nonsense,” Glasses brushes aside as he reaches the counter; his eyes don’t leave Harry’s and it’s some kind of wonderful. They’re blue. In the dim light of the dreary day, they’re like murky water, the kind of water that would lure one to drown. “The lad speaks nonsense. Almost as much nonsense as you and your talk of blueberry muffins.”

With a low-key exaggerated sigh, Blonde takes a step back, throwing hands up in what appears to be defeat. It’s all a little fascinating, the odd cadence of their dynamic. Harry would probably find it fun and amusing if he weren’t currently being held prisoner by the most attractive stranger in the world.

Such beauty exists? Harry thought it was only fiction. The Romantic poets mourned of such visions but it was all supposed to be fiction, wasn’t it?

Lust has never been so powerful before.

“You don’t like blueberry muffins?” Harry finds himself asking, eyes zeroed in on the boy before him.

Glasses smirks, pleased, even as he says the words, “I think they’re gross. I don’t like blueberries.” It’s a confident tone. He leans on the counter, seemingly at complete ease; still, he stares at Harry and there’s something very suggestive lying in the curve of his lips.

“Well,” Harry drags out, shifting that much closer, almost against his will. Glasses’ eyes brighten, though they look smug. “When’s the last time you had one? I mean, how can you be so sure?”

“Hm,” Glasses considers, finally lifting his gaze away in contemplation. “I was very young, I admit—but I know that I hated it. I haven’t had one since.”

Naturally, Harry pokes a little bit more, warmth flushing his skin as Glasses aligns his body towards him. “You know your taste buds change, right?”

“Do they?” Glasses looks amused. “Well, I don’t care to test the theory.”

Off to the left, under his breath, Blonde mutters a clearly enunciated “Jesus,” rolling his eyes as he drifts further to the side, eyeing up the butter croissants with a newly concentrated effort. “This is going to last all bloody day…” he exhale, irritation clear.

Harry couldn’t care less. He’s swimming in gold. “You know,” he continues, ignoring Blonde’s put-upon sighs, instead watching Glasses tilt his head coquettishly, “that’s a very boring way to be, the way you are. Very, very boring. Dull.”

Instantly, Glasses’ smile falls. “Boring?” he repeats, affronted. “You’re calling me boring?”

It’s so petulant. It’s so adamant and spoiled.

A small fire erupts inside of Harry, licking up his spine.

“I think so, yeah,” he tries not to grin, shrugging one shoulder. “Because I can’t imagine not wanting to try something just because I assume I won’t like it when, in fact, it could be something I might like a lot. Maybe even love.” He allows himself a small grin as he feels his skin prickle under the delicious scrutiny. The oven buzzes somewhere in the distance. “I dunno,” he mumbles, low. “Seems pretty boring to me.”

For a moment, Glasses falls quiet, observing and thoughtful as his eyebrows harden and his lips twitch. Then in a swift movement, he straightens, clears his throat, and bares his teeth into a challenging yet flirtatious smile. “Well then, Dimples”—

“M’name’s not Dimples. It’s Harry.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

They smirk at each other, caught between amusement and confrontation.

“Hey, look,” Blonde suddenly interrupts, shuffling towards the door and tugging on the bill of his newsboy cap. “Could you just get me a croissant and a cup of black coffee to go? Leave it on the counter? I need a cigarette.” And with that, the door dings, signaling his exit.

Harry almost feels bad. Almost.

“Don’t mind Neil, he’s always like that,” Glasses dismisses nonchalantly, waving a hand. His eyes are still on Harry, blue and quick, completely unapologetic.

“Actually, I’m still caught up in being concerned with the fact that you’re boring,” Harry counters, unable to tamp down his budding smile as Glasses’ face startles into blankness. Or maybe that’s shock.  

“You’ve called me boring twice now,” he says, narrowing his eyes. But he’s still smiling. “Your customer service skills are severely lacking, Dimples—“

“Harry.”

“—and I can’t imagine that they pay you to serve such cheek alongside those repugnant muffins of yours.”

Repugnant?

Still though, Harry just smiles easily as he quips, “That’s something a very boring person would say, I’m sure.”

In an instant, Glasses’ chin hardens. It’s completely delightful and Harry can’t look away; the boy is clean and damp and beautiful and posh and he looks spoiled and offended but he’s setting Harry on fire. “Alright, then. Hand it over. The blueberry muffin”—he points, eyes still firmly set on Harry—“right there. Let’s see it.”

Smiling, Harry saunters over slowly, hands sweeping across the counter as he strolls, beholding the very blue, curved eyes, the intentionally disheveled hair, and the suspenders that cling to soft sun-birthed skin and muscle. A beautiful creation, this young man. Ovid would be foaming at the mouth.“What flanks! What form! What young thighs! Why recall each aspect? I saw nothing lacking praise.”  

“I dunno,” he says seriously as he pauses, feigning a serious internal debate. “I’m just not sure you could handle it. Might be too exciting for you.”

Glasses positively glares, outstretching a firm hand. “Hand the muffin over, Dimples.”

“’M not Dimples.”

“Oh really? The craters in your cheeks tell a different story.”

“They’re not craters!” Harry laughs, surprised by his own delight as Glasses bites back a begrudging smile, eyes still intent. Still though, he hands over the muffin, noting the way their skin contrasts as their hands brush. He doesn’t miss the way Glasses’ fingers purposefully glide against his own.

Flirtatious. Purposeful. Confident.

Harry absorbs it like a sponge.

Clearly, the boy is overly confident and perhaps a little forward. But, all the same, there’s a poetic, electric beauty about him that Harry isn’t quite willing to dismiss. So he leans his elbows atop the counter, leans forward, and patiently waits as Glasses slowly brings the muffin to his lips, eyes softening into genuine hesitance. Harry can’t help but chuckle at his disgruntled expression—he looks like a toddler.

Chewing, Glasses glances up at Harry through curtains of eyelashes. Nothing lacking praise. “It’s not terrible,” he concedes, flippant and airy as he chomps away. Very impolite. “It’s not awful. I mean, if this was the last thing on earth and I was the last thing on earth, I suppose I would eat it. If nobody was looking.”

“Of course nobody would be looking,” Harry grins, tilting his head as he watches Glasses, laughing beneath his words. “You’re the last person on earth!” He claps his hands to signal his grand and intelligent observation, forcing Glasses’ face into the perfect deadpan as he stops chewing and narrows his eyes.

“Oh, shut up,” he mutters, but it’s with a blueberry muffin crumbed smile, the warm lights of the bakery reflecting off his glasses.

And it’s around then that Harry decides today is actually the perfect day to fall in love.

“I’ll send you off with one,” he smiles, already fetching tissue paper and a small cardboard box. “So that you can pretend to not like them later as well,” he calls over his shoulder.

 He doesn’t need to see Glasses’ face to know he’s glaring. But he also doesn’t need to see his lips to know he’s smiling.

Upon returning, Harry sets the small box (housing just one muffin, dainty and quaint) atop the counter, uncapping his Sharpie that he pulls out from his apron. Eyes still on Glasses. “May I have your name?” he asks, dreamy and serious.

Glasses swallows, licking his lips clean. “Louis,” he half-smiles and he absolutely flutters his lashes. “My name’s Louis and I’d love to take you out. When are you free?”

Despite the fluttering of wings inside his ribcage, Harry only laughs, straightening the scarf that’s lazily tangled in his hair. “Not so fast, Louis. I’m only asking your name.” But he’s smiling and he can’t stop smiling and Louis couldn’t look any less enthusiastic. “It’s a lovely name, by the way. Fit for a king.”

“A sun king, I reckon,” Louis winks, but he doesn’t take the box and he doesn’t step away. “Seriously, though. Go out with me? I’ll wine you, I’ll dine you. I’ll treat you right.” The words are wet with suggestion, accompanied by a beautiful smirk.

It’s alluring, of course it is. But Harry’s always liked chasing the object of his affections, always liked the idea of wooing. Of courting. Of, like… Falling in love.

So instead of succumbing, he merely smiles serenely, brining his Sharpie onto the shiny paper surface of the box. “I’ve no doubt of it, King Louis,” he mumbles, lips lazy. “But I can treat you right as well.”

He doesn’t have to look up to note the falter of Louis’ sure grin.

Recapping his pen, he nudges the box closer, watches Louis’ blank eyes fall to it. “There,” he says, low. “That’s for you. On the house.”

For a moment, Louis remains still, eyes flittering over the words that he silently reads with the barest movement of his lips.

“’You have witchcraft in your lips.’ Shakespeare,” he reads, aloud this time, and Harry feels fuzzy at the sound. Louis looks up, eyes dim behind his glasses. “Quite the romancer, are we?” But there’s a breathless lilt to his voice and Harry feels it punched into his gut.

He wants to fall in love with Louis.

“I hope I see you again,” is all he says, smile in place as Louis watches him silently, clutching the small box in small hands. “Hopefully when it’s not raining? We could take a walk.”

“I’ll give you buckets of ice cream. The best chocolates. We’ll rent a carriage! I could buy you the city, you know,” Louis beams winningly, back on sure footing, but Harry merely chuckles, shaking his head.

“No, Louis. None of that. Just walk.”

“Just walk,” Louis repeats flatly, his sure smile falling by the wayside. He takes a moment to just stare at Harry, unimpressed and silent. Confusion lies just below the surface of his well-manicured face. “But wouldn’t that be boring?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry hums, tilting his head and watching the unsure frown that’s ghosting Louis’ mouth. “Not with you. I’ve questions to ask you, lots of them. I’d like to get to know you, Louis. Properly. You have witchcraft in your lips, remember? I’ve always believed in magic.”

For one moment, it looks as though Louis is going to turn around and walk away, given the way his eyes widen and his posture stiffens. The assuredness of his shoulders and general demeanor dampens into blatant discomfort, something unsure, and the knit of his eyebrows tightens almost painfully, at least from an observer’s point of view; Harry watches it all, closely, a sudden weight plonking into his lower intestine as he begins to question his own forwardness, his own sincerity and desire to know this stranger. Perhaps he shouldn’t have started throwing his damn idealistically romantic quotes at Louis, shit. He really needs to learn to—

But then, as luck would have it, Louis’ expression settles on a wry smile, taking just a small step back. He’s still facing Harry. “What a charm you’ve got there, Dimples. What a charm…” It’s said so softly it’s almost an observation that he’s kept for himself. But then he clears his throat, voice projecting louder. “But, uh. Suppose I’ll fetch Neil now. Best get going. Perhaps we’ll meet again, Dimples.”

“Sooner rather than later, I hope,” Harry grins, ink stains on his fingers. The oven buzzes again. “Have a lovely day, King Louis?”

The nickname doesn’t go unnoticed. “Always,” he beams, before the door dings and he steps outside, blueberry muffin in tow.

However, it’s not two minutes later (not nearly enough time for Harry to settle his head back on straight or catch his quickened breath, his palms are so sweaty) Neil walks in, damp and slightly irritable but a little more awake.

“Oh! Yeah, here’s your croissant and coffee,” Harry smiles, handing him the crinkly bag and small paper cup. “I remembered.” He grins, pleased, skin still tingling from the eyes of the sun king.

“Surprised you did, to be honest,” Neil snorts, pulling out a few notes from his wallet. “What with Louis here. He tends to distract.”

“Oh,” Harry replies delicately, opening the till. The coins clink, the bills crumple. “Does he tend to be a bit of mischief, then? That can be fun.” He smiles.

“You mean, does he tend to pick up someone in every bakery, shop, building, and town he enters? Yeah, he does,” Neil replies, unimpressed and final. It’s odd and maybe a little protective, maybe a little hard and jaded, and Harry doesn’t quite know how to take it. Or to respond, really. Neil seems nice. Or seemed, rather…

“Oh,” is all he says, again, handing back the change.

Neil shakes his head, nods to the jar of tips. “Keep it. Cheers, mate.” And with breakfast in tow, he turns around and walks away.

“See you later,” Harry calls, a little unsure as he smiles and sends a casual wave.

“Doubt it,” is all Neil says back before the door shuts.

**

“Is it possible to fall in love at first sight?” Harry asks later, standing outside the English building. The fountain spurts happily beneath the moonlight, speckling droplets on Harry’s smiling face. He’s staring up at the sky, trying to find the brightest stars. “Do you think I could fall in love in one day?”

“Who are you in love with, Harry?” Liam laughs, nearly tripping over Zayn—he’s lying on the pavement, smoking and being generally contemplative. Liam, meanwhile, is jogging laps around the fountain. A beautiful metaphor for their relationship.

“His name is Louis and he hates blueberry muffins,” Harry mumbles, picking up a few stray pebbles. He houses them in his palm before continues gazing upwards. “I think I’m in love with him. He’s really attractive, yeah, but there’s…something about him, I guess. I dunno.”

“Then yes, Harry. If you’re in love then yes, you can fall in love in a day.” Liam is so simple like that; it’s why Harry loves him.

He looks over, pebbles cool against his skin. “How long did it take for you guys to fall in love?”

“At least a couple of minutes,” Zayn mutters, smirking as he exhales smoke, and Liam laughs joyously as he hops up onto a bench. They’re all really drunk—did Harry mention?

“Well, to be fair, Zayn was fit as fuck. Still is. So, I mean…” Liam drifts off, panting as he catches his breath, hands on hips. “I guess I’m not sure if it was lust or love?”

“Does it matter?” Harry asks, blinking at him. “If it turned to be the same? Both, or whatever?”

Briefly, silence falls on the trio, save for the splashes and gurgles of water from the fountain.

“No,” Liam hums thoughtfully. “I guess not.”

Zayn agrees.

And Harry grins as he looks back to the sky.

**

On Thursday, Harry has another shift at the bakery; bright and early, sun budding against the horizon.

“I’m at your feet where critters meet” he scribbles onto a crumbling brick wall while on his way. He beams brightly amidst a washed-out sky  before continuing on his way, hoping and wondering if he’ll see Louis again. It’s been a handful of days since they met and Harry’s still convinced that he’s found his muse, so to speak. Because he loves uni, loves his courses and his chosen career path, loves Zayn and Liam and all the subtle glory they procure from their humble surroundings.

But Louis feels like something entirely different, something beautiful and rare. Exciting and new.

And he won’t peel himself off of the walls of Harry’s brain, so…

So Harry continues his walk to the bakery with purpose, heart on his arm, writ in ink.

**

It’s around 10AM again that Louis and Neil arrive.

“Oh, joy,” Neil mutters wryly the minute he sees Harry, but it’s not quite as offensive as it should be, given that he’s carrying a roll of toilet paper and speaking in that casual-almost-smiling manner of his. Neil is either a supreme prick or a wry ally and Harry’s just not sure which it is quite yet. He’s probably just some rich kid who’s strung out on too many drugs, though. Has a good heart still and stuff, even if it is buried beneath narcotics and brittle sleep.

“Good morning,” Harry smiles, waving a floppy hand as his eyes shoot straight past Neil and hit upon Louis; glasses-clad, Alexander McQueen-wearing Louis. Paired with white Converse high-tops. It’s inexplicably sexy. “Hi, Louis.”

He reserves a special greeting for the one he intends to love.

“Dimples,” Louis smirks, strolling in past Neil and absently brushing him aside. Naturally, Neil narrows his eyes, irritation in his huff as he transfers the toilet paper to his second hand. But he shakes his head a touch fondly and doesn’t make to protest. “Thought you’d be here. Weren’t here yesterday though, was he?”

Neil grunts a response, his stick legs carrying him up to the pastry case. He pokes the glass with the toilet paper. “No. Or the day before, so it was a joy to bust my arse out of bed at the crack of dawn for nothing.” He sets unimpressed eyes on Harry, shaded beneath his newsboy cap. “Suspect we’ll be coming here every day in hopes to catch a glimpse of you, so might as well text us your schedule,” he says pointedly, a little annoyed. “Would quite like to avoid wasting more time than needed.”

Harry blinks. “Oh. Uhm, I’m sorry. I was off…” Confused, he looks to Louis, who’s already leaned on the counter, grin in place as he shamelessly ogles Harry. “I work tomorrow as well, though. But, for future, if you give me your number…” He may or may not be fishing, coy as can be, lit like a star.

Brightly, Louis laughs. “Harry, you don’t actually have to report to us; he’s just being a dick. Don’t mind him.”

“Oh,” Harry replies, unsure. But his heart still awakens to the idea of texting Louis. Communicating with him in the real world. “I can, uh… Still give you my number though? And my schedule, if you want.”

Louis grins, leaning heavily atop the glass. “I do want. Especially considering that fine poetry you sent me off with before—even if it was paired with that atrocious pastry.”

Atrocious. As if.

“You loved it,” Harry insists, sure.

“I’ll admit to no such thing.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Neil sighs, already retreating. “Back to the mating game when all I want is breakfast in my fucking mouth.”

Before Louis can undoubtedly remark on the beauty of the words ‘fucking’ and ‘mouth’, Harry perks up, feeling apology in his heart as he makes to interrupt; it’s hard not to exclude Neil a bit when he’s bent on wooing Louis amidst the very small and dull confines of a bakery.

“Neil!” Harry calls, feeling that clammer of guilt the more Neil walks away. “Did you want another croissant today? And a coffee?”

For a moment, Harry wonders if he’s heard him, Neil’s entire body unresponsive as he stands there. Then, with narrowed eyes, he looks to Louis. “Why is he calling me Neil.” It’s not really a question though. Sounds more like an accusation.

Harry just raises his eyebrows, confused. He scratches his head, fingers catching on his sunglasses-scarf.

Louis looks like the cat who got the cream. “Oops,” he beams unapologetically before bestowing blue eyes on Harry. “He hates that nickname I’ve chosen for him. My bad.” It’s anything but remorseful.

“M’name’s fucking Niall, Christ’s sake,” Neil—Niall mutters, rolling his eyes as he fluidly ignores a call with one hand, toilet paper still in the other. “Stop trying to shit it up.”

“He’s very spoiled,” Louis assures, winking. “The baby of the family, you know. That sort.”

“Ah,” Harry agrees noncommittally, but he can’t look away from Louis long enough to be bothered, doesn’t even feel all that embarrassed. Even though he does a little bit. “He’s also holding toilet paper. Which… I’m not even sure if that’s sanitary?”

“It’s not used, Christ’s sake,” Niall assures with a streak of irritation, rolling his eyes. “Just snatched it from this one’s hands this morning while he was trying to decorate my new car. Prick that he is.”

“I enjoy attention to detail,” Louis corrects but he winks at Harry again and his smile is infectious. His fingers drum atop the counter. “It looks too new. I always like to muck up my new cars a bit, else they look boring.”

Right. This is all a little bit amusing, considering Harry’s never even had a car before. Let alone several that he can just “muck up” for the fun of it. Interesting, indeed.

“Why don’t you just get an older car then?” Harry asks, genuinely confused as he bags a croissant for Niall—who’s looking more irritable by the second, bags beneath his eyes. “If you want it to have character, I mean?”

For a moment, Louis blinks contemplatively at him, watching as Harry hands Niall the paper bag, watches him pour the steaming black coffee. “Well… I like new things. Why would I want something old?”

“Because old things have charm,” Harry says simply, smiling as he hands over the coffee before turning his full attention to Louis. Niall huffs again and wanders off, cup pressed to his lips. “And they deserve to be loved, too.”

“Oh yeah? Do you collect old things, Harry?”

“I do,” he smiles. “I love old things.”

“Of course you do.”

“There’s nothing like going to a shop and finding a treasure that you can’t find anywhere else.”

Again, Louis contemplates him, chewing absently at his lips. “Right. Well…. You sure are a funny one. Hipster, I reckon.”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe. If the bill fits… I prefer to think of myself as misplaced, though.”

“Misplaced?” Louis repeats, curious. He leans closer but it’s not in a flirtatious way, just a genuine sort of interest; his brows are furrowed and his jaw is strong, beautifully lit with finely cared for stubble. “Howso?”

“Yeah, cuz like, I feel like I was meant to be born in the early nineteenth century, or something,” Harry explains easily. It’s a conversation he’s had a many a time, usually with Zayn and Liam when they’re high and have long since given up on studying, sprawled out on the floor and watching old Disney films unironically. “I’m clearly a Romanticist. I think the idea of sublimity and nature and love is beautiful and I love words and I want to glorify, like, everything. I think the world’s beautiful and tragic but… I dunno.” He smiles balefully. “I sound ridiculous. Never mind.” It’s odd, the flush that creeps into his cheeks.

Amusedly, Louis raises an eyebrow, lips twitching at the words. “So you’re romantic, then? Self-proclaimed?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Harry smiles, chuckling softly. “I mean more like, the Romantic Era. That’s one of my favorite periods in literary history. Nothing compares to Keats.”

“Ohhhh, so you’re one of those, then,” Louis says but he’s smiling, amused, and there’s a light in his eyes. It will never go out. “Pretentious, like.”

“I hope not,” Harry protests with a shrug, though it’s not the first time he’s been accused as such. Still, he grins as widely as his cheeks allow. “I just like words, I think. And images. Thoughts.”

Louis hums, thoughtful. “I never really think about words...” he considers slowly. “I think I like actions better than words.”

It sounds fitting, perfectly so, and Harry’s just smiling wider, feeling more smitten, when—

“Oi! Lou—we’ve got class soon!” Niall suddenly calls, standing near the door and looking bored.

Before he can stop, Harry frowns; Louis sighs.

“Coming,” he calls, before setting his gaze back on Harry. “Go out with me? Tonight? I’ll romance you. I’ll read you Keats. Whatever you like.” It’s accompanied by suggestion and Harry really loves it, wants to give into the churning of his stomach, but he likes Louis. And he has a vision for these things.

“I’m supposed to be wooing you, remember?” he pokes softly and Louis’ smile fades just a tad. “So how about we start with just exchanging numbers.”

And so they do, black ink scribbled on each other’s arms.

“Call me,” Louis mumbles, grinning pink, and he’s just about reached Niall when Harry suddenly calls him back.

“Don’t forget your muffin!” he calls, smiling sneakily as he flicks a stray curl away, offering up the small package in his hands. Grinning, he watches Louis walk slowly towards him, both eyebrows raised.

“I never ordered one,” he smirks, but he still takes the aforementioned item, eyes scanning the words written sloppily atop. “’A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness.’” He raises his eyebrows when he looks back to Harry.

“Keats,” he supplies happily, recapping his Sharpie. “He said it, not me.” But his grin widens and Louis’ cheeks glow.

“Right,” he says, a little off-kilter and somewhatly flustered and it’s addicting, is what it is. Harry wants to fluster Louis every day for the unforeseeable future, for the way it makes him feel. “Well, then. Until tomorrow, Dimples.”

“Till tomorrow,” Harry smiles. “I’ll text you.”

And Louis merely nods, still faintly pink, as he clutches his paper box and follows an impatient Niall out the door.

**

Unsurprisingly, Louis and Niall come to the bakery every single day that Harry is there. And every single time, Harry sends them off with complimentary breakfast and a quote for Louis as he calculatingly keeps him at bay.

“You still won’t let me take you out?” Louis asks, a little miffed and a little amused as he clutches today’s muffin. It’s cooler out so he’s wearing a thick jacket, buttoned to his neck. It’s exceptionally handsome. “Even after all this time?”

“Actually,” Harry grins, recalling last night’s conversation with Zayn and Liam (“At this point, you’re just scared,” Zayn accused while Liam spoke a soft and encouraging, “Ask him out tomorrow, alright? You’re driving us a little mad.”), “I was just going to ask you out.”

“Fucking finally,” Niall sighs from his table—the one by the window that overlooks the street. He likes to scarf his breakfast down in silence while Louis and Harry flirt over freshly baked bread.

Louis’ eyebrows rise in a chorus. “Oh? Is that so? For when, Dimples? How do you know that I don’t already have a date?”

“I hope for my sake that you don’t,” Harry replies softly, hands twitching where they lie atop the counter. Louis’ are nearby and he wants to hold them. “Because I’ve been thinking about this for an awful long while.”

“Oh yeah?” Louis asks softly, smiling in a gentle way as he leans that much closer. He smells wonderful, all lightly dusted cologne. “How long?”

“Since the first day you lied about liking blueberry muffins,” Harry smiles, content as can be.

They lock eyes, nothing spoken, until Louis startles a little, clearing his throat. He takes a step back.

“Alright,” he says. “Just tell me when and I’m yours.”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight, then,” Louis nods and it feels very final.

Harry exhales with a wide smile.

**

Of course, Zayn and Liam help him get dressed.

“I have about two outfits,” Harry mutters, picking at his nails as he leans against his quote-scattered bedroom wall. Right now he’s pressed against Shelley’s words. “I don’t know what you two expect to find…”

At that very moment, they both emerge from the barren confines of Harry’s closet with matching disappointment and exactly one white t-shirt.

“How have we never noticed that you wear the same thing every day?” Zayn frowns, pretending not to be horrorstruck. Liam just looks confused, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed to his elbows.

“I don’t wear the same thing ever day,” Harry murmurs with a roll of the eyes. “I just don’t really care about clothes, I guess.” He shrugs. “There are more important things.”

“Like books?” Liam asks flatly, earning him a smack from Zayn.

“Yes, Li, like books,” Harry nods, but it’s smiley and warm and proud and he plucks the shirt out of Liam’s hands, dons it, and skips out of his room, heart hanging somewhere from the ceiling because he’s flying high, he’s a bird soaring on the wind.

And his date with Louis is in less than an hour.

The smile won’t leave his face.

“He dispensed starlight to casual moths.”

**

They meet at the bridge near the university’s schoolgrounds, the sun setting in rust. Shadows linger on Louis’ face and the remnants of sunlight flash across his glasses; he’s ethereal and light, quieter when the sun goes down, gentler when he’s on his own. He smiles, soft, already waiting for Harry. Hands in his pockets.

“Hey there,” he greets quietly, voice a little raspy; he’s swallowed up in large cream jumper. Brown oxfords with no socks. Poetically tight jeans.

“Hi, Louis,” Harry breathes in response, procuring the lone yellow rose he’d purchased on his way here. (“Don’t you dare go cliché,” Zayn warned. “Have our writing courses taught you nothing?”; Harry happily ignored him). “This is for you. Because ‘with flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be happy?’” he quotes, smiling as Louis flushes faintly and takes it in careful, surprised hands, brushing the petals against his nose to smell.

“Such a little textbook,” Louis teases but it’s gentle and smitten and he keeps sniffing the flower, swaying side to side like a child. Then he lets his hand fall, rose still clutched tight, and he tilts his head. “Shall I take you to dinner then? Or would you prefer a film? Do you like champagne?”

But Harry just chuckles, grabbing his hand and shushing him. “No, Louis, let’s just walk, yeah? It’s beautiful out.”

And it is. Warm with a cool breeze, not a cloud in the sky.

For a moment, it looks as if Louis’ going to protest, his brows pulled together quizzically. “Just walk? That’s what you want to do for our date? But I want to spoil you—“

“You will spoil me with your undivided attention,” Harry smiles, tightening his fingers with Louis’. “Please? Can we walk? I just want to talk to you. Ask you questions. Maybe get a kiss if I’m lucky.”

Louis’ smile is slow to form, all oozy and sly as he reassumes a dominant stance, skin smooth and lit with twilight. “You’ll get fair more than a kiss, I can almost assure you of that, Dimples,” he lathers on lasciviously and the words sound utterly breathtaking in his mouth.

“But a kiss is gift enough,” Harry grins, though, truth be told, he’s not about to say no, his blood pumping in a fury. “My entire life consists of busting my arse studying and stuffing my nose in dusty books; just being out here with you right now is a privilege, Louis. I’ll take anything you hand to me, I am devout. I am your Thomas Randolph.”

“Thomas Randolph?” Louis questions, his hand slackening, his face opening. He always appears bashful in those moments when Harry croons his earnest affections. “I have no idea who that is.”

“He wrote a poem called ‘A Devout Lover,’” Harry explains smoothly, the temperature of his fingers warming to Louis’ as he still holds on, just as tightly. “It’s always been one of my favorites and now I know why: it’s for you.”

“For me,” Louis repeats, aiming for flat but landing on flustered. The richest, prettiest boy in the world with confidence oozing out of his polished shoes is flustered. Harry is quite sure that this matters. “I don’t understand.”

So Harry smiles and utters it softly.

“’I have a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;
And wheresoe’er my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets religion in.
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours
As chastely as they morning dews kiss flowers:”
I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,
And come unto my courtship as my prayer.’”

Harry recites it flawlessly, unthinkingly, the emotion in his voice unblinking—even in the wide-eyed stare of Louis Tomlinson, who stands there, small, amongst purple skies.

“You memorized it?” he asks, swallowing as he surveys Harry’s face with an unreadable expression.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry nods, intent. “All my favorite words, I memorize. If you like, I can tell them all to you? As we walk? I don’t need grand gestures, Louis, I don’t need things. I just, like, want to spend some time with you because I know so little and yet I already like you so much.”

The words are earnest, as earnest as can be because Harry means them with his very sure soul even though he feels a little bashful himself right now; he’s used to being very truthful because he believes it’s the only way to live his life. But he’s never quite been smitten before so this is all…a little more nerve wracking than usual. He tugs at the scarf in his hear, scuffs his worn shoes against the ground, plays with a button on his flannel with his free hand.

Louis seems to understand this, for he’s gone quiet, observing Harry through the falling sun. The moon is rising behind him.

“Alright, Harry,” he says softly, tugging on his hand. His voice is different now, sounds fluttery and calm as he smiles, small. It’s the most genuine Harry’s seen him yet and it’s startling, almost, like peeling away a shroud, revealing something unexpected.  “Let’s walk, then. Just you and I.”

Harry exhales more shakily than he understands as he returns the smile; they walk in synch.

**

“What are you going to school for?” Harry asks brightly, swinging their hands back and forth. The moon lights up the ground around them and he’s drunk on how well this is all going. It’s so easy, he feels like he’s falling down a hill. Falling, falling, falling. “Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak and placed it by thee on a golden throne.” King Louis at the throne.

“Business,” Louis sighs in answer, but it’s not a happy sound. It’s weighted and tired and Harry wants to blow it away like he would the seeds of dead dandelions.

“You don’t like it?” he questions lightly. Their feet scuff pebbles, scattering them into violets.

“I mean… I don’t know. Maybe not,” Louis huffs, shrugging a little awkwardly. A cringe-like smile bestows his face but his shoulders are still strong, taught, unyielding. “I’m sorta just doing it cuz my dad wants me to. I don’t really think about it much.”

“Oh. Well what does your mum say?”

“I don’t talk to my mum,” Louis shrugs again. Nonchalant. “She split when I was younger. Now it’s just me and my dad. We don’t keep in contact, or anything.”

“Oh.” Harry frowns. Family’s always been very important to him; he can’t imagine growing up without his sister or one of his parents. He’s never had money but he’s always had love. “I’m sorry. That’s…” He drifts off, unsure of what to say.

“Don’t be,” Louis assures calmly, eyes set straight ahead. “It is what it is. But anyway, I guess I don’t like business all that much. But he wants me to follow in his footsteps, so…” He falls silent then, tilting his head to the sky. “It’s more practical than what I want to do, that’s for sure.”

Harry can’t stop watching him. “What do you want to do?”

Pausing, Louis purses his lips, glancing over at Harry with a grimace. “Act,” he admits, quick as lightning.

“You’d make an incredible actor,” Harry replies instantly, heartfelt, swept up in the image of Louis on a stage. “You’re bold and beautiful and your voice projects really well.” Louis laughs, shoulders easing up, and Harry smiles, too. “I think you should try your hand at it and fuck the plan that your father made for you. You only live once, Louis.”

“Listen to you… Maybe,” he agrees noncommittally as his laughter subsides, palm warm against Harry’s. He glances up at him, expression calm and unassuming. Gentle, almost. “So. English professor. That’s your dream, then?”

“It is,” Harry nods, smiling. “It’s the only thing I want to do, the only thing I can see myself doing, you know?”

“Sounds about right. Given all your damn quotes and your poetic little brain.”

Harry ducks his head as Louis watches him, electricity buzzing between their bodies. “Yeah… I dunno why but I’ve just always really loved quotes and things,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling an errant streak of bashfulness. “But I’ve never really…related to them as much as I do now. Like… I dunno. You make it…” He pauses, biting his lip as he considers his words. “You make me want to gather all my quotes and shower them over your head.”

“Dump them on me, you mean? Drown me?” Louis smiles, but he’s pink again and he’s soft, walking that much closer. Their hips bump.

“Yeah,” Harry nods unapologetically. “Because you give them meaning when before, they just sounded pretty. But you make them real, you know?”

“Oh, shut up. You hardly know me, Harry,” Louis dismisses, but he’s still pinker and his steps fumble a bit and he won’t meet Harry’s eye. “I’m a bloody brat. Spoiled, too. Just ask Niall—he’s had to put up with my shit for ten years.”

“No, I don’t want to ask Niall,” Harry protests, pulling Louis to a stop so he can face him. Louis quiets, chest stilling with a held breath because he’s fierce and stubborn and his jaw is set. Harry steps closer, dares to hold a careful hand to Louis’ jaw, smoothing out the tension. “I want to find out for myself. You’re important, Louis. Maybe the most important.”

Louis just stares, breath still trapped in his lungs, unmoving and haloed in stars that blink in the black sky.

“’If you had stars inside your brain cells, you’d probably understand what I am talking about,’” Harry quotes quietly, brushing a thumb along Louis’ jaw. It causes the latter to exhale, breath ghosting along Harry’s neck and collarbones. Oxygen kisses.

“So many bloody quotes,” Louis whispers, caught up in something as his eyes fall to Harry’s lips. A hand finds Harry’s hip and it leaves a streak of sparks along his skin.

“They’re all for you,” Harry insists quietly—

But he’s cut off by Louis’ mouth against his own and he sighs, relaxing into a kiss that he’s wanted since he first set eyes on glasses and a flickering smile.

Louis tastes just like he imagined—he tastes like words.

**

It’s a steady love story from there. An epic. A romance.

“You weren’t lying—he’s fit as fuck,” Zayn smirks, sliding out a cigarette from his ear as he observes Louis, Liam, and Niall chatting.

It’s the first night Harry’s properly melded everyone together. So far it seems successful, though Niall’s a bit of an erratic wild child (though Louis claims it’s just because he’s a genius—“he’s studying a bunch of maths and science courses. Gonna be an engineer of some sort, I don’t know. I don’t really listen because his accent’s a bit strong, isn’t it.”) More importantly though, he’s finally made peace with Harry; after Louis and Harry’s thirteenth date (yes, Harry keeps track of their dates because it matters to him and yes, it took that long for Niall to approach him with anything over than exasperation) Niall spoke with him while Louis was brushing his teeth for bed, Harry staying at their flat for the night. They were sat on the couch watching golf.

“I know I’ve been a shit to you,” Niall spoke calmly without warning or transition, eyes trained on the screen. He was clad in black skinny jeans and black jumper, looking ominous and ruffled.

Harry startled a bit, hands folded between his thighs, before he looked over. He only felt a little intimidated. “Uh. Well—“ he tried, unsure how to respond. Because Niall really had been a shit.

“I’ve always had to look out for Louis,” he barrels on, ignoring Harry. Relaxed, arm splayed across the back of the couch. “He’s gotten himself in some proper shit fests. He’s irresponsible and spoiled and likes attention too much for his own fucking good. I’m his best mate, have been for over a decade, so I can’t say I’m all too pleased when he picks up another stray.”

A stray. Niall just referred to Harry a stray.

Well. That could be…metaphorical, or something.

Still, Harry frowned.

“But he’s good with you,” Niall said flatly. There was absolutely no emotion in his voice and he was still staring at the flatscreen, unblinking and calm. “And you’re being good to him. Maybe a little too good, if we’re being honest,” he mutters wryly, shooting a glance in Harry’s direction.

Harry flushes a small bit; no doubt he’s talking about the less-than-silent sex Louis and him seem to have…well. Very often.

“But, anyway. It’s out of my hands. And you’re a good kid. Silly and pretentious, but good. So I’m sorry, mate. I won’t be as much of a prick from here on out.”

It was the best apology Harry could’ve asked for and he didn’t push it by asking for a hug. Instead, he calmly smiled, folding his legs beneath him. “Thank you, Niall. I appreciate it.” He paused. “And I’m sorry for calling you Neil.”

It made him snort a laugh and it made Harry smile; and then Louis walked back in the room, lips red from mouthwash, and it made Harry smile even more as he opened his arms in invitation. Louis’ best seat is Harry, you know.

Ever since then, it’s been good. Harry and Niall are basically mates (basically) while Louis keeps asking about Zayn and Liam and vice versa, so…

So now they’re all gathered here today and it’s like matrimony.

Niall seems to be getting along with Liam the most; probably because Liam is a good listener, very easygoing, and very gullible. Also because Liam seems to have taken to Niall as well. He’s hanging onto his every word, seemingly fascinated. Liam might also be drunk—he’s a bit of a lightweight.

Zayn watches amusedly, flicking his lighter into action. “You’ve got the fit one and I’ve got the smitten one.”

“Louis’ more than fit,” Harry protests, a little drunk on cheap wine. He has some of it splashed on his oversized jumper. “Beautiful. Perfect. Other-worldly. Sex. Mine.” Okay, a lot drunk. Cheap alcohol may taste shit but it certainly does the job.

Louis tried to buy a boat’s worth of vastly over-priced vodka and whiskey but Harry calmly held his hands and declined because he doesn’t want Louis to spend his money on him. “The things that matter to me are the things that you can’t buy, Louis,” he tries to explain every time and it always confuses and mildly infuriates Louis—who’s used to spoiling, who’s used to taking control and flaunting his money to get what he wants. “I just want to take care of you,” Louis insists, stern and sad, but Harry cups his cheeks and breathes words against his mouth. “You take care of me by being you.” It usually settles him, warming his lips into a smile.

Now, though, Louis’ not just smiling—he’s laughing. Head thrown back, oversized Burberry jacket slipping from his thin shoulders. He hasn’t shaven so he’s a bit scruffy and unkempt, too busy with exams he doesn’t care about, too busy with staying at Harry’s shitty flat that he tries to compliment and always fails, tangled up in Harry’s sheets. “It’s nice. It’s very…expressive,” he tries, a clear grimace on his face. “I like how you mingled your quotes with outdated wallpaper and mildew.” “Oi, fuck off,” Harry laughs, falling onto him before their limbs lock into place against one another’s, laughter slipping between the cracks.

Harry loves him, Harry loves him, Harry loves him.

“Well, you’re cute together,” Zayn half-smiles, a shitty paperback of Fahrenheit 451 in his hands. He’s trying to study for an exam but only half-arsedly, too occupied with laughing at Niall’s snark and Louis’ loudness. “I like this one. He’s good. Good for you.”

“I’m proper smitten,” Harry smiles dazedly, taking another sip of wine. “We have sex all the time.”

“Oh-kay,” Zayn concludes, clapping Harry on the back as he moves past him. “That’s enough, thanks. Time for me to go.”

Harry merely smiles to himself as he watches him leave before gazing back at Louis. He looks good here, in Zayn and Liam’s flat. He looks good in Harry’s life.

They lock eyes for just a moment, Louis mid-sentence, and they smile as one before Louis looks back to Niall and Liam, finishing his anecdote.

It all fits.

**

It’s nearing the end of term and Harry’s barely slept for most of it, too caught up in Louis’ hands and eyes, too caught up in his mates and the life he’s blessed to have. Harry has come to almost resent sleep, too caught up in his waking life—the one he loves so dearly. He and Louis often refuse to let their bodies be exhausted; only when they aren’t paying attention do they fall asleep, tangled up and wet with each other’s sweat, orgasm heady and warm.

It’s all wonderful, just like Harry imagined love to be. “’These blue-veined violets whereon we lean never can blab, nor know what we mean’,” Harry will sing-song as they lie on the schoolgrounds, watching clouds drift by. He hands little wisps of wildflowers to Louis, errant bits of grass slipping out of his clutch.

Louis will always snort, soft and warm as he rolls atop him, blowing the fallen grassblades away, tucking the flowers in Harry’s curls, lacing them in his scarves. “Romantic, I reckon. You’d make an excellent garden gnome.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “What? I don’t know what you mean. Why am I garden gnome? They’re terrifying, Louis—“

But Louis silences him by shoving flowers in his mouth and it makes Harry splutter while the former cackles evilly and it’s…

Louis stuffs flowers in his mouth, alright? Harry’s in complete and utter love.

**

“Christmas hols is coming up,” Louis remarks offhandedly as he leans on the counter of the bakery. He’s a regular now; everybody knows his name. “Supposed to spend most of it with dad, of course. But my birthday’s on Christmas Eve and you should, uh, you should come. To Manchester, that is.”

“I would love to,” Harry beams, unable to resist a small kiss to Louis’ lips; he’s not supposed to be kissing while on the job, you know. Not that anyone actually minds but Harry’s a gentleman. “I’d love to meet your father and see your house and all that. And you can come visit me, too? Meet my family? Maybe stay for awhile?” He asks, hopeful.

“Yes,” Louis nods, though there is something in his eyes. “Let’s do this. Meet each other’s families and…the like.” He pauses then, teeth indenting his lips before his grin suddenly brightens and he pecks another kiss on Harry. “I’ve got class now. But I’ll text you when I’m done.”

“Alright,” Harry nods, slipping the small box his way. A blueberry muffin every day. “Love you. See you soon.”

Harry told Louis he loved him two months into their relationship which isn’t too fast, it’s not—conventions be damned. Louis hasn’t said it back yet though because he’s never said it before; says he’s not quite comfortable with it yet, but said that he loves hearing Harry tell him. Also says that he often thinks it and that’s plenty enough for Harry.

He only told him because it’s what he felt. He doesn’t need to hear it back until Louis’ ready.

Smiling, Louis takes the muffin, reading the words scribbled there today. “’I’m the poor man’s poet, was poor myself as a lover, couldn’t afford gifts, so spun words.’ Ovid,” Louis reads aloud, grinning with each word. He looks up, bright, his hair styled in chaos, shaking his head fondly. Glasses slipping down his nose because they’re enormous and trendy. “Spin words, indeed. Wouldn’t have you any other way, Dimples. See you soon.”

And he departs as Harry grins, wiping crumbs off the pastry case, humming a song.

**

Term is dwindling down. Meanwhile, Harry leads an emotionally fulfilling life as he reads too many books and gets too little sleep, writing term papers and essays that don’t even make sense to him as he taps at his laptop for countless hours. His hair’s greasy, he’s been wearing the same trackies for a week, and his brain is so spent that he can’t remember if ‘wouldn’t’ is an actual word.

But he’s got Zayn and Liam next to him—Zayn pouring over Hemingway’s manuscripts for his final essay (that makes up 90% of his grade; he only just started it last night) and Liam is putting together a PowerPoint for his Communications project, looseleaf sheets of scribbled notes surrounding him in sloppy piles, so it’s not so bad. They will survive this and then term will be over and Christmas will arrive and Harry will get to visit Louis and meet his father.

It’s all very promising. Save for the part where Louis’ been a bit quiet lately.

He hasn’t been coming to the bakery as much, hasn’t been texting or seeing Harry as much. And, true, they’ve been busy with their respective studies, but… But still. It’s on Harry’s mind. He just doesn’t have enough mind room to comprehend it fully right now.

“You should invite Louis,” Liam smiles, the vein in his temple twitching. He’s got an enormous thermos of black coffee sat next to him, accompanied by a slew of energy drinks. Beside him, Zayn is unblinkingly typing with a ferocity that is almost annoying. If it weren’t for the libraries strict rules, Harry is certain he would be chainsmoking into oblivion. “He could probably use the company, considering he has enough trouble with studying as it is.”

Harry hums, noncommittal as he tries to ignore the flare up in his stomach. He’s too tired, too stressed, too focused for emotion. He’s too concerned with the symbolism and importance in his seventeenth century literature. Rochester is his only concern right now. That, and Scooby Doo. Since it’s a perfect Gothic narrative, after all. Shaggy and Scooby are primal-driven by biology and nature, encompassing the natural world responses, man. Velma is the obvious protector, praise. Fred is the masculine ideal, bless  his hapless soul. And Daphne is the pale, virginal female whose sexuality is at stake. Total Gothic novel, splayed as a kid’s cartoon. Epic.

But anyway.

“I already did,” Harry mumbles, brain like a frying pan. “Said he’s busy.”

“Oh… Has he been busy a lot? I haven’t seen him around much,” Liam prods, as Zayn taps away fearlessly. “Is everything alright?”

In the darker corners of Harry’s sleep-deprived, overly stressed mind, a voice snaps ‘Fuck off, Liam, don’t ask questions.’ But the rational part sighs, trembling with an insecurity he can’t quite address yet.

“I hope so, yeah,” he shrugs, trying to remain casual. “I love him, so. I hope everything’s alright.”

Liam must sense the hesitance in his voice because he drops it then, going back to his PowerPoint with newfound gusto.

Harry continues to type.

**

The storm blows over eventually, leaving the world a little bit easier and more lovely. Exams are finishing up, the sun shines, and the temperature is warm and breezy.

So Harry’s frown easily turns into a smile when he arrives back to his flat, weighed down by books (he’s wearing Louis’ McQueen bookbag but it’s so stuffed and heavy and suffocating that even the intimacy of the gesture is lost on him) and he finds Louis sitting on his shitty carpeted hallway, back against his filthy wooden door.

He smiles when he sees Harry, apology in his mouth. “Hey, love,” he says gently, sounding like the river.

Harry wants to be madder than he is; Louis’ been distant and Harry’s been stressed. That’s never a good combination.

“Hey,” he finds himself smiling, unraveling at the seams when Louis smiles with those lips of his. That smile of his. Louis, Louis, Louis. King Louis. “What are you doing here? Haven’t seen you in awhile.” It’s maybe a little bitter.

The words seem to affect Louis, causing him to duck his head and frown a bit, shame in his shoulders. “I know. I’m sorry. I can explain, though. Let me inside?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Harry yawns, too tired for much more. He unlocks his door, the keys jangling, and there’s probably a quote somewhere about being in love while you’re tired and sad—but he doesn’t know it. “Come inside.”

Silently, Louis stands up, dusting off his pristine jeans as he follows Harry. He never makes a comment when he enters Harry’s flat, as shit as it is. Louis’ flat that he shares with Niall is modern and clean and filled with natural light. A far cry  from Harry’s moldy walls and water spots. But Louis never complains, just kisses Harry.

Harry loves him, you know.

“Would you like some tea?” Harry asks, rubbing at his eyes as he drops the bookbag to the floor with a thud, but Louis’ already moving towards him, a grimace on his face.

“I’m so sorry I’ve been off lately,” he says without a breath, rushing into Harry’s space. No semblance of control. “I’ve been a little panicked because I keep thinking of you meeting my father and seeing my life and—just—that’s risky, alright, that’s new territory. I’ve never been in an actual relationship, you know? Nothing serious. But I really like you, Harry. I—reckon I love you, even.” He says it a bit strangled but it’s determined and sincere, shaky as it sounds.

Every ounce of stress leaves Harry’s body at once. The words are filling the room.

Louis continues before he can say anything, though. “It’s just that my dad’s a bit weird. Our relationship isn’t great. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about me—doesn’t even officially know I’m gay, even though he does because, well—he’s seen me with guys, but. But we’ve never actually spoken about it but I want to tell him, I do!” he rushes, nervous. “I want to tell him about you and do this properly but it’s weird, alright? We don’t get on that well all the time. I mean, we do. We love each other, he’s my dad. But he’s very important and his career comes first and he’s not very emotional, I guess. We don’t, like, talk about stuff or hug or share shit, you know? He spoils me with money though and that’s fine because it’s just whatever, but.” Louis looks a little lost now, words tumbling out. “I’m nervous about you seeing my life because it’s not that noble, or anything. I’m a brat. I’m spoiled. My dad’s weird. We’re not that nice to each other all the time. My friends are pricks. But I love you. If that makes sense? I’m sorry, this isn’t coming out like I’d planned,” he finishes in a rush, wringing his hands in an un-Louis-like way, biting on his lower lip.

It’s a lot to take in all at once, especially given how fast it was delivered. And Harry’s too exhausted from everything, too taken aback and too in love to see straight, so he can only shake his head a bit, smiling like honey because Louis said he loves him. Finally.

(Not that it matters how long it took, of course.) (Of course.)

“No, Louis…” he begins, helpless and happy and half-asleep. There are too many words, he doesn’t know where to begin. “I just wish you would’ve told me this from the start…  I want to hear this stuff, okay?” Louis nods, clearly still nervous as he bites his lips, expression pained. “But I’m not mad at all, I’m… Okay, I’m exhausted and can’t speak properly, but I understand.” He tries to be mature in his speech, tries to be cool despite the way he feels, wanting to procure up well-spoken sentences and sentiments. He’s got a notebook filled with over-zealous love poems, for the love of god. And they’re all for Louis. But, somehow, all that comes out is a doughy: “You told me you love me.” He smiles, trying not to simper.

“I do love you,” Louis insists immediately, the tension ebbing away as he smiles wide. More confident. “I know that I’m shit at being….communicative, or whatever. But I want you to visit me, I want you to be with me. I do. And I love you, Harry. I’m sorry I was freaked out but I just had to think a bit, I’m sorry.”

Harry just nods, understanding. It makes sense and it doesn’t change his love, not one bit. It’s almost sad even, issues brought to light that he’ll have to gently approach another day. But today is not that day—not when he’s a second’s away from falling asleep on his feet. “No, no. It’s fine. Like I said—please tell me next time. But for now, I just want you to know that I love you, too. I’m happy to meet your father and see your life. I love you a lot and it won’t change. And I want us to last.”

“I want us to last, too,” Louis mumbles against his lips, already going for a kiss. He’s relaxed again, soft like Harry loves him most. Quiet and bashful and sweet.

Complex things seem a little simpler when you’re in complete love, Harry thinks.

“Also,” Louis says somewhat shyly before he suddenly procures a small box from nowhere. He presents it to Harry, eyes lowered. Lashes kissing his skin. “I made you something.”

Surprised, Harry takes the small box, the weight familiar in his hands. He sniffs it; it smells like the bakery. “You made this?” he questions, just to be sure.

Louis nods proudly, smiling, nudging the glasses further up his face. He’s beautiful and timeless. “Yeah, of course. I can follow a recipe, come on now.”

Harry only smiles as he begins carefully lifting the lid off of the tiny package.

It’s not all that surprising when he finds one lone blueberry muffin inside, nestled around a strip of paper. Grinning full out, Harry pulls the paper up, holds it in the light.

“’You’re not like the others. I’ve seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon’,” he reads aloud, his heart seeping into the words. He’s never heard that before, has never read that quote ever. It hits him, just as quickly as Louis had hit him when they met.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               He drops his hand, looks to Louis with eyes that can’t stop smiling. “Louis…” he begins, low, lost, found.

But Louis just shakes his head, smiling as he fumbles for Harry’s hand. “I do love you,” he reassures, earnest and unsure. “I just need you to know. I’m not used to you, the kind of person you are. But I love that, love you, and I want to be with you. Sometimes I’ll fuck up or freak out but I want you and I love blueberry muffins, okay? I love them and I love your quotes and I love your brain—“

Harry cuts him off though, silencing him with a kiss that warms their mouths.

“I love you too, Louis,” he mumbles, still clutching the box in his hands, still repeating the words in his head. He loves Louis. Always will, he is sure. “’Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither should in despite of light keep us together,’” he says, throat thick.

“You and your bloody words,” Louis grins, blushing beautifully as he grips Harry all the tighter.

“Only for you, Louis,” he mumbles, clutching his boy to his chest.

He lives a lucky life, loves for all the soul of him. Loves Louis Tomlinson.

“All for you,” he sighs, and kisses Louis again.

~The End.