Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Alec_Cockett: 11 November 2022 💗

The best of birthday presents, the best of best friends, the best of forevers. 

Good God. 

Stab. Stab. Stab. 

Last night, as we got ready for my birthday dinner, my best friend in the world asked me to marry him. He promised to love me forever and I promised the same. I said yes.

Hmph. 

Bradley, I love you so much. Even on the days you make me crazy and piss me off. Even during the lowest of low points, when we can’t look at each other. I still like you then. It’s hard, but it’s you so it’s worth it. 

Fucking couples. Who let them be a thing?  

I’m so happy I didn’t end up with what I thought I wanted. I’m so happy it’s you. Love you, fiancé. 💗

Not that Harry spares it a great deal of attention- and not that he cares- but he has reason to believe Alec hid the post’s like count because that was by far the most underwhelming engagement announcement in the history of engagement announcements. 

It wasn’t a particularly well written caption (some may go so far as to call it cringey) and the pictures of the pair in front of the Cockett family’s outdated fireplace look tacky. They have stockings hung and garland roped over a shelf filled to the brim with holiday stitching's. A Christmas tree hovers in the image’s corner. Thanksgiving is still two weeks away. 

Anyway. Whatever. 

Stab. Stab. Stab. 

Extra tang flavors today’s teriyaki. The dish doesn’t have enough broccoli. Harry cuts again at the chicken, imagining the spear of his fork can shred each piece until it’s a pile of mush amid the rice and sparse vegetables. 

Stab. 

Stab, stab stab stab. Stab. 

It doesn’t matter. It really, really doesn’t matter. 

Harry is being foolish for wasting even a second of his precious break fretting over an engagement transpiring hundreds of miles away, in a town rift with forgotten memories. Harping on such trivial matters is fruitless. Lunch time is his golden hour; seconds of serenity that are impossible to come by during the work day. These stolen minutes belong to him. He literally owns the hour of noon o’clock. (Dear God. He meant twelve. Twelve o’clock. That’s the title that makes colloquial sense).  

((In Harry’s defense, he is tired. His brain cells went on hiatus at ten in the morning. They have yet to return. And, worst of all, he still has hours of work ahead of him. Hours . Only a few precious minutes remain in his allotted time to recharge. Any brain power wasted on irrelevant musings like noon o’clock or the sappy, underwhelming announcement of an engagement between a stranger and another stranger Harry used to know is a disservice to his exhausted mind. They don’t matter. Nothing matters)). 

Alec’s post doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to read the comments. He certainly doesn’t need to check Facebook for more insight into the wonderful news . He doesn’t. And so it is settled. Harry turns his screen face down and reaches for his fork. Perhaps he can- 

His traitorous, booming phone buzzes against the table just as Harry lifts a fork full of mutilated chicken.

Fucking. Hell.

The alluring smell of chicken taunts Harry’s stomach. Pulsating around his right temple becomes all the more poignant. Bleary eyes watch the black tabletop. His phone sounds like a buzzsaw against marble. It vibrates again and again. Harry merely watches. Teriyaki sauce drips off his fork. The buzzing ceases. 

Peace at last.

Is nothing sacred? First Harry makes the mistake of opening Instagram while waiting for his lunch and now someone has the audacity to interrupt Harry time? That is an act of war. He has spent the past four hours answering an endless stream of emails, handling phone calls and collaborating with coworkers to strategize an upcoming campaign for a fledgling mortgage company. Budgets and target audiences and KPI’s (Key Performance Indicators) were the topic of a two hour meeting. If Harry closes his eyes, he can still see the beginnings of a quantitative data set circling his lids. Today has been one long, exhausting week. Whatever that phone call was can wait.

Right now, he must practice the important act of staring blankly out the window, glancing around but not taking in the sights of crowds bustling past, wrapped in winter jackets and knee high boots. Sludge accumulated over the past week, growing larger with the freezing rain still pelting sidewalks. Wind has the precipitation blowing sideways. Harry stares. All that can exist in this world is himself and that’s how he prefers it. Truthfully, it is the only way he will survive the rest of the work day. He still has to lead a meeting on the Redfin project at 1:00. Answering that call would have proved detrimental to the entire company. 

Harry nods, satisfied with his ability to justify his actions. He eats a bite of rice and then chicken. The serenity returns. It is quiet and still and Harry is alone. It can still be a good lunch hour. All is well. All is okay. 

Naturally, that is when his phone buzzes again. 

Fucking damn it?

Harry slams his fork against the table harder than intended. A woman on the far opposite side turns his way with an unimpressed furrow of her bushy unibrow. Harry ignores her. Torn between annoyance and concern (calling during lunchtime? Rude, egregious behavior. Calling twice during lunchtime? Someone had better be dying or- fuck. Is someone dying?), Harry yanks his vibrating phone towards him. He counts down from three under his breath. 

When he turns it over, his childhood best friend’s smiling face greets him. Harry blinks.

Zayn is the one disturbing the peace? Zayn Malik? The only person in the world more likely than Harry to abandon society and live out the remainder of his days in isolation, with a tiny cabin in the woods and a cat or two or three? 

Fucking hell. Harry sighs as he slides his thumb over the answer key. “Hello?” 

“Harry!” Zayn’s tone, albeit being just a tad pitchy, a tad breathless, sounds upbeat enough that Harry can write off personal or family tragedy . “Hey. It’s been a while. How’re you?”

It’s only been, like, two weeks, Harry wants to retort. He picks up his fork and stabs aimlessly at his bowl. The lady on the other side turns back to her own meal with a frown. 

“I’m okay,” he says, fighting to keep his inflection from lifting on the last syllable. It’s a statement . Not a question. A statement. “Just getting some lunch. What about you?” 

“Oooo, watcha eating?” 

“This chicken teriyaki dish thing.” What do you want? “Um… it’s nice. This place is nice. And good. And quiet.”

The iron stiff collar of Harry’s button up suffocates him. His face feels hot. He pauses his chicken murder mission in favor of reaching for water. (It was a dumb mission anyway. The chicken is already dead. Harry is stupid).

((Harry is stupid and a terrible person. He’s on joke probation. Effective immediately)). 

“-Went for lunch at the pizzeria the other day,” Zayn is saying. “It hasn’t changed at all. Well, except for Anna moving away for college. Giuseppe’s apparently devastated, but Rosa wanted her to go. She said she’s down in Florida now and is loving it.” 

“Huh.” Harry takes another sip. There’s only twenty-five minutes left of his lunch break. This is a disaster. 

Today is a disaster. Harry never should have left his warm, comfy bed.

He never should have answered this call or opened Instagram. Perhaps getting rid of his phone altogether would solve every single one of his problems. Pull a Serena van der Woodsen in episode two, season one of the critically acclaimed, pop-culture phenom that is Gossip Girl and toss it in the nearest trashcan along the city streets as he traipaises down a self-indulgent, wallowing path. 

“-She’s studying business, if you can believe that. She’s probably gonna end up running the shop.” Zayn lets out a sigh. “But, yeah. I think she’ll be back for the holidays. We should stop by and say hi. Well, as long as Zach would be okay with that.” 

Harry’s heart lurches, despite having no permission from him to do so. “Why wouldn’t Zach be okay with that?” 

“Um… because Anna is his ex? You know how them kids are. They take all that stuff very seriously.” 

Wait. 

Wait. 

Huh? 

“Zach and Anna?” Harry shakes his head. “When did that… what?” 

Harry traces over the engraved inscription along the wooden window sill- Jenna <3’s Tommy - three times before Zayn answers. He sounds just as confused as Harry. “Since, like, two July’s ago? They were together for about a year? Anna only broke up with him because she was leaving.” 

“Oh. Right.” Harry bites back a plethora of poisonous, defensive justifications. A heavy layer of guilt builds in his chest, the way it does occasionally on cold Chicago nights when he’s alone in his too-big-for-one apartment and it hits him that he’s hundreds of miles from everyone he grew up with. Zayn included. 

Zachary included. 

“I’ll tell you everything when you get here.” Zayn still sounds cautious. Harry can’t tell if his stomach feels sour because of the chicken (not likely) or because Zayn mentioned his impending trip to fucking Chagrin Falls, Ohio (very likely) or because his childhood best friend- who Harry has seen once in the past six years- is suddenly promising to bring Harry up to date on Harry’s baby brother’s love life . (Very, very likely. It’s probably a bit of both).

Harry didn’t know Zachary had a girlfriend. He hardly knows anything about his life. Or Jessica’s. Or…

“And, um, speaking of your trip…” Harry wants to die. “When do you think you’re getting in?”

“It really just depends on when I can get off work, Z.” Harry has three weeks paid vacation. 

“Harry, you never take time off. You’re telling me they’re not even sure you can come home for the holidays? Are you serious?” 

“Even if I can get the time off-” Harry is working until the sixteenth of December. “-I still have things to do here. I can’t… I’ll do my best, but I just don’t know yet.” 

Harry reaches for his fork. The tangy sweetness doesn’t taste quite as delectable as he chews and chews. Sharp breaths sound over the line. Each one is laced with resentment and a gap, a space, that Harry hasn’t been able to fill in over half a decade. “Your mom isn’t going to like that. You promised.” 

“I still promise, Z. I just-” 

“Is this about Alec?” 

And. Fuck. 

There it is. 

Harry glares at his half eaten dish before shifting back in his chair. His long legs dangle just inches above the hardwood floors. On the other line, Zayn sighs. “That brooding silence tells me you’ve seen the news.” 

“I am not brooding.” Harry can’t wait to be back in his cubicle, and that alone is sick and twisted. “But, yeah. I saw Alec’s post. Good for him.” 

That same hesitant tone Harry despises returns. “Good for him,” Zayn agrees, “It wouldn’t really make sense for you to be brooding, you know? You’re the one that-” 

“I know.” 

God, Harry fucking knows. 

Sighing, he slips off his chair and begins picking up his lunch. After dropping his napkins in his bowl and glancing once at the briefcase he left hanging off his chair, Harry hurries to the tray return. Lit candles create an ambiance, a flicker of warmth, to counteract the endless gray that exists in this barren wind tunnel lovingly known as Chicago. Photographs of the city in all its seasons- including Harry’s personal favorite of flowers blooming in Millennium Park- promise brighter days ahead. Harry doesn’t pause to appreciate them, as he normally would. He deposits his tray and waves at his favorite worker before collecting his briefcase. 

All the while, Zayn’s breaths only grow louder. “If it helps…” Harry tucks his phone between his neck and shoulder as he tugs on his bulky winter coat. (Stupid wind tunnel). “The engagement caption was so cringey.” 

A shocked laugh bursts out of Harry. “Oh my god. I know.”

“It’s not surprising, though.” Harry passes the somewhat hidden building that is home to Richard Stromberg's photography classes. He smiles, perhaps forlorn, and if he were just a tad sappier, his fingers would reach to trace the small sign denoting the school’s existence. “They’re the absolute worst, H. Like… I get that couples are usually at least a little annoying as a default, but it’s like neither of them can have their own personality. Or even their own friends. Whenever they talk their pronouns are permanently plural. We think… or we decided that… or, sorry, I can’t eat that fucking piece of cake because fucking Bradley doesn’t like cake or… or whatever. I hate them. I wonder if they know you don’t have to give up your own identity to be in a relationship.” 

With lunch hour coming to an end, the bustle along the winter streets grows. Harry sidesteps two girls holding hands near the entrance to a Starbucks (speaking of annoying ass couples being annoying) and rolls his eyes. “God. I can’t wait to deal with that,” he mumbles. “I was already annoyed by the Instagram post. It’s like in one line… they’re best friends and soulmates and in the next they’re detailing the many trials and tribulations they’ve faced together. We get it. And I sure hope you like each other or get along or whatever. That’s why you’re getting married. I hate couples.” 

Zayn’s tea-kettle laugh wheezes over the line. “Same.” 

“I may end up flinging myself over the edge of the falls during my visit. Fair warning.” 

“H-”

“It’s bad enough that I’ll have my family breathing down my neck about my life choices… now I have to deal with the engagement of the century? This is going to be insufferable.” 

As Harry tugs his plaid scarf tighter around his neck, Zayn’s voice bleeds through the static, a mere hum out of sorts amongst the bustling Chicago streets. His words are tentative. “It might not be that bad.” 

“ Or it could be even worse than I expect it to be and I’ll be seeking out the cliff by, like, the second time a family member asks me about my dating life.”

“Harry-” 

“Bonus points if they do it after they not-so-subtly broach the topic of Alec’s marvelous, wonderful, loving engagement.” Little strips of ice linger in slick spots, glistening among the buildings surrounding Millennium Park (sometimes, Harry likens this stretch of the city to Olympus. White is all that catches the eye. Or, well, white skyscrapers surrounded by crowded crosswalks and cars determined to never follow a single traffic law ever and the collection of business signs, including one Starbucks logo per city block). Harry kicks at a gleaming pebble. “I’m sorry. I wish I could… if I could avoid all of it and just have you come to Chicago for the holidays, I would.” 

Zayn’s laugh is quiet. “But it’s been six years since you’ve seen your family. You can’t hide in Chicago forever.” 

Not for lack of trying, Harry thinks and a bitter discernment rises like bile in his throat. “Yeah, I… I know.” Though it’s not exactly his favorite place at any given moment, the sign welcoming Harry back to Kotler Emporium’s headquarters comes into view just in time. “Hey, not to cut our conversation short, but I just got back to work and I have, like, a million and one emails to sort through between now and five o’clock. I probably didn’t have enough time for a lunch break today, so. I’ll call you later?” 

A disgruntled grumble, words Harry isn’t so sure he wants to hear, cuts through. “‘Course H, I’ll talk to you soon.”

“No, yeah. Yeah. Definitely. Bye.” Harry pulls his phone away and ends the call. He doesn’t break from his brisk strides, not slowing as he jogs up the four stone steps, and tries to act like his heart isn’t currently being squeezed up his windpipe. He fishes out his ID card and swipes it. The automatic door slides open, inviting Harry back with a burst of warm air. 

He rides an empty elevator to the fifth floor. As the numbers on the screen guide him through the lonely journey, Harry mentally prepares himself for the coming hours. The coming meeting. The coming silence. 

The silence. 

A silence punctuated by thoughts of his most recent conversation with Zayn, the Instagram post that caught him off guard, the dread that’s intensified at the thought of the upcoming holiday season. 

In hindsight, perhaps he should have accepted his mother’s offer to come home for Thanksgiving. At least leaving after three days maximum would be easily justifiable. 

But now. Now he’s going to be stuck in his least favorite place for two weeks. Two miserable, long weeks spent with distant family members, in a town filled with ex-boyfriends and an unending loneliness.

Fuck. 

Harry lets out an audible sigh just as the elevator comes to a halt. (It’s a tad dramatic, maybe, but it’s also not because fuck). Out in the office, a sea of gray walls and gray carpet and gray cubicles stand in the most depressing wave of welcome the world has ever bared witness to. Typing rings through the air. 

Harry keeps his head bowed as he walks to the far right of the three rows and then returns to the cubicle nearest the window. His corkboard, filled with pictures of nights in Chicago with his friends, photos sent by his mom, and a drawing from his niece, Vivienne, breathes a sign of life that he wishes didn’t feel so bittersweet.

Following a (fourth) sigh, Harry returns to work, typing until his wrist aches and his head is pounding. He prepares notes for the Redfin meeting and loses himself in remnants and murmurs of the best forevers. Fulfilled promises and an impending, unavoidable trip to a land left behind; with its own heartbreaks and trepidations laid bare for the first time in six impossible years. 

*****

Every inch of Harry feels heavy, drained, weighed down, when he slumps into his apartment some seven hours later. His body- still sore from his workout- seems to drag as he tosses his gym bag and briefcase to the side. Yawning, he strips off his jacket and then shrugs off the button-up he threw on while rushing around this morning. The tank-top he wore at the gym remains all but glued to his skin.

“Hi Belinda,” Harry calls to his betta fish. She languishes near the top of her forty-gallon tank. Eyeing the rainy, closeup portrait of the Bean- or Cloud Gate, if one is feeling pretentious enough- hanging above her, Harry kicks off his shoes and hides his yawn behind his hand. His eyes flicker again to the picture of the cliché subject. Still, Harry will forever remain entranced by the photographer’s decision to zoom in on a landmark hailed for its reflective properties until only vague outlines of skyscrapers were visible in the mirror. There’s a stunning melancholic aura that brings the perspective to life. Harry loves it. 

He also needs to feed his fish.

(He needs to feed himself . Fuck. He forgot to put his roast in the crockpot this morning. He was too busy trying to leave on time). 

An hour later, Harry is showered and bundled in a too-big sweater. His Fleetwood Mac vinyl spins its way through The Chain’s melody . His dinner dishes are washed and Belinda is fed and finally, finally, finally, he can collapse on his couch with no intention of moving ever again. 

Harry flicks on the television and pays half attention to the news as his phone rings with a call from his mother. He ignores it. (Not today, not today, not today…). Rowan’s voice laments the cold front expected to hit Illinois in the coming days, and Harry cuddles further under his throw. He tries to pretend his phone isn’t burning a hole in his skin, its fire seeping below his blanket and his sweatpants and his skin. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He already fumbled through the necessary awkward conversation with Zayn. He caught Liam up on the misfortune of the engagement while they were doing their pre-workout stretches. Isn’t that enough for one day? It has to be enough for one day.

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it can’t be. Very probably, he owes his mother a call and his family a confirmation of his holiday plans, which he figured out for himself last Thursday ( Two weeks at home. Eighteen days. 432 hours. 25,920 minutes. 1,555,200 seconds). 

((Fuck. Eighteen days is technically closer to three weeks, isn’t it?  Does he need to redo the math all over again? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck)). 

Perhaps uselessly, Harry wonders if he can feign his car breaking down on the day he’s set to make the journey back to Ohio. Probably not. At that point, his mother would drive out to Illinois herself. Even if it took a dog sled to get him through Indiana and the greater parts of Toledo; through the wasteland of cornfields and billboards that stand in the space between Sandusky and Cleveland. 

He is stuck. Trapped. A prisoner to holiday plans and unwanted reunions. 

Yawning, Harry reaches for his phone and- careful to avoid the trenches (aka, Instagram and its ugly twin sister, Facebook), he clicks onto, hopeful that his timeline will be filled with his Chicago friends and enough strangers that the words engagement or Alec or Ohio will not appear. He smiles at tweets from Liam detailing the dread of his upcoming workout (followed by him tweeting a few of Harry’s best quips). He retweets a recollection of one of his finer proclamations- ”if i don’t feel like a new person within 2 minutes of this workout, I’m never coming back”- because he is hilarious and real, thank you. 

Tweets from his college friends make him smile and he laughs openly at a viral proclamation that reads “ never really understood why a bad bitch like miss piggy threw herself at that goofy green frog but there is something about a skinny musician that makes women lose their better judgment” (Relatable, innovative) and it’s all okay. Twitter is his reprieve. It differs in every way that matters from the picture perfect lives enshrined on Instagram, the elderly family members with harrowing political opinions to voice on Facebook, the… whatever the fuck purpose TikTok is supposed to serve. 

Twitter is home. Twitter is good. Twitter is his escape. 

He’s just contemplating DMing a friend from his college marketing program when a tweet from a somewhat familiar name catches his eye.

lewis tom @ommotuol 

chicago friends! this is my formal application to be one of y’all’s fake boyfriend this fine holiday season x) 

you feed me, i keep you company and make you giggle with my glimmering, twinkling personality <3 

bonus points if it’s a long gig! 

Attached is a poster. 

RENT A BOYFRIEND!

* The December Holiday Packages *

“Let’s Go For a Sleighride!” Package ($125 + travel costs/lodging + 3 meals per day)

* 1-3 days (includes Christmas)

* Maximum distance traveled: Anywhere in Illinois  and/or northern Indiana  

* Will hold your hand at the dinner table + wear matching ugly Christmas pajamas 

* A conspiracy topic of my choosing will be formally addressed (non stop) throughout the day(s) we are visiting your family (past choice conspiracy theories include: the moon doesn’t exist, banjos aren’t real, and the world is controlled by a human-sized rabbit smoking a pipe). ((the rabbit is fr. it makes sense. think about it)).

“It’s a Swell Time to Rock the Night Away!” Package ($250 + travel costs/lodging + 3 meals a day) 

* 4-7 days (includes Christmas and New Years(?))

* Maximum distance traveled: Anywhere in the Great Lakes Region/Midwest (travel costs covered by customer) 

* Will provide an elaborate backstory on how you saved me from being hit by a car/train/collapsing building when we first met to tug on the heart strings :-)  

* Will buy you a heartfelt present to open on Christmas morning (+$20 upcharge)

* A conspiracy topic of my choosing will be addressed twice during our visit (see above for past choice conspiracy theories) 

“All I Want for Christmas is You!” Package ($500 + travel costs/lodging + 3 meals a day)

* 2 to 3 weeks (includes Christmas and New Years) 

* Willing to travel anywhere in the US (travel costs covered by customer), bonus points if it’s somewhere warm

* Will do all I can to make your family worship me (help clean up + offer to buy breakfast + won’t even debate politics with your far right, antifa uncle!) and I’ll let you drag my name through the mud when we inevitably break up (sad tear) 

* Will tell you I love you in front of your entire family 

* No conspiracy theories will be mentioned (I’ll try my best)

DM ME AT: ommotuol for more information!! 

***Serious inquiries only***

*****

The idea is ridiculous. 

Like. 

It is absolutely ridiculous. It makes no sense. It is laughable . 

Paying money so Harry can bring a stranger home to meet his entire family ? Spending upwards of 500 dollars so he can fool the woman who birthed him into thinking he is in a happy, committed relationship? So no one sends him the dreaded side-long glances anytime Alec’s name is mentioned? So Alec has no room for snide remarks or smug undertones? So he has a companion, a go-to person, to help him survive the tumultuous, unending, lonely eighteen days spent entertaining childhood ghosts? 

It is ridiculous. Senseless. Laughable. 

The idea is positively laughable. 

Harry wasted his time by spending any longer than a few minutes reading over the “packages.” 

He was foolish to save the flier to his phone, to let himself entertain the thought, even if only because it was so absurd, so strange. 

Surely Lewis Tom (Louis Tomlinson) has to know it is absurd. Surely he is kidding. Surely the offer itself was a joke. 

Rent a boyfriend? Who even does that? 

It was a joke. The entire Tweet and subsequent flier were a joke and Harry is an idiot. 

He was an idiot. It was a joke. Moving on. 

Moving on. 

While blending his protein shake the following morning, Harry sends the picture to Liam with a simple someone from college tweeted this last night. isn’t the idea funny? imagine! 

He’s bundling up in his ridiculous puffy jacket (damn the wind advisory) when his phone buzzes. 

Liam Payne: HAHAHAHA I LOVE IT 

Liam Payne: Which package are you gonna apply for ;) 

Harry frowns at his screen for so long that he moves from running early to a mere on-time. 

(Which, to be fair, still means he’ll be the first one at the office). 

“Bye Belinda!” Harry calls, shrugging his freshly packed gym bag over his shoulders. “Be a good fish! Or else!” 

The silent floor, a staple in the early mornings, matches the dimly lit hallway’s aura.  Two doors stand tall on either side. The complex itself is renowned for its privacy. Only one other person lives on Harry’s floor, and he has run into Ms. Diane exactly six times in the past year. Most mornings, the gray walls and the sporadically placed, grayscale artwork passes in a blur. He only notices the runner lining the hardwood floors when he trips over snags. On the far right wall, a sliding door opens to an outdoor patio. Stairs wait on the right side, leading to street level. A long, rectangular fountain stretches along the entire left side of the complex’s park, flanked by urban trails and a swing set. On warm summer days, Harry likes to curl up near the fountain with a book and waste entire afternoons away. 

He can’t quite do that now. It’s November. In Chicago. 

Before stepping out into the cold, already wincing in anticipation at the knives wielded by the wind, Harry drops his bag and unlocks his phone. 

Harry: … none? i just thought it was funny? and interesting? it’s probably a joke, anyway. 

Liam Payne: But what if it isn’t? 

Harry: then it’s still WEIRD. paying someone to pretend to be my boyfriend??? for two weeks????

Liam Payne: Ahhhhhhhhh the All I Want For Christmas Package??? GREAT CHOICE! Omg you’d get a complimentary Christmas present? And no political debates? This is an all around W!

Liam Payne: Is the fake boyfriend cute?  

Harry: liam. 

Harry: i am not that desperate 

Liam Payne: Harry. You’re going home for the first time in 6 years and you’ll be spending time with your newly engaged ex-boyfriend. If there is ANYONE who is “that desperate” it is you. 

Liam Payne: Besides, you sent it to me because you’re interested but don’t want to admit that you’re interested. I know how ur brain works. I literally have an MA in psychology, bitch. 

Harry: :( i hate when u psychoanalyze me 

Harry: i have to go to work. 

Liam Payne: Just think about it 

Harry: it’s a no. i am not going to think about it. 

*****

Harry does, in fact, think about it. 

Probably too much. 

Which is ridiculous, but. He can’t be blamed. Emails are long and tedious and too easy to answer. The cluster analysis for the Redfin Project he spends an hour coding fails to coax his drifting mind into any semblance of focus. Google Analytics can hardly keep his attention on a normal day. And now? Now, Liam’s texts are blurring with Louis’ self-assuredness, his obvious sense of humor, his I will tell you I love you in front of your entire family and his promise to buy a heartfelt gift and his… 

The bright smile Harry remembers, albeit the memories being hazy. Louis Tomlinson was nothing more than a college acquaintance. He studied… communications? Maybe theater? Something creative and fun and very him. They were in a few classes together and Louis seemed to carry his own personal ray of sunshine in the back pocket of his thin, worn jeans. He was loud, but not in an obnoxious way. His contributions in class were equal parts insightful and hilarious. His classmates adored him. Professors loved him. He had an easy-going nature Harry couldn’t help but envy, even if they only spoke in passing and never made any attempt at conversation beyond Hi’s! and Have you started the project yet? and Louis following him late one night on Twitter in the midst of finals week. 

Harry didn’t know Louis stayed in the city post-graduation. He doesn’t know where he works. He doesn’t… what is he even thinking? 

This is ridiculous. 

Harry is an adult. He is… he works a stable job. He has friends and a gym membership and a fish living her best life in an apartment he affords all by himself. He graduated from the University of Chicago’s Business College with honors. He has a Master’s Degree. If he sticks with it, his position at Kotler Emporium will keep him in comfort for the rest of his days. He’ll stay in this city he moved to by chance and has grown to adore. 

He’s content. He doesn’t wallow in regret. 

He doesn’t want to go home because everyone in Ohio is convinced he’ll never find happiness in the post-Alec chapters of his life. 

God. 

I’ll even let you drag my name through the mud when we inevitably break up. 

As his fingertips rush across the keyboard, quick and familiar and thoughtless, a blur forms along the bottom of his vision. His eyes burn. He screws them shut, desperate to sharpen his focus and slow his rabbiting heart. Two cubicles to the left, he hears a whisper of something akin to laughter. Pictures of his family thumbtacked to his overfilled corkboard mock him- their smiling faces asking are you sure you made the right choice? Is this really what you want? You’re making a mistake over and over- and the sight of his niece feels all the more shaming. The cool, hard leather chair offers his aching back no comfort. His cheeks burn, even as he shivers. The air is too still. It’s a normal, quiet, tedious workday and no one is paying attention.

Exactly no one notices when Harry leans away from his desktop and reaches for his phone. 

He can’t actually be doing this. He… surely someone is going to stop him from doing this. 

The Twitter app, positioned proudly in the middle of the second row on his long list of apps, opens with one swipe of his thumb. His timeline replaces a picture he took at Navy Pier in October. 

This is insane. Someone is going to stop by his cubicle and demand to know what he’s doing and Harry will have to admit that he’s about to DM a near-stranger and ask him to be his fake boyfriend because he doesn’t want to go home alone and then that someone is going to remind him that that is an insane, stupid, senseless idea and Harry will agree and close the Twitter app and then maybe delete it and he’ll go about his day and forget about the flier altogether (except for when he goes to his camera roll) and it will be fine when he goes to Ohio and- 

Louis and he have never DMed before. Which makes sense. They aren’t friends. They- 

Fuck. 

What is Harry doing? What would he even say ? How does one ask someone to be their fake boyfriend? How- 

“Styles!” Harry nearly throws his phone, swearing under his breath in a blind panic as he stuffs it under his right leg and then shakes his mouse. The screen comes back to life. A white light reappears, bringing with it endless numbers and links and an overwhelming to-do list just as Trevor Wilson joins him. His boss folds his arms over his chest and leans against the thin wall. His arm brushes Harry’s corkboard, knocking Vivienne’s drawing askew.  “How is everything going today?”

Harry shrugs. He twists in his swivel chair. “It’s going well! I’ve nearly finished entering the- ” 

“Excellent, excellent.” His boss’ gray suit jacket crinkles when he reaches to push his thick, square glasses up his nose. “So, Beverly is home sick today.” 

Fucking damn it. 

“Oh?” 

“Yes, poor thing has the flu. Or something.” Fucking, fucking, fucking damn it. Harry’s phone buzzes against his thigh. “So… as you can imagine, we are finding ourselves in a bit of a pinch. She was supposed to finish three different analyses and an ROI today alone. And who knows how long she will be out…” 

Fucking damn it. Fucking damn it. Fucking damn it. “Oh.” Harry would love to look at the man standing before him, him and his sallow skin and empty eyes, and make a snide comment like good luck with that but, alas, if he stays late he’ll be paid overtime and it’s almost the holidays and fuck. “I can take over a few of her reports. To help out. It’s no trouble.” 

“Ah! Wonderful!” Trevor’s eyes brighten in elation. (It’s feigned. They both knew the answer long before he stepped into this cubicle). He runs a hand over his balding head. “I will send you the ROI she started for that new company, as well as the report information. It will all be forwarded to you momentarily! Feel-” 

Harry frowns. “Wait, everything? I-” 

“Is that a problem?” 

A quiet sigh rests on the tip of Harry’s tongue. His eyes dart to the ugly carpet. Endless protests build and build and build and he will never say a word, but his boss seems to hear each one anyway.

“Styles, do you not want what is best for the clientele of Kotler Emporium?” The elation fades. Trevor rolls his eyes. “Success in this work comes only with effort and a willingness to do what is needed for the sake of the business. If you want to move up in ranks, sometimes you will have to stay late. It is what it is.” 

For just a moment, Harry is so tempted to ask Trevor when he last stayed past his scheduled hours. 

Instead, he makes a mental note to tell Liam he won’t be able to meet him at the gym. “Right, yes, of course.” Harry curves his lips up, in an expression he hopes can be passed off as a smile. “I’ll take my lunch soon, then, and get right to work on everything.” 

“Perfect! Thank you!” 

“Yep.” 

Trevor walks away and Harry imagines, just for a moment, that his cool, annoyed gaze is enough to send fifty million tiny daggers at his boss’ back. Surely at least one of them would pierce through the suit jacket’s gray fabric. Perhaps another could make it all the way to his backside and prove, once and for all, that it’s not flesh under the three-piece suit. Trevor is a robot. If anything, a dagger would cut through wire. Harry is convinced. Liam is, too, after listening to Harry’s theories over coffee one too many times. 

Fuck. 

With a quiet yawn, Harry glares at his computer like it is responsible for this turn of events. Again, his eyes start to blur. He refocuses as best he can to finish his analysis. He still has a measurement plan to produce and emails to answer and a campaign analysis for Redfin to finish. And then Bev’s. And then he’ll need to run functions for her analytics and doing three of those will surely take an additional hour at least. 

Harry could be here until well after eight tonight. He might have to take a dinner break too. 

Fucking hell. 

Twenty minutes later, Harry is emailing a copy of his report to his team and the executives at Redfin and then he powers down his computer, blinking slowly. (Perhaps he should take Liam’s advice, after all, and look into glasses with the lenses that protect one’s eyes from straining while staring at a screen. And a wrist brace, because he’s fairly certain that the way his aches after a long day of typing isn’t an omen of good things to come). The chair squeaks under his weight. He pushes away from his desk with a quiet yawn. 

Standing, Harry stretches his arms over his head and arches his back. His sweater rides high, gliding over his abs. Chilled air stabs at his skin. Finally, a welcomed crack loosens the tension, ringing up to his shoulders, and Harry’s hands fall back to his side. He reaches again for his jacket and his hat and is contemplating whether he wants to bring his briefcase or just take his wallet when he spots his phone still on the swivel chair. 

“Oops,” he mumbles. He stuffs it in the pocket of his tan corduroys, grabs his wallet and gloves, and then follows the well-practiced path through the office. A few cubicles are already empty. He spots Cal typing furiously, muttering to himself as an untouched Tupperware bowl of spaghetti waits beside him. From the cubicle nearest the elevator, Jason smiles at Harry, miming the slitting of his throat before going to undo the buttons on his jacket. Harry giggles. 

The elevator is mercifully empty. Harry leans against the back wall, gently rapping his head against the wood.  

Fuck. 

Glistening marble floors reflect light pouring in from the large windows along the lobby’s front wall, positioned beside the sliding door and across from the circular front desk. Miranda, the usual week-day secretary, waves. Despite not being in the mood for pleasantries, Harry asks how she’s doing. He artfully skirts around answering the question. 

“See you in an hour,” he jokes, eyeing the slush outside with pursed lips. Miranda gives a sympathetic laugh that, despite everything, makes Harry smile, too. 

*****

For lunch, Harry stops at his favorite café a block over from work. His request for a veggie sub and smoothie (though, this time, he opts to treat himself with a strawberry-banana rather than kale) is entered into the system before he’s stepped up to the counter. Kiara winks and offers the employee discount. (In a moment of weakness, Harry almost begins to cry. He has to bite back a plea for the café to hire him). 

He pays and then heads to his favorite booth in the back right corner. Along the wall, stunning shots of the city create a collage filled with Chicago wonders. Millennium Park. Navy Pier. The view from above Sears Tower (forever Sears Tower. Never Willis) . Shots out on the boats, rocking gently over Lake Michigan. Wrigley Field and Skydeck and Garfield Park Conservatory. Harry could study each and every image for hours, taking in details and the techniques he studies in his free time, on the nights he has enough energy for more than binging bad Netflix shows. 

Harry drops his mittens on the rectangular, four top table before sliding onto the silver cushion. He pulls out his phone and is going to set it in front of him when a notification catches his eye.

Twitter: lewis tom @ommotuol has sent you a direct message. 

Harry’s stomach lurches. 

What?  

What. What. What the fuck. What. What. What. 

“What the fuck?” Harry mutters, earning a glance from a fellow customer situated a few tables over. He hardly notices. He doesn’t. What? 

What even is his life? What is today? He managed an hour without thinking about Louis or his stupid flier and now this? What? 

“Harry!” Kiara calls, setting a red basket with his sub on the counter. Another worker follows with his smoothie. 

Give me a minute, he wants to yell. We are having a crisis. 

Instead, Harry smiles in thanks- even though Kiara and her coworker have already turned to prepare another order- and drags his sleek suedes across the tiled floor. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket and grabs the basket and smoothie with shaking hands. 

Fucking hell. 

Once he has his straw and sauces and napkins, Harry collapses back at his seat. He pushes his food away. 

With unsteady hands, Harry looks again at his lockscreen. His heart stutters somewhere in his gut.  

Twitter: 

lewis tom @ommotuol has sent you a direct message. 

helogogjs good gksdjid to you, too :-) 

And. What? 

Miraculously, Harry is no less confused now. With furrowed brows, he clicks on the notification. 

And then his insides disintegrate. He blanches, eyeing the window with a sudden vested interest. Letting his body splatter against the dirty, frozen, slush-filled Chicago sidewalk may be his only reprieve, because fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell, he accidentally messaged Louis Tomlinson. He messaged Louis Tomlinson, earlier when he was sitting on his phone. He must have… did he forget to lock his screen? He did. He panicked and didn’t pay enough attention and fuck. Oh god. 

Harry ass-messaged Louis Tomlinson. 

He ass-messaged Louis Tomlinson. 

Today is showing an unparalleled, innovative aptitude for getting increasingly worse . 

With flushed cheeks and a pounding heart, Harry begins typing. 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

oh my god. hi. i am so, so, so sorry. that was an accident. i am so sorry for bothering you. sorry!!!!!!

For lack of anything better to do, Harry sets his phone face down on the table. He glares at his sub and his smoothie because how dare they expect him to be able to consume anything right now? 

Maybe leaving Chicago in December isn’t a bad idea. Except Ohio may not be far enough. 

He’s heard Australia is nice this time of year. 

His phone buzzes and Harry is going to vomit. 

lewis tom @ommotuol

ahhahahaha an accident? i never woulda guessed! helogogjs good gksdjid is how i begin all my conversations x) 

lewis tom @ommotuol

but you’re not bothering me! don’t worry about it! i hope post-college life is treating you well 

Despite his flushed cheeks, Harry finds himself biting back a smile. The heavy anxiety in his chest loosens into something a little more manageable. 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

about as well as one can expect! thank you for not making fun of me too much. i hope you’re doing good, too! 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

well…………….… full disclosure: i showed that message to all my coworkers and we’ve been laughing hysterically for over an hour. :( sorry! 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

ALL OF THEM??? 

lewis tom @ommotuol

…… sorry :( 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

ugh. it’s deserved, i suppose. it was nice to hear from you  

lewis tom @ommotuol

you too! even if accidentally x) helogogjs good gksdjid!!!! take care! 

Perfect. A normal end to an otherwise abnormal conversation. Harry is in the clear. He is good. He saved himself too much embarrassment and caught up with an old acquaintance in a normal, painless fashion. 

He’s good. It’s good. 

After shooting off a text to Liam letting him know that he won’t be available for their typical workout, Harry sets his phone down and reaches for his smoothie. He’s twenty minutes into his hour lunch break and has yet to consume anything. But it’s okay. Everything is good. Good and fine. Fine and good. He is off the hook and good to go about his day and- 

His phone buzzes and, in a traitorous fashion, his stomach flips. 

Liam Payne: That sucks, dude :( do you need me to bring you dinner? 

Harry: nah, don’t worry about it! don’t skip arm day <3 

Liam Payne: I WOULD NEVER 

I talked to Louis, he almost sends, but reframes because he knows Liam will blow up his phone with questions of their conversation and if Harry asked about the whole fake boyfriend thing. Harry would again have to preface his response by saying he isn’t interested in the offer. Like. At all. 

Besides, even if he were interested, how would he go about asking? How does one write that sort of message? 

As he bites off a piece of his sub, Harry opens his notes app and starts a new page. 

HOW TO ASK SOMEONE TO BE YOUR FAKE BOYFRIEND 

so, i uhflasflasjflsjdfas how the fuck would i even do this??? what do i even say to him???????? what if he WAS joking and i am an idiot and he laughs at me again. what if this is a really, really, really bad idea? this is such a bad idea

BUT- if i WERE to hypothetically ask louis to be my fake boyfriend the message would be something like: 

hey ! no, is hi better? hello is too formal. yeah i like hi 

OKAY 

hi again! so, i wanted to apologize again for the whole “helogogjs good gksdjid” thing, and also say that i don’t know if this is weird or not (it’s definitely weird, harry) that i didn’t just, like, accidentally open to your messages when i wasn’t paying attention. i sort of had a question about a tweet you posted yesterday? like. the whole “rent a boyfriend” thing? is that something you were, like, serious about? and if so, how does one come to hire you to be their boyfriend? i’m, um, asking for a friend 

Harry thumbs over the notes app and nibbles at his (soggy-ing? Is that a word? Is there a word for something that is in the process of being sogg-ified?) sub. He reads the words over and gives a small nod. It sounds okay. It’s not too desperate. If needed, Harry could play it off as a joke, an “I was just curious, ha!” He could get away with never talking to Louis again, even without moving to Australia. 

Feasibly, he could send this message. It would be a very low-risk scenario. 

Maybe… maybe he should just do it? Really it will take, what, four clicks? Harry needs to delete his notes to himself, do some editing, and then copy the text. Then, he’ll click out of the notes app, go back to Twitter, find Louis’ messages, and click paste. 

He can click on the blue send button and this predicament won’t be his anymore. 

(Or, well, it won’t be his problem unless Louis responds. Then it will be back to the notes app and the planning will begin once again). 

((Actually, who says he has to respond ? If he doesn’t like Louis’ answer, he doesn’t have to say anything at all. This can be an incredibly low-risk scenario)). 

Sighing, Harry sets his phone down again and focuses on lunch. As always, he passes the time by watching the world. Stragglers and city-dwellers hurry across the wide sidewalks, most equipped with bags or briefcases. Some are slower, careful to avoid the ice. One woman in a long, gray petticoat and high heels is talking on her phone. Each step she takes is calculated. It’s an impressive feat, Harry decides, watching her balance a conversation and the bag on her opposite shoulder, while maneuvering the city street’s unpredictability. 

Once his smoothie is half finished and his basket empty, Harry cleans his mess and rejoins fellow city-dwellers. He still has twenty minutes left of his break, but. If going back early means he gets to leave early, he’ll take it.  

He steps back into the familiar lobby, shaking his shoes off on the rug, and exchanges a small, tired smile with Miranda. In the elevator, he retucks his gloves in his pocket and brings out his phone and makes the executive to not think about a single thing as he follows his carefully crafted plan. 

Edit note. Copy note. Close notes app. Go to twitter. Open Louis Tomlinson’s messages. Paste note. Send.  

And then he promptly powers off his phone and goes back to work. 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

hi again! so, i wanted to apologize one more time for the whole “helogogjs good gksdjid” thing, and also say that i didn’t just accidentally open your DM’s when i wasn’t paying attention earlier. i sort of had a question about a tweet you posted yesterday? like. the whole “rent a boyfriend” thing? is that something you were serious about? and if so, how does one come to hire you to be their boyfriend? i’m, um, asking for a friend 

***** 

Harry works through dinner. Doing so wasn’t a conscious decision. Knots in his stomach, and loud grumbles that reverberate in the empty office, lament it again and again. His temples pulsate. He feels lightheaded as he submits a lengthy Report on Investment (ROI) and, with a loud yawn, collapses back against his chair. He rubs his eyes and contemplates falling the his floor and taking a nap. Maybe sleeping here wouldn’t be the worst case scenario. 

Three analytics remain on his to-do list. This step is, at least, merely inserting basic numbers into the program and letting his computer do its magic. Completing all three will take the better part of the hour, but the hardest part is over. At least the finish line is on the horizon and it’s not even seven yet. Theoretically, he could leave the office before eight. 

Paradise is getting closer. 

Yawning again, Harry opens another server and goes into auto-pilot mode as he inserts numbers. The column is filled in mere minutes. While his computer begins coding, he rubs his bleary eyes and then heads over to the Keurig. The one benefit of being here later than anyone else is not waiting for coffee. He doesn’t have to make small talk. He could even, hypothetically, play music on his phone, if he so desired. It could ring through the building. He- 

Fuck. His phone. It’s still in his pocket, still powered off, still- 

Oh god. 

With a new surge of energy that has little to do with the brewing coffee, Harry powers his phone on. The Keurig lets out a high-pitched squealing noise as the last dredges fill Harry’s mug. The strong smell perks him up, calming the worst of his nerves. Once the Apple logo appears on the screen, he stuffs it back in his pocket and does his best to ignore the incessant buzzing. 

Careful to maintain the calm façade, Harry lifts his full mug onto the tiny counter and dumps in a generous amount of caramel creamer. His hand shakes with each stir. Within a few seconds, the coffee is the desired light brown color. Harry takes a satisfied sip and returns to his desk. He begins typing out notes on his first analytic and absolutely does not look at his phone. At all. He doesn’t even think about looking at his phone. Who even needs a phone? 

His stomach rumbles. He enters a few more notations on the below-average trends and stifles a yawn.

What are his dinner choices for the evening? He could cook, probably. Pasta or grilled cheese and soup. There are a smattering of takeout places on the way home, too, if he is feeling particularly exhausted. But grilled cheese sounds wonderful. Maybe- 

Fuck. Harry takes out his phone and (because he is a very mature and rational adult with an adult job and adult friends and his own apartment) closes one eye as he holds his screen an arms length from his face and surveys the trepid, dangerous lock screen. 

Three texts from Liam await him. Two missed calls from his mother. Zayn sent a message, too. Trevor reminded him to log his overtime hours (like Harry would forget). There are email confirmations from the measurement plan he completed a few hours ago and Facebook notifications and Instagram and- 

Three Twitter messages from Louis Tomlinson. 

“Fuck,” Harry mutters and there’s no one to reprimand him and there’s no one here to bare witness and so- continuing his streak of being a rational, mature adult- he lets out a loud shriek into the crook of his elbow. 

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. 

Fuck. 

Keeping one eye closed, Harry opens the DM’s. 

lewis tom @ommotuol

that’s three questions x) 

lewis tom @ommotuol

BUT i am glad you asked, haha. so my flier is very, very, EXTREMELY serious and i have already received a few inquiries. the fake boyfriend business is BOOMING this holiday season. if only i could clone myself. i would be so rich. le sigh. 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

that being said… if you are in charge of vetting your “friends” potential fake boyfriend, i’d love to get lunch or dinner sometime this week? we could talk about my INCREDIBLE boyfriend-ifications and why i am absolutely the fake partner your “friend” should go with. i have quite the pitch. it includes a powerpoint. just let me know :-)  

And. And. And. 

Before Harry’s finished reading the third message, the slightest smile blooms. It’s the first sapling to escape the clutches of the winter. It’s easy and a little endeared. That fire in Harry’s chest- equal parts anxious and trepid- flickers, then smolders into something homey. His thumbs pad over the keyboard without a second thought.   

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

lunch or dinner sounds really nice :) my vetting process is quite cut-throat, you should know. my friend only accepts fake boyfriends of the highest quality 

So. 

He’s doing this, then. Harry begins inserting numbers for the second cluster and he’s paying attention- he is- but his eyes flicker again and again to the upward facing screen. 

When it flashes, Harry abandons his work. 

lewis tom @ommotuol

oh of COURSE! absolutely! this is the most serious of matters and i will respect the process. i run a very professional business, styles 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

are you more of a lunch-date truther or a dinner-date enthusiast? 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

ooooo i am partial to dinner-dates myself. it’s easier with my schedule 

lewis tom @ommotuol

SAME. omg we have so much in common already 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

your friend should be delighted x) i’m definitely free tomorrow evening? and then sunday and tuesday? 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE 

tuesday would work for me! 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

tuesday it is :)

Harry only remembers to put his phone down ten minutes later, after they’ve agreed to a location for their dinner in five days, and he hurries to jot down his analysis of the second report. 

The conversation puts him behind schedule. He doesn’t leave the office until 8:11. 

A smile keeps him warm on his sleep soft stroll through the city. 

*****

Another late workday bleeds into a Saturday morning that begins with Harry curled up, alone, on his couch. He burrows under four different quilts (a move that wouldn’t be necessary if he opted to wear anything more than his boxers) and watches reruns of Friends for hours. 

His body feels weighed down by individual twenty-pound cinder blocks crushing every single one of his joints. 

The constant buzzing of his phone adds another dull ache.  

On his way to Navy Pier that afternoon, his camera bag tucked to his hip, the strap of his Nikon around his neck, Harry chances a glance at his screen and manages only a sigh. 

Mom: Hi, darling! Are you sure you can’t come home for Thanksgiving? 

Mom: I know you have to work, but there’s no chance of getting your schedule changed? 

Mom: If not, don’t worry about it! We just miss you. Jessica was saying yesterday that she wouldn’t even recognize you in a crowd anymore, haha! Excited to see you at Christmas, sweetheart! 

Harry shuffles until his hip catches on the railing. An impossible mix of disdain, and perhaps guilt, lingers. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket and snaps shots of the Riverwalk from his spot on the covered bridge, but not even the beloved shutter sound can drown out the silence. 

Thanksgiving is now less than two weeks away. Harry told his parents months ago that leaving the city at the end of November would make Christmas in Ohio impossible. It’s not a lie. Harry will work Thanksgiving morning and then he’ll go to his apartment and nap and- just as he’s spent most holidays for the past six years- he’ll be alone and content. 

Jessica was saying yesterday that she wouldn’t even recognize you in a crowd anymore.

God. 

God.  

Harry’s thumb presses down on the button until it is numb and the shutter sounds meld together. 

The shots come out blurry. 

*****

Harry doesn’t tell Liam about his dinner with Louis. 

There are at least twenty reasons he keeps his best friend out of the loop. The first being Liam’s inevitable teasing. The second being Liam’s tendency to make mountains out of molehills. The third being the need for Harry to, at least for now, keep something like this to himself.

Safe Dating 101 mandates keeping a close friend informed of one’s whereabouts at all times, but. This isn’t really a first date. It’s more like a business meeting. Louis and Harry aren’t getting dinner purely for pleasure. They’re exploring the possibility of working together. A job arrangement. A professional agreement with a monetary exchange involved. Louis has a flier . And other potential fake suitors. Which means this might be the first and only time Harry sees Louis post-graduation. 

Anyway. This isn’t a date and Louis is hardly a complete stranger, so. Unless he picked up serial killing as a hobby sometime between his acting classes and marketing exams, Harry isn’t exactly concerned for his safety. Which means he doesn’t need to tell Liam where he’s going. Which means it can remain his little secret and not a big deal. At all. 

On Tuesday morning, at five o’clock on the dot, the dreaded Radar arm blares through the dark room. Harry allows himself exactly ten seconds of groaning loudly into his pillow (much to Belinda’s chagrin, he’s sure) before pushing his duvet off his warm, tired, heavy body. The air is still. Creaks from the floorboards sound and it feels, in that moment, like any disturbance to the quiet should be made punishable by law. Hiding a yawn behind his palm, Harry saunters into the bathroom. He allows himself five minutes of staring blankly into the mirror before stumbling into the shower. Hot water sprays out on the highest setting. 

When he steps out, his skin is pruney and his eyes look no less haunted by early morning scars. 

(Truth be told… he does have five unused sick days remaining for the year. Surely being sleepy is a good enough justification for staying home).  

(( But what if he gets the flu sometime between now and the second week of December? What if he suffers from a cold that tries to kill him? It is winter. Anything could happen. He must remain vigilant)). 

(((But… sleep))). 

Harry yawns once more as he rubs his moisturizer over his soft, warm skin. A cloudy reflection- interrupted by steam that met the mirror during Harry’s scolding shower- boasts tired eyes and thin lips. The pimple on his right cheek has been defeated at long last. His skin, thankfully, won’t be an embarrassment at dinner. His eyebrows have seen worse days. 

The face game is… passable. Louis probably won’t laugh at him. 

So long as he doesn’t embarrass himself the moment he opens his mouth. He has a tendency of doing exactly that. But it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s… 

“ Focus Harry,” he rasps into the quiet, finishing his skin care routine with a hydrating mist. 

After pulling on the sweater he set out the night before, Harry blow dries his hair and fluffs it so the usual matting of curls has volume . 

His look gets a seal of approval from Belinda ( thank god ) and then Harry hurries to make his protein shake. He grabs the lunch he packed, too, because he won’t have time for a long break today. He needs to get out on time. He has plans.  

Plans that, just maybe, he’s really, really excited about. And terrified for. But mostly excited. 

Harry leaves his apartment twenty minutes behind schedule.  

Curse words hurtled off his tongue in murmurs, frigid wind, and a briefcase flapping open with each step Harry takes, marks the morning when it all (truly) begins. 

*****

Harry’s carefully crafted plan- arrive at work, keep his head down, answer all emails by ten o’clock, map out the potential for Redfin’s advertisements to span overseas in the United Kingdom, write, analyze, finish his reports before the usual 11:00 Tuesday meeting with his team, take a five minute break outside to enjoy fresh air, eat lunch at desk, write, code, analyze, write- goes off without a hitch until he shuffles into the elevator at 12:15, wholly prepared for a breath of fresh, frigid air.

He’s yawning and rubbing at his eyes, hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t look too dead on his feet, when someone sticks out their foot, halting the door in its tracks. “Styles!”  

At that very moment, Harry again contemplates a move to Australia. And a name change. And a new career path. And- 

“Good afternoon.” Harry tries for a smile, but his eyes will always, always, always betray him. 

Trevor hits the already-lit button for the lobby with his elbow. “Lucky I caught you!” He makes a show of hoisting his briefcase strap over his shoulder. Luck is one word for it, I suppose. “I’m heading out early today. There’s a luncheon for my cousin’s birthday, so.” 

Ope, well. “That’s nice,” Harry says, “Enjoy your afternoon.” 

“I certainly will. Now…” Trevor claps his hands together and Harry knows what is coming. “With my leaving early and Beverly not returning until tomorrow, we’re still running behind schedule. We need you to stay a little later to produce the results for the full week of the PSG campaign, and then the analyses for-” 

“Oh, um…” Harry bites his bottom lip, eyes darting down to the linoleum floor. A single, ugly rug darkens the tiny space’s interior. It’s suffocating. “Um. I can’t tonight, actually. I’m sorry.” 

“What? Better offer?” 

Something like that. “I’m sorry. I could come in early tomorrow-” 

Trevor shakes his head. His frown screams the disappointment far more intensely than words ever could and, despite knowing it’s ridiculous, Harry can’t help feeling guilty. “But the reports must be completed this evening. Especially PSG. Their reps are breathing down our necks, as I’m sure you know. You’ve seen the emails. These are urgent projects. We’ll pay you double.” 

“I…” Harry falls back against the wall, his eyebrows pinching together as he considers the offer (or, rather, considers the assignment he’s being given). It’s not… fuck. Harry really, really, really can’t, but. He’s also not one to turn down being paid double . At the very least, Belinda appreciates when she receives extravagant new supplies for her tank. Still… “I really can’t stay late today,” Harry says, “I’ll finish Beth’s end of the PSG analysis, but that is all I can handle tonight.” 

Harry can’t quite tell if his chest tightens because he stood up for himself and said a partial no (is this… boundary setting? Liam would be so proud) or because the way Trevor’s face twists into a snarl is moderately terrifying. Perhaps he’s on the verge of passing out or dying or both. Preferably both. Harry folds his arms over his chest. The elevator speakers need to be fixed. A ringing silence deafens him. Its haunting melodies crush his windpipe with an unrelenting, heightened tempo.   

It takes approximately an eternity, but the elevator finally does glide open. With it comes an invitation for more air, for clearer passageways and space. 

Trevor tuts. The noise is drowned out by his imposing footsteps. “I see. Well.” Harry’s boots squeak on the freshly polished floors. “We thank you for taking on the campaign assessment. I do, however, wish you would make Kotler Emporium your priority. It’s a shame to see talented team members not reach their full potential due to a lack of commitment. Promotions will never be freely given to those who refuse to put in the work. Have a wonderful evening, Styles. I do hope your plans are worth it.” 

Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Trevor leaves Harry behind. Every move thuds miserably in the heavy air that, after those words, was infiltrated by the suffocating, poisonous oxygen in the elevator. 

“Have a fantastic night, Meredith,” Trevor tells Miranda. He stops and, Harry knows, winks at the receptionist. “I’d try to smile a little more though, sweetheart. And maybe try for a… less distracting top? It’s all the guys can talk about upstairs! Heh!” 

Miranda’s shoulders stiffen, but Trevor walks away without waiting for a response. His footsteps echo in the seconds after he exits the lobby, whistling with all the candor of the most famed, indispensable of men.  

Harry hangs back. A slight pulsating in his left temple forces his eyes shut. 

He never does take his five minutes outside. 

*****

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

hey, louis! do you have a minute? 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

ahhhhhhhh if it isn’t one of my potential fake suitors 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

pls don’t tell me ur canceling 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

i mean, no pressure, but if i don’t get a deep dish tonight …. i may actually die. like the thought of no pizza ALONE just KILLED ME. organs shutting down as we speak. i literally just died dead. and i couldn’t breathe anymore and so i died rest in peace me RIP me hashtag 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

and one can’t deep dish alone :( it’s meant to be a two-sies thing 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

omg no, no of course not  

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

i’m so excited for tonight!!!!  

lewis tom @ommotuol  

THANK GOD 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE 

just. please don’t hate me? 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

i have to stay late at work to finish writing this final report on a project i’ve been working and i tried so hard to get everything done in time and now with this extra piece i was assigned i don’t know when i’ll be done and i know we said dinner at 6 but i’m really worried i won’t be done in time and i don’t want you to have to wait and i am so, so, so sorry. i tried to turn it down but couldn’t and i’m so sorry 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

hey, it’s totally fine! don’t even worry about it! 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

we decided on six, but that doesn’t have to be set in stone. these things happen. do you know if a later time would work better for you, or do you need to reschedule? (i promise i won’t actually die- probably- if we need to move this to another day. i might fall into a coma, but. nothing too permanent. i’ll survive) 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

nooooo, i would still love to do this tonight! would 6:30 be okay? 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

babycakes 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

you thought i was going to hate you for pushing dinner back 30 minutes? i am both laughing and sobbing  

lewis tom @ommotuol  

6:30 is perfectly perfect x) 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

oh my god. thank you so, so much. i am SO sorry 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

you’re fine!!!! 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

i promise i’m not even a little bit mad. but get back to work, okay? i might change my mind if u show up at 6:31 <.< 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

(((((i’m just kidding)))))

*****

Harry powers his computer down. Metaphorical (literal?) shackles fall from his aching wrists and his ankles. He leaps from the office chair while simultaneously flinging his bag onto the desk. 

Phone? Stuffed in his jacket pocket. 

Keys? Right pocket of briefcase. 

Wallet? Probably in the left pocket. 

Harry hesitates long enough to frown. Grabs his bag without zipping it. Probably is enough. Tonight, it is enough. 

He does take the time to toss his uneaten lunch in the newly emptied garbage (food consumption was too time consuming) and, as he leaves the pasta noodles abandoned, he wills his pulsating forehead to just give him a minute. It is desperate to match the rhythm of his footsteps, especially as they grow louder in the forever empty, forever echoing stairwell. 

Why, why, why did he not take the stairs earlier?

Harry takes the stone steps two at a time. The white stone matches the white walls and, vaguely, Harry knows that tripping down to the next level would not exactly be the ideal move. He should proceed with greater caution. Face planting would slow him down even more and force him to show up to the dinner with a bloody nose and scruffed up face. Louis would be well within his rights to leave, at that point. If he hasn’t already. 

At the thought, Harry quickens his pace and zips up his jacket as he swings to the right, around the bend, down to the third level. His right ankle nearly twists in his desperation to stick the landing. He curses, pants heavily, keeps moving because he is so, so, so behind schedule and his potential fake-boyfriend is going to hate him. 

The door to the lobby greets him. Harry nearly cries in relief. He pushes it forward with his shoulder and grabs his phone.  

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

i just finished. i am so, so, so sorry. be there in 15 at MOST 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

i’m so sorry :( i promise i’m not always this awful and late 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

sounds good! i just got here x) i’ll get us a table? would you like an appetizer? my treat

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

louis….. i am now like 45 minutes late to dinner? i should be the one buying YOU an appetizer 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

shut uppppppp and focus on getting here hahaha 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

it sounds like you’ve had a stressful day. you deserve to have someone buy you an appetizer. i hope you like MOZZARELLA STICKS 

And… and? God. Harry tucks his phone back in his pocket after checking to confirm his uber will be picking him up in a matter of minutes. 

God. 

It currently feels like a million tiny rats are pounding at his skull with a sledgehammer. Their tiny little feet are sinking, poking permanent holes in his brain. 

God. 

Just… surely Trevor could have picked another day to fuck him over? Surely that PSG campaign assessment could have waited until tomorrow? Surely he himself- the director of marketing- could have been late to his luncheon in favor of completing a project with a pressing, unchanging deadline? Surely, surely, surely? 

He’s no longer convinced his headache is from hours spent looking at his computer, but he does know it also makes his eyes burn. He knows he wants it to stop and he wants to consume sustenance and he wants a nap and he wants coworkers who feel like anything more than strangers. He wants… 

He wants to stop expecting every day to be a bad one. He wants to just, like, stop for a moment. He wants to not be making a kind, lovely acquaintance wait nearly an hour for dinner. 

(It’s a bad day. A bad, bad, bad day). 

And, to make it even worse, Harry steps onto the lower terrace and ice pelting down from the sky scrapes at his cheek. 

Fucking fantastic. 

Is it too late to pick up smoking as a hobby?

Harry’s uber is waiting in a temporary parking spot along the road. He ducks his head and rushes over, clambering into the backseat with a hello that sounds like a sniffle. The driver merges straight into the right lane- a bold maneuver, given the steady flow of traffic- and Harry would suck in a deep breath if not for the iron fist choking him. 

He slumps against the cold glass, welcoming the way it soothes his burning skin. The pulsating in his frontal lobe rocks the tiny Ford Escape. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His stomach is in knots. He feels weak and tired and he’s almost tempted to beg Louis to reschedule because surely, surely, surely he’s going to be absolutely miserable company. What does he have to say right now, other than that he hates his job and laughter is outlawed at the office in favor of productivity and Chicago winters suck and he can’t answer a call from his mother because her entire perception of him is based off who he was when he was with someone else and- 

God. 

He knows, god he knows, he’s being irrational. His stress and exhaustion are spurring bitter thoughts he doesn’t truly mean and he really, really, really just needs a nap. 

Even so, Harry is not sure a nap could fix everything. Not when the only time he’s braved any attempt at a smile over the course of the entire day has been when a near stranger said he hopes Harry likes MOZZARELLA STICKS. 

( Whyyyyy did he capitalize the name of the sinfully wonderful appetizer? Why was it so endearing?) 

It’s that thought alone, the little bit of warmth he feels when thumbing through his Twitter DM’s, that makes him less inclined to cancel his plans and spend the night face down on his couch while Rumors spins on his record player.  

Louis has already been far more wonderful than Harry deserves. Harry owes it to him to push through. 

So, though his bleary eyes offer no chance of taking in the Chicago streets, though he’s fairly sure his driver attempts to engage him in conversation two separate times, though he can’t remember what it felt like in the “pre-headache days,” Harry lets the car pull him towards the pizzeria Louis and he agreed upon last week. The seven minute drive (which Harry opted for, because taking the Pink Line would have been an approximated eleven minutes from his office. Four additional minutes felt like too much to lose).

When the sign welcoming him to Giordano’s comes into view, sandwiched between a Dunkin and a tiny antique shop, at least two of the 459,387,210 knots in Harry’s stomach unravel. He takes a shaky breath and smiles in thanks at his driver and, to avoid making the poor man try to park in downtown Chicago, asks to be let out somewhat close to the sidewalk. 

Miraculously, his driver pulls off only a few stores down from the pizzeria. Gusts of cold greet Harry the moment he opens the door. With a huff, he pulls up his hood and makes a break for it.

Rushing past small crowds- with a few loud grumbles about the freezing rain acting as his soundtrack- Harry keeps his head tilted towards the sidewalk. He winces at the unrelenting wind and prays, prays, prays that his eyes aren’t swollen. He should have brought his tiny, pocket mirror. He could also use his phone, but. His fingers are frozen and he’s so late and Louis has every reason to hate him. 

(What if he does? What if his texts were a facade and what if he’s waiting with no mozzarella sticks and none of the warmth Harry remembers?). 

((Worse yet: what if he left? What if he’s just pretending to be waiting and what if he stands him up and what if Harry looks like a fucking idiot and what if he goes to DM Louis to ask where he is and what if Louis’ blocked him and what if-)) 

(((He’s so good at being a rational adult))). 

A flush of warmth thaws his wind-bitten cheeks. Harry steps inside Giordano’s and scuffs his shoes on the rug. He shakes out his ever-growing curls, running his hands through the tangled mess. Ice curls around his fingers. His skin feels numb. His briefcase weighs a million pounds. 

Still, the welcomed smell of pizza hits him in a matter of seconds. A flurry of activity from patrons- bright laughter and muted conversations, the quiet music humming in the background- eases more of the tension; a safe, calming spot to breathe. 

Near the front, a young woman offers Harry a bright smile. “Hello, welcome to Giordano’s. How are you?” 

I am having the worst day- week, month, year- of my life. “Oh, just… living the dream,” he says. The woman nods in solidarity. “How are you?” 

“Same.” She giggles, pushing a long, black bang from her eyes. “Is it a table for one?”  

Harry shakes his head. “I, um, I’m meeting someone? Louis Tomlinson?” 

The name rolls off his tongue. It feels a little too practiced, a little too much like one Harry should have been saying for years and years and years. 

He feels warmer, somehow. 

“Oh! Of course.” She beams. “Your fiancé is in the back. I’ll take you to him.”

FIANCE? 

Harry blanches. He frowns. He… what? 

Luckily, the hostess doesn’t seem to notice. It takes him a second to unfreeze, to breathe, but he hurries his pace to follow her. His head is spinning, heart pounding, every step feels like it brings him both further and closer to where he yearns to be and-

“Here he is!” The hostess beams. “Enjoy your dinner, and congratulations.” 

In the back right corner, a man- smaller in stature, with slumped, relaxed shoulders and a crew neck drowning his body- turns at the voice. When he spots Harry, his lips curve into a smile that splits his face in two. 

And. And. And. And. 

Blue. 

Blue is all Harry sees. 

Louis’ eyes are so, so, so blue. Like the most alluring depths of the ocean, like a reflection of the sky hanging over a sunny summer village in the southern hemisphere, far removed from the winter-plagued Chicago, like shards of sapphires and the most unique roses and the hottest flames among flickering embers. 

They’re so blue. They crinkle with his smile. 

Despite being ten feet away, Harry is frozen under their spotlight. 

Louis keeps smiling, as if Harry gaping like a lunatic is normal. (Perhaps it is? Perhaps Louis is used to the masses gazing upon him like he is, in fact, the eighth wonder of the world? Harry wouldn’t be surprised. In fact, he’d be disappointed to discover the rest of the world doesn’t worship his natural radiance).

“Hey, babe,” Louis says with a grin and it’s that giddy tone, the little bit of mirth embedded in his smirk, that releases Harry from his starstruck state. 

He steps past white-clothed tables and fellow Chicagoans. Flickering candles paint the olive walls with flickers of orange. Louis’ smile alone makes him grateful he didn’t cancel these plans. “ Fiance?” He wonders, though he keeps his voice quiet. Louis’ grin widens. “Did we skip a few chapters, sweetheart?” 

“... Hey, if we’re going to be fooling the people who know you best…” Louis ducks his head. His fingers trace over wrinkles in the cloth. “I think we should make sure we can fool strangers with an even more outlandish lie.” 

Harry bites his lip. “We don’t have rings.” 

“We’re getting them sized.” Louis shrugs. “And… oh! Darling, did you know? Newly engaged couples get discounts on wine! Our waiter, Nelly, was just telling me! What do you say we split a bottle?” 

Harry claps a hand over his mouth to muffle a giggle. “What a coincidence. It truly is our lucky day.” 

“Right? I’m so happy you proposed to me after rescuing me from that burning building. It really helped our love story come full circle.” 

This time, Harry’s helpless to hide his laughter. Louis’ eyes (the innovative sapphires) shine brighter, despite Harry’s previous assertion that they were already the most luminous supernova in the universe.

They share another private smile. It’s then that Harry realizes he can’t spend the rest of the night standing a foot from the table. Flushing, he steps closer. He unzips his jacket, brushes out his still-freezing hair for good measure, and, slowly, sinks into the chair opposite those searching blue eyes. Even with his hands folded over his menu, his posture perfectly erect as if in the midst of a paramount business meeting, his lips pinch upwards. His eyes sparkle. Everything about him appears wrapped in a shimmery golden glow. It’s as enamoring and intimidating as it was during their time as undergraduates. 

“So,” Louis begins. He shifts, moving to instead drum his fingers along the laminated menu. Even with the exasperation still locked in his chest, Harry smiles. “I suppose it is time for us to get down to business. As I understand it, you are interested in hiring a fake boyfriend.” 

“And you are interested in being a fake boyfriend?” 

“Please, Dimples, this isn’t about me. This is about you.” Louis tries his hand at a suggestive wink (or at least, that’s what Harry thinks his intention is). He ends up closing both eyes and looks slightly demented in the process. Harry hides a laugh in his hand. “But also… yes. Very much yes. Indeed.” 

Blue eyes flutter down to the menu. Long lashes cast dainty shadows over sharp, blood-rushed cheekbones. The sight- even in the dark light, even from across the table, even as a meaningless gesture between two strangers- sends something in Harry’s chest crashing through his entire body. “I…” He’s never been the best with words, with voicing thoughts and premonitions, but those damn eyelashes have rendered him utterly useless.

Louis’ cheeks are dusted a bright red. “I… well, I guess I should probably know a little more about the gig, huh? That way we can see if I have the boyfriend-ifications you’re looking for. If I’m the fake boyfriend for you. If not, I may have to redirect you to someone else in the company.” 

“... There’s a company?” 

“No.” Louis grins. “But I can wear a wig and change my name and I’ve mastered a southern accent, so…”  

For what feels like the millionth time in an incredibly short time span, Harry giggles. “What color wig we talkin’?” 

“How do you feel about redheads?” 

“Hmmm, redhead paired with a southern accent?” Harry tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowing. “I think that… could be an option. If you and me fall through.” 

Before Louis can do much more beyond smile- and, god, his eyes crinkle so effortlessly- their waitress hurries to their table. “I’m so sorry for the wait!” She says, simultaneously pushing one of her long braids behind her shoulder as she reaches for her pen. “I didn’t realize your fiance had arrived.” 

“Hey, it’s no problem at all. You’re fine.” 

She sends Harry a grateful smile. “Your mozzarella sticks are almost ready,” she says, “Did you decide on a wine to share? Or on a pizza?” 

“We haven’t, actually,” Louis says with an easy, albeit slightly guilty, laugh. “Too busy catching each other up on our days, I suppose. I’m sorry.” 

“Ha! No problem. Take your time.” 

Harry asks for water, and jokingly chastises Louis for not ordering ahead for him (Louis’ pout, his puppy-dog eyes, are the picturesque sight of an apologetic fiance. Harry forgives him on the spot). 

“So…” Louis takes a pointed sip of water. The forgiveness flies through the window. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring my PowerPoint.” 

“Wow. Not following through with promises. It’s like you’re a real boyfriend already. You’re a natural.”

A loud, wonderful cackle- one Harry wants to encourage again and again and again- rocks Louis’ body. He throws his head back, strands of hair bouncing in every direction, and the sight is enough to encourage more odd simmering in Harry’s stomach. “I live to serve,” he wheezes, “But I am very sorry about the PowerPoint.”

Harry shakes his head. “Cannot believe you forgot. I was looking forward to your pitch.” 

“Well!” Clapping his hands together (again), Louis sits up straighter in his seat. “If you must know… I am still new to the whole… fake boyfriend business, but it is something I am deeply passionate about. I love lying to the older generations. I live my life for the bit. Plus I have experience in acting and in stage kissing and I have it on good authority that moms love me. I even have a reference. Chrissy, my best friend’s mother, texts me more often than she texts Niall. Because I am so funny and so cool, so. I promise I will make your family adore me. They’ll sob at your feet and question the existence of soulmates when we break up or your money back, guaranteed.” 

The irony. 

Though the words ought to encourage a slight pang, a hopeless sense of dread and doubt, Harry can’t help but smile. To create more room in the cramped space under the table, he brings his left foot up onto the booth seat, tucking it beneath him. “That is a pretty convincing pitch, I must say. Though I am a little concerned that you will win my mother in our inevitable divorce.” 

“Yeah, well, I cannot help that the masses love me.” Louis tries once again for a wink and fails miserably. “But, anyway, enough about me. I am hardly the most interesting subject. Tell me more about what you need in a fake relationship. What is our potential mission? Where exactly would our tomfoolery transpire, Harold?” 

“It’s just Harry, actually. And, um, Ohio. My family lives a little ways outside of Akron and-” 

“Nice try, Harold,” Louis scoffs. He rolls his eyes, swirling his straw around in his glass. Water sloshes around. A hurricane, a storm, of his own making. “Everyone knows Ohio isn’t real.” 

Harry blinks. “What?” 

“Ohio isn’t real. Where are we really going?” 

Again, Harry blinks. “I… I grew up in Ohio? I lived there for nearly twenty whole years. My family is still there. I… it’s real? I promise it’s real?” 

“That sounds like something someone hired to promote the Ohio agenda would say to keep the illusion of Ohio alive for the naive and gullible.” 

A third blink. Harry meets Louis’ gaze and holds it, but Louis doesn’t flinch. His expression is impassive. Harry tilts his head. “I genuinely can’t tell if you’re joking.” 

“Obviously I am being serious. I know the truth.” Louis kicks out, his foot knocking against Harry’s. “But fine. Continue the lie, I suppose. It’s okay if you can’t tell us where we’re actually going. For now.” 

“Louis-” 

“Here you boys go!” A basket of golden brown mozzarella sticks is placed in front of them, effectively ending Harry’s incoherent rambles before they can begin. It is, truthfully, probably a blessing in disguise. Even with the food in front of them, Harry’s gaze remains locked on the boy sitting before him. His shoulders are relaxed, his smile easy. 

Their waitress hands Harry his water. “Are we ready?” 

Oh fuck. 

Harry glances at her and then at Louis, his mouth falling open and then snapping shut. Louis’ eyes crinkle. He snorts. Their waitress, with a quiet giggle of her own, assures them (again) that they can take all the time they need. 

When she steps away, Louis winks at Harry. “We should probably figure out our order, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Despite himself, Harry can’t seem to look away. Louis shifts, pulling his right leg up onto the booth, and he rests his chin on his dark blue jeans as he opens the menu. “Yeah. Definitely.” 

*****

Predictably, they opt to split a large deep dish cheese pizza (“I don’t really like toppings,” Louis admits, cheeks flushing. He looks down at his hands. “I’m a cheese guy through and through. Niall makes fun of me all the time. I’m sorry for being so boring .”). 

((Harry doesn’t quite know how to verbalize his doubts that anything about Louis could ever be considered boring)). 

They eat mozzarella sticks and split a bottle of Moscato. Somewhere, in the midst of their appetizers and their drinks and the main course, Harry forgets to be self conscious. He doesn’t worry about how entirely unattractive eating deep dish can be- when Louis dribbles sauce on his chin and then makes a show of wiping it away, Harry feels better about his own stained napkins- or how he tends to stumble when nervous and ramble when he’s excited. The conversation flows, strong and steady, and by the time he’s pouring his third glass, he can’t believe that he ever considered canceling. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Harry says slowly, watching Louis take another sip of the sweet wine. An answering smile encourages him to continue. “Your Twitter handle and name. You’ve changed it since we were in school. Are you living a secret, anonymous life? Are you on the run? Am I allowed to know that you are Louis Tomlinson?” 

Louis snorts. “Actually… now that you mention it… I do have to kill you after we finish this deep dish. I hope you understand. It’s nothing personal.” 

“Ugh. I get it. At least my last meal was entertaining and delicious, I suppose.” 

“Thank you for being so understanding.” Louis gives a fake sniff, as if deeply touched by Harry’s allowance of his own imminent murder. “I suppose that, because I am already killing you, I can give you the exclusive. I changed my name because my work wanted us to have, like, only professional accounts linked to us? And so I made a new, more popular one for me to Tweet about work, and I kept the one you follow just for me. My best friend did the same. It’s nice, to have a safe place to be my full level of unhinged without the majority audience knowing it’s me.” 

“So it’s kinda like a burner?” Harry asks. Louis nods. “Where do you work that they make you Tweet only professional things? That feels slightly illegal. And boring.” 

Louis laughs again, setting down his wine. “I, um… it’s actually so our viewers aren’t off-put by us?” The explanation comes far slower than Harry’s used to from his new co-conspirator. Louis pauses. “I’m the lead script writer for The Bughouse Chronicles. We’re an up and coming live comedy show. Like SNL, but better and most definitely gay… er. But we’re only a few years old and most of the staff was hired in the last two, so. We really can’t afford to be alienating any interested audience members right now. I guess I understand. Even if tweeting my fake boyfriend poster would have gained more traction on a verified account.” 

Harry pauses, taking in Louis’ still-bright smile and crinkling eyes. The sauce on his upper lip. And he’s mesmerized, in awe, endeared and delighted because that… that just makes so much sense. “So, you write scripts for skits that premiere on a live comedy show?” Harry asks. Louis nods once and looks down, a deeper flush coloring his cheekbones. “That’s incredible. That’s, like, perfect for you. I bet the show’s amazing. When’s it on?” 

It’s Louis’ turn to pause. 

His head shoots back up, lips parted. His eyes are twinkling sapphires that stare and stare and he takes a moment, or two or three, where he studies Harry- who holds his gaze, his own smile soft and easy- before something more seems to melt. His shoulders relax. The near constant tapping of his fingernails against the tablecloth halts. “It’s, um, on Saturday nights, actually. Every Saturday at nine,” he tells Harry, “It’s… it’s a comedy show, but it’s also more? Because we have our skits, obviously, but we also invite queer artists to perform and we host interviews with prominent queer figures. We call that segment the Pink Triangle. And it’s… we’re trying to amplify their voices, you know? As best we can, while also having fun with it, because not everything about the queer community has to be tragic or serious to be newsworthy.”  

“That’s…” Harry shakes his head, a bit taken aback by the premise of The Bughouse Chronicles and by Louis’ passion, his natural shine and the obvious giddiness that overtakes him when he talks of work. “That’s absolutely amazing, Louis. It sounds like something we need.” 

A bashful smile feels misplaced on the supernova. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” How is tonight real? Wasn’t this flier meant to be a joke? I’m pretty sure this entire evening was meant to be a joke. “I absolutely need to check out the show. I will this Saturday.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“Duh. But I want to.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Harry wants to memorize the cadence in Louis’ voice when he says his name, the soft wistfulness, the way the double r falls so delicately from his tongue. “And what show of yours shall I be watching? To return the favor?” 

“I’m afraid no cool, groundbreaking shows from me,” Harry says, and his smile flickers. Louis tugs at his sweater- the loose, swooping royal blue fabric peppered with sparkles. It makes his eyes look deeper, somehow, more vivid- pulling it off his collarbone. Harry has to make a conscious effort to look away from the newly visible skin, lest he wants to lose his train of thought. “I’m just a marketing analyst. For Kolter Emporium. We work on promoting different companies in the medical field, as well as in housing and… and other industries.” 

“There’s nothing just about that,” Louis tells him, “That sounds really interesting. And it makes sense that you have a fancy marketing job when you were essentially the university’s marketing protegee.” 

Despite knowing Louis’ merely exaggerating, Harry smiles at his hands. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, but. Thank you.” 

“I’m just speaking the truth, Curls.” 

“Hmph, well… I.” Harry wishes he could blame his flushed cheeks on the wine. “I guess I can’t complain? And the company itself has good benefits. It’s how I’m getting the last two weeks of December off. And the first week in January.” 

“Three weeks vacation?” Louis repeats. “That’s amazing! Are you leaving for home right away, then?” 

When Harry nods his head, his stupid, finally-thawed curls bounce everywhere. “I think that’s what my family expects? So… yeah. My last day is the sixteenth, so. It would really just depend. Plus… if you would like to be my fake boyfriend, I’d have to take your schedule into account.” 

Louis grins. “What a kind, considerate fake boyfriend you are,” he says, “I suppose it is time to cover the very important details. I should have brought my questionnaire-” Harry giggles. Louis sits up a little straighter, folding his hands atop the table. “But, um… before we begin, you must know my payment policy. I request a half-deposit by December. If I am the right fake boyfriend for you, of course.” 

Harry grins. “Of course.” 

“And the second half must be paid by the time we leave for the trip. And, obviously, if I do not meet your standards when we are with your family, you may request a refund. The council will review the request.” Harry isn’t sure the “council” is real. Still, he giggles as Louis gives a firm nod. “Now, which package were you interested in, Styles?” 

“Um… the last one? I think?” 

Louis picks up his wine glass and spins it in his hands, again prompting mini hurricanes to form from the pull of his motions. “Ah… the ‘All I Want For Christmas is You’ Package, huh? You’re all in for two to three weeks of me?” 

Please? 

“I… if that’s okay with you?” Harry says, “I… I don’t know what your work situation is, obviously, but…” 

A bright glint- not at all unkind, but still filled with mirth- flickers in Louis’ expression. “Please. Two to three weeks with you? Sign me up? Can we leave tomorrow?” 

Harry snorts. “Don’t you have some lives to change with your incredible show this weekend?” 

“You haven’t even seen it.” Louis blushes. It’s the most precious sight in the world. “You don’t know it’s incredible.” 

“Yes, I do.” 

At those words, Louis sets his near-empty glass back on the table and slumps back in his seat. He sighs. His still-red cheeks only seem to flush further. “I’m afraid I don’t fully understand.” 

“Understand?” Harry asks, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. Most of the patrons have long since departed for home. Only a few stragglers remain in the pizzeria. Louis and Harry have sat at this table for over two hours. Harry paid their bill twenty minutes ago (after some protest from Louis, while their waitress watched on with soft giggles). It’s time to go home. They’ve long since overstayed their welcome. Harry doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t feel like facing the frigid air and wicked wind when everything is so warm right now. 

“How could someone like you need to hire a fake boyfriend?” Louis wonders. He tilts his head, eyes scanning Harry’s body as if the answer can be found splashed across his chest; his business casual ensemble and tired stature. “You’re smart. You’re gorgeous and funny and, like, really successful. And you’re so nice. Like. Apologized-thirteen-times-for-having-to-push-back-dinner-by-less-than-an-hour-because-of-something-outside-of-your-control kind of nice. How are you single?” 

Harry’s newfound flush has little to do with the wine he consumed. “That’s normally not a question you ask until the third fake date, babes. Where are you manners?”

“Ahhhh that’s fair, I suppose. I do apologize for overstepping.” Louis tries for the millionth time to wink. “But does that mean you would like another fake date?”  

Harry snorts. “I would love one. And I… I think this could work, you know? Like… you coming home with me. I…” 

“Right. To ‘Ohio’.” Louis hoists both hands up, doing air quotes. Harry giggles. “I must first discuss it with the committee, of course, but. I am inclined to agree that this first fake date was a staunch success, Styles. I’m sorry it’s getting late. You probably have an early morning, huh?” 

And. Oh. Right. 

Right. 

Fuck. 

Harry sighs. “I do, actually, but. I don’t mind. I hope your committee sees me in a favorable light.” 

“Hmmm, well, you’re in luck because I have a little bit of sway. May the odds be ever in your favor.” 

The two share soft, private smiles before Louis suggests they head out. “You’ve looked dead on your feet all night,” he says and it’s gentle. “You need your rest. I’m sorry I literally never shut up.” 

And, when Harry assures him that the heavy exhaustion floated to the skies over the course of their conversations, Louis’ soft expressions melts into a brighter mix of soft and pleased and delighted. Harry’s chest swells- it aches- and he knows, knows, knows that he would like a million more nights just like this one. 

As they linger near the doorway, Harry rocks back on the balls of his feet- silently cursing the heavy weight of his bag- and suggests, tentatively, that if they are to put “Operation With-A-To-Be-Decided-Name” (Louis’ working title for them scheming and lying to Harry’s entire family) to the test, then perhaps they should get together on Friday night to learn more about each other. “We could both come up with, like, ten facts to start?” He suggests, biting his lip. “And go from there?” 

Louis grins. “Hmmm. Good idea. I’ll talk with the committee.” 

“ Louis.” With a loud laugh, and a cheerful wave, Louis opens the door of the restaurant and yells a hurried goodbye over his shoulder. Even the roaring wind stands no chance against that cackle. Harry watches him- him and his gorgeous lilac, knee-length jacket, his shoulders hunched in to fight off the cold, his little dance across the sidewalk that carries him easily down the block- and his cheeks hurt from smiling. 

His phone buzzes not even a minute later. 

lewis tom @ommotuol

hello, harold. i am delighted to announce that the committee has viewed your application favorably! it has given the green light for both the trip to “ohio” AND a potential gathering to collect intel this friday night x congratulations! you beat out SO MANY qualified candidates 

lewis tom @ommotuol 

also, here is my number x) engaged couples shouldn’t be communicating solely over twitter dm’s you know XXX-XXX-XXXX

And Harry laughs out loud, startling a family also waiting in the small landing for their car. He can’t bring himself to care.

He arrives home an hour later. Exhaustion and dread for the upcoming work day are already coursing through him and he’s late feeding Belinda and he can’t wait to crash for a million and one years. But, still, a part of him feels every bit as warm as it did inside that restaurant. 

A quick scroll through Twitter before he showers encourages a deep flush.

lewis tom @ommotuol

not gonna argue with men who have dark, curly hair, sparkling green eyes, and crater-like dimples. whatever you say, handsome. 

Harry likes the tweet. (Would retweeting it be too much? Most definitely yes. Liam would be texting him immediately ). He clicks onto Louis’ profile and does a quick scroll through, giggling out loud at some of his funniest quips and antics. With a voice and an updated face to place to the Tweet, it makes everything he says feel more real, more hilarious. More absurd. More wonderful.

He deleted the original fake boyfriend Tweet. 

Harry falls asleep with flushed cheeks and a smile, clutching his phone to his chest like he’s a fifteen year old first falling in love. 

*****

Louis (My Fiance?): HARRY 

Louis (My Fiance?): HARRY 

Louis (My Fiance?): HAROLD 

Louis (My Fiance?): I WAS JUST LOOKING AT “THINGS” ONE “DOES” IN “OHIO”

Louis (My Fiance?): AND  A P P A R E N T LY 

Louis (My Fiance?): SOME OF “OHIO’S” “BEST ATTRACTIONS” INCLUDE THE WORLD’S LARGEST ROCKING CHAIR, THE WORLD’S LARGEST BASKET, THE WORLD’S LARGEST BASKET OF APPLES (those are two different things????? and they’re not even together?????) AND THE WORLD’S LARGEST STAMP????????? WHY DO THEY KEEP MAKING SUCH BIG THINGS ???? WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK IS GOING ON IN THAT “STATE?”??? HOW DID THEY FIND THE TIME????????? 

Louis (My Fiance?): it’s probably all to fill the void left in the barren land that’s supposed to be “ohio” hmph 

Harry: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA 

Harry: LOUIS I AM AT WORK AND I AM WHEEZING???? YOU’RE DOING RESEARCH ON OHIO????????

Harry: i’ve visited the world’s largest rocking chair, actually :) i even have a picture on it! i’ll have to show you! 

Louis (My Fiance?): i bet that’s what all “ohioans” say. hmph

*****

On Wednesday evening, after a tiring two hours spent dodging questions from Liam about his weekend and if he wants to go out on Friday and if he finally DM’d Louis Tomlinson to inquire about the fake boyfriend poster (ha), Harry returns home with a very pressing to do list. First, he showers. Then he saunters into the kitchen with still-dripping hair. It is probably time for him to put effort into a half decent meal. Most of his dinners as of late have been leftovers or takeout. His beloved oven (which was half the reason he opted for a more expensive apartment in the first place) has taken to sulking in the abandoned right corner. A pouting entity fading into nothingness because Harry never has enough energy to make anything worthwhile. 

Perhaps he should cook a nice meal on Friday? For Louis? That’d be the nice thing to do, right? As a fake boyfriend? 

Right? 

Sighing, Harry rubs a hand through his curls and reaches for his phone.

Harry: hey!!! so i’m going to finally put my oven to good use on friday (she’s feeling abandoned as of late). what would you like for dinner? 

Friday. God. In two (very short? Very long?) days, he’ll be seeing Louis again and it will be at his apartment and he knows- he knows, he knows, he knows- that they’re hanging out to get to know each other better, so they can successfully hoodwink Harry’s family, but. Even setting aside their conspiring, scheming ways, Harry can’t help but feel… excited? Excited to see Louis? Excited that maybe his return home won’t be as lonely and miserable as he feared? Excited that, best of all, he might be making a friend out of this mess?  

It’s not like Harry is friendless. He sees Liam (at minimum) three nights a week. He keeps up with his friend group from college, including the few who moved away after graduation. Those who stayed have periodic game nights. When they’re all together, it’s like no time has passed since their undergraduate days. Harry is certain he could count on any of them if he truly needed help. Yes, they’re all busy settling into their adult lives. Yes, Harry missed Nelson’s birthday party because of a work event and they couldn’t get drinks on Harry’s twenty-sixth until they were all off for the long President’s Day weekend two weeks after the fact. Yes, Belinda tends to judge him because he never has anyone over, but. 

But. 

But they’re all busy. They’re figuring out how to be adults. Harry isn’t upset and (he hopes) they aren’t upset with him. It’s okay. 

But, still, the thought of maybe finding someone in the city who can make him smile like Louis can, and who is available for weekly hangouts, could be really, really good for him. 

What if Louis could be really good for him? 

The thought makes him smile at the still-forlorned stovetop. His phone buzzes. 

Louis (My Fiance?): ahhhhhh dinner????? you really know how to treat your fake bf’s. i am good with whatever you feel like making (and whatever your poor, abandoned stove may allow……. you know, if they’re lonely, we could set them up with mine :( that poor lonely man has never known love), i consider myself an enjoyer of any type of pasta, but i also eat, like, everything, so x) why don’t you make your favorite dish? the one you enjoy baking the most? 

Harry: i make a really, really, good baked ziti with extra cheese…… 

Louis (My Fiance?): MARRY ME 

Harry giggles out loud. As he reaches for a loaf of bread, he makes a mental note to pick up baked ziti ingredients on his way home tomorrow. Perhaps he can visit a market, too. To get good Italian bread. And wine. 

And an engagement ring? 

He’s kidding. He’s definitely kidding. 

Silently promising his stove that they’ll be put to use soon enough, Harry makes a turkey sandwich and then moves into the couch with his laptop. It is time, at last, to tackle the ever-important to do list.

His favorite, warm, wonderful purple quilt awaits him. Belinda swims through her tiny pineapple. (Liam bought it for her last Christmas, after discovering she had a mini tower that resembled Squidward’s house, but no pineapple. An egregious oversight from a neglectful owner). Harry doesn’t bother turning on his record player, but instead goes right to Youtube and selects the first “Made for You” playlist on his page. The opening chords to Doomsday by Lizzy McAlpine begins. Harry curls further into his cushion and opens a new word document in his Google Drive. 

Facts about me??????????????? is what he calls it.

And then he stares at his screen for so long he misses the entire bridge, Lizzy’s perfect metaphors, her insistence that her doomsday came with only my murderer, you, and the Priest who told me to go to Hell. 

And the funny thing is I would’ve married you!!! If you’d have stuck around!!! 

Anyway. 

Doomsday fades into Do I Wanna Know by the Arctic Monkeys and Harry continues staring at a blinking cursor.

What the fuck is interesting enough about himself to span ten facts? 

Hmph. 

Determined to not let himself think about this too much (ha), Harry cracks his knuckles and forces himself to start typing. 

Fact One: My name is Harry

Fact Two: I’m hopeless enough that I need to hire a fake boyfriend to survive going home and visiting the people who literally gave me life

Fact Three: I would like to challenge my boss and the majority of my coworkers to a duel (I would win. I’d make sure of it. Liam would be my Second. Yes, I’ve put too much thought into this) 

Fact Four: I’m a little terrified that you are too bright and too fun to hang out with the likes of me and I’m very terrified you’re going to realize that really, really soon 

Fact Five: Your text about ohio earlier today made me laugh out loud when I was on the verge of a panic attack because of this new project for an up and coming pharmaceutical company that I really don’t know how to tackle  

Fact si-

Fucking hell. 

Muttering under his breath, Harry hits the backspace key and holds it down until the entire screen is blank again. Until the words and the hapless musings are gone. He keeps his finger on it afterwards, too, like maybe if he remains in this position- bleary eyed, shaking hands, a sympathetic fish bearing witness- the ten facts will write themselves and they’ll be funny and charming and they’ll make Louis want to know him. 

What can he say???? This is worse than every single icebreaker he ever had to do in a college class combined.

With a frustrated sigh, Harry opens another tab and Googles things to include when saying fun things about yourself. 

Zippia.com tells him to “keep it brief, relevant, and appropriate to the setting.” Careercontessa urges him to “not think too hard about it” ( ha) and to “have fun” and “be honest and genuine.” 

It’s when TheCut suggests he begin with his proudest accomplishment of the year that Harry closes the tab. (Why the fuck would he want Louis to think him a braggart? Why would he say something so impersonal?). 

Looks like he’s on his own. 

Tossing the laptop to the side, Harry stands with his quilt still wrapped around him. He paces from the living room back to the kitchen, then to his bedroom and to double check that he turned the shower completely off (he did) and then he goes back to the kitchen and then back to the bathroom to triple-check that there’s no water dripping from the shower head (there’s still not) and he wipes any remaining steam off his mirror (there’s hardly any) before deciding that he really, really, really, really needs to just write the list. 

He needs to stop being ridiculous and he needs to write this down and then he needs to go to sleep. 

What if he is just… overthinking it? What if he simply… goes very autobiographical? So Louis knows the core basics about him? So them being boyfriends makes sense? 

What if he makes it about Louis knowing what he needs to know rather than treating it like Harry’s last chance to convince Louis to fake date him? 

With that pep talk in mind, Harry returns to the couch and plops back onto his beloved, lumpy cushion with a renewed sense of focus. Right. What does Louis need to know? His birthday, obviously. Facts about his family (especially his parents and siblings and Vivienne). More about where he works. What he likes to do on dates- because as his boyfriend, it would be odd if Louis didn’t know- and maybe his hobbies and interests? That’s a good place to begin? Louis probably won’t laugh at him? It will be okay? 

(It will be okay, right?). 

“It will be okay,” he assures the empty room. “It will all be fine.” 

Probably. “... Probably.” 

The less-than-certain promise echoes through Harry’s mind as he settles in and gets to work. Three hours later, he closes his laptop with a flourish. His eyes are heavy and he can’t stop yawning and tomorrow will most definitely be miserable, but. He doesn’t hate his list. That is all that matters.

(Even if he did spend over half an hour researching a good book- one he has read and remembers the plot of fairly well- to list as his favorite. Louis is a professional script writer. He is undoubtedly well-read and likely has elite, proper, well-reasoned literature opinions. If Harry mentioned that he likes science fiction or the Percy Jackson series better than a classic like Pride and Prejudice, he’d probably be laughed at or excommunicated or both). 

Anyway. Harry has a list. He has a list he can edit tomorrow. Edits that will, of course, include color-coding each of his facts. He’s already written in an answer key for said colors, but still needs to figure out which of his facts are the most important and which are the least and his brain is far too tired for that at the moment. It’s already two hours past his bedtime. Any more life decisions are a future Harry problem. And, because that is a future Harry problem, present Harry has no more tasks to tend to. 

Which means he can finally, finally sleep. 

~~~

Harry’s 10 Facts 

1. I was born on February 1, in Chagrin Falls, Ohio (which is fairly close to Akron). I am 26 years old. 
2. I have 2 sisters, (Chloe (31) and Jessica (19). I also have a brother, Zachary (17). Chloe is married to Jason (30) and they have a daughter, Vivienne (Vivi! She’s 8!). My mom is named Susan and my dad is John.
3. I work as a marketing analyst at Kotler Emporium. Our office is located close to Millennium Park, which I love.
4. My favorite color is maroon, my favorite movie is Love, Actually, and my favorite book is Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.
5. My favorite idea of a dinner date night is any sushi place. Chagrin only ever had gas station sushi that I was never brave enough to try, so now that I’m in a city I get it any chance I can and it feels like the height of luxury :-)
6. My favorite song in the world is You’re Still the One by Shania Twain, but my favorite band is Fleetwood Mac and my favorite song from them is The Chain. (I saw them in concert 2 summers ago and it was the best night of my life!!!).
7. I like to go on a run/walk (usually a walk, ha) along the Navy Pier everyday after work. Moreso in the summer, though. In the winter I go to the gym a few times a week with my friend Liam. 
8. I have a pet fish, but you are going to meet Ms. Belinda when you come over, so that’s a waste of a fact. How about… my favorite season is fall
9. I love to take pictures! Especially in the city. Going back to my previous fact, since moving to Chicago 6 years ago, I have a few sights in that I like to take pictures of every month/season. The fall ones are always the best. It’s an on-going project and you are the only one who knows about it
10. Ooooo! Last fact and the most important: my childhood best friend, Zayn, will be the hardest to fool in terms of our relationship. I still don’t know how to explain not telling him about you sooner. But we’ll figure it out (we’ll figure it out, right?)

Um, okay! That’s me. (Thank you, thank you, thank you for doing this. Or for considering doing this. Just… thank you). 

Color Coding Key:

Green Facts: Most Important

Pink Facts: Reasonably Important 

Blue Facts: Moderately Important 

Purple Facts: Little extra tidbits that are important but not the MOST important, you know? 

*****

Louis (My Fiance?): just found out that the first man to land on the moon was from “ohio”????? 

Louis (My Fiance?): this makes so much sense, especially when considered alongside all the evidence we have gathered about the moon not being real, either 

Louis (My Fiance?): two fake entities using each other to give themselves a sense of validity. the oldest trick in the book. 

Harry: ………… who is “we”????????? 

Harry: and the moon is so pretty , lou :( SO PRETTY. and it MAKES THE TIDES. or something

Harry: also i’ll see you tonight?? at like 6? 

Louis (My Fiance?): oh honey i have so much to teach you about the world 

Louis (My Fiance?): and definitely x) i’m so excited   

*****

On Friday, the unthinkable happens. 

Harry gets to leave the office early.

Like. 

He arrives twenty minutes before any other colleague. Emails take only thirty minutes to sort through. Then, he breezes through an ROI for a potential collaboration with Rottendorf Pharma. Even with the perma-shifting in his stomach, the odd twinge in his gut, Harry sends an analysis to Trevor that gives the campaign a green light. The math came easy, the reward far outweighing the initial financial investment and so his approval is the obvious choice. Harry feels confident in his report (a miracle, considering his disdain for ROI’s). As a bonus, it also takes far less time than expected. He manages to sneak out to lunch a whole hour ahead of schedule, beating the crowds at his favorite sushi place. The best window seat in the lobby is his for the taking. Harry watches a fragile beautiful winter day- the snow-threatening clouds, the forever freezing wind- unravel before him. Flurries begin falling as he steps back outside. He catches one on his tongue. His breaths come easy, natural. At ease. 

He’s at ease. 

When Harry settles back at his desk, shaking out his soaked, frozen curls, Trevor doesn’t request a meeting. He isn’t assigned more work. Beverly is back and everyone is here, so. He once again combs through emails and runs diagnostics on a project Jason is spearheading, acting as his second set of eyes, and he finds no issues and that was the last definitive task on his to-do list for the day and so he’s free. 

Harry leaves an hour early and stops at a local market to buy fresh Italian bread. He makes it home twenty minutes later, humming to himself while shrugging off his jacket. Ingredients for baked ziti lie in wait and for once the thought of cooking feels anything but daunting. 

It’s a good day. It’s already a good day and Louis is coming over, so. 

Quite a few tasks remain (namely straightening the living room and the kitchen, cleaning Belinda’s tank, and changing into something not business casual). Harry strips down to his tank top and pulls on a pair of worn sweats. Then he gets to work, humming along to his Spotify as he saunters from room to room. And it occurs to him, while scooping Belinda from her tank and setting her gently in her designated fish-holding cup, that the electricity zipping through him is excitement. 

He’s excited. 

One listen through of his cleaning playlist later, Harry’s living room is spotless. Belinda is swimming around a clean tank. The smell of baked ziti drifts out from the kitchen, much to the delight of his neglected oven. Harry’s curls are pulled out of his eyes with his favorite claw clip (the one with sunflowers!) and he’s drowning in a yellow sweater that has outlines of white daffodils stitched across it. He’s fairly certain it’s supposed to be a sweater dress. The fabric makes his eyes look brighter. 

Plus, it lets him wear his favorite, soft gray leggings and his fluffy yellow socks and he is comfortable, so. The sweater dress will never be a regret. 

A quick check on the baked ziti confirms that it is baking nicely. Harry pushes the oven door closed, taking a moment to appreciate the warm rush of air hitting his face, and then reaches for a knife so he can slice the bread. He chews on an end piece while carefully cutting it into even sections. (He doesn’t quite know why he puts so much care into the slicing process. The bread being even probably isn’t a dealbreaker for Louis. He probably won’t walk out if one middle slice is bigger than the other. Still, Harry needs everything to be perfect. Bread included). 

While en route to the table, his phone buzzes. Harry nearly drops the plate filled with the world’s most cherished commodity. He sets the bread down and hurries back to the counter. A small smile pulls at his lips. 

Louis (My Fiance?): hiiiiiiiiiiiii! i am 5 minutes out! 

Harry: sounds good!! :) do you want me to meet you? the complex can be a little confusing 

Louis (My Fiance?): nahhhh that’s okay. don’t make yourself go back out in the cold if you don’t have to. it’s too late for me, but. you can still be saved. you can still feel your nose and your toes and live a long, happy life. and i want that for u. i’ll call you if i really can’t find your place 

Harry: you’re so selfless 

Louis (My Fiance): I KNOW. 

Louis (My Fiance?): also i look a little bit like rudolph and u absolutely cannot make fun of me for it 

Harry is very, very thankful Belinda is in the next room. She would judge his wide smile. 

Seven- long, short, impossible- minutes later, the faintest of knocks echoes through the apartment. Harry hurries to the door, willing his face to be impassive rather than giddy. He’s not convinced he’s anywhere close to succeeding. His socks slide across the hardwood floors. The baked ziti smell grows stronger with each passing moment. His face feels flushed, whether from the warm apartment or the person waiting on the other side of the door, he can’t quite tell, and every single organ in his body melts when he pulls the door towards himself. 

A snow angel stands across the threshold; bundled in the same knee-length, lilac coat he wore at the restaurant. It matches his thick wool scarf. A silver beanie dips past his ears, protecting carmel hair and sharp cheekbones. Gloved fingers poke out under the sleeve of his left arm, which carries a paper Starbucks bag. And the snowflakes- god the snowflakes- that cling to his impossible eyelashes, his hat, his glistening skin… Harry has the sudden, random thought that he’d quite like to count every single one of them. (It’s not a weird thought, okay. This is his fake fiance after all). Louis’ skin is golden and his eyes are so blue, blue, blue and he’s drowned in a typical unforgiving Chicago winter, and, still, he’s smiling. 

They make eye contact. The skin underneath his eyes crinkles. 

And Harry… Harry needs to say something, lest he wants to spend an inordinate length of time staring. He grins as he takes in Louis’ light pink cheeks. “You were right,” he manages, “You really do look like Rudolph. You are in your Rudolph era, so it seems.” 

Louis’ eyes narrow. He tuts. “Oh I see. So you only pretended to be nice on our first fake date, huh? Classy, Styles. Real classy. Is that baked ziti I smell? Served with a side of betrayal ? ”

Harry giggles. “Your nose is very shiny. Dare I say it is… glowing.” 

“Right. That does it.” Louis takes a step back. “Enjoy your ziti for one. I shall-” 

“Nooo.” Without thinking, Harry reaches forward and catches Louis’ arm on the backswing. It’s hardly skin on skin contact- Louis is protected by at least two layers- but it still sends an odd jolt through his body. The other boy freezes. “Please stay. I won’t make fun of your shiny nose anymore. I promise.” 

Louis snorts. He kicks dramatically at the floor. It echoes in the empty hallway. “Thank you for apologizing. I’ll… consider staying. It’s just hard, you know? Being reminded of my traumatic past. All of the kids laughing and calling me names. Never letting me join in any of the cool games. It… stung. It was really, really hard.” 

“I can’t even imagine. And then them only accepting you because you had something of value to offer? That’s cruel.” 

“Truly capitalism at its core. Sinister exploitation.” 

Despite himself, Harry giggles. He squeezes Louis’ arm. “I promise I want you to be my fake boyfriend for more reasons than just your nose.” 

“Oh thank god.” At long last, Louis looks up again. He wipes at his nose with the hand holding his bag. The paper crinkles against skin. It’s only then, as he watches Louis’ eyes dart back to the ground, that Harry realizes he’s still clutching his jacket. 

His cheeks redden. He shuffles backwards, letting Louis go. His hand feels far colder, far too empty. “Sorry,” he says, though he’s not quite sure what he’s apologizing for. (Should he be apologizing?). “Um, why don’t you come inside?” 

Louis beams. “I’d like that. Thank you for inviting me, by the way. And for making dinner.” 

“Of course.” Harry takes Louis’ bag and closes the door once he’s inside. Holding it out, he pretends to survey it, as if the logo leaves any question as to what it is. Louis giggles and begins unbuttoning his jacket. “Ooooo. Starbucks?” 

“Yeah! I didn’t know if you’d want brownies or cake pops or croissants, so I got a little bit of everything.” 

It’s a sweet, simple gesture. Harry’s cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“Duh. But I wanted to.” Under his jacket, a light blue sweatshirt that- like Harry’s own- nearly reaches his knees hides Louis’ curvy body. It makes his eyes look darker but still warm. Still gorgeous. While Harry hangs the jacket and scarf on the rack, Louis kicks off his brown doc martens. He stacks them beside Harry’s larger, more ridiculous pair of magenta Gucci boots. (They were a dare). 

The sight of their shoes placed side by side in Harry’s entry way does odd things to Harry’s heart.

Louis removes his hat and shakes out his hair. The ends are stiff from the cold, curling inwards, while the top layers splay out in all directions. It’s messy and it’s wonderful and, when Louis steps past him, Harry gets a whiff of coffee. “Your apartment is stunning,” Louis tells him, glancing around at the portraits hanging on the maroon walls. Abstract art pieces (the majority black and white, because Harry had a theme in mind whilst exploring galleries and thrift stores) bring life to his home. Pictures in frames do, too. On the runner table separating the entrance hall from the living room, a line of candles flicker. 

It’s probably a fire hazard. Harry likes how they all look together too much to care. 

“Seriously. And I love that space outside. The brick surrounding the pond and the fountain? That must be gorgeous in the summertime.” 

Harry smiles. “It’s amazing. I like sitting out there and reading. I also love it here because it’s, like, a twenty minute walk to Navy Pier. That’s one of my favorite places in the city. Even if it’s a tourist trap.”

“I love Navy Pier!” Louis says. He steps to the right, into the living room, and Harry is hopeless. He follows. “My best friend, Niall, dragged me there in October. He wanted a photo in that stupid baseball glove so he could make it his main picture on his Bumble account and caption it, I’m a real catch.” 

“Did it work?” 

“Unfortunately… yes.” Louis’ nose scrunches. Harry cackles. “He’s going on his fifth date with this guy tonight. I think they really like each other. And they keep making baseball puns whenever they’re together. It’s tragic.”

“Ugh. Sometimes being a supportive best friend can suck.”

“Tell me about- oh my god wait, who is this?” Louis sets the unlit peppermint candle he was inspecting back on Harry’s coffee table and turns with wide eyes to the massive fish tank. “Oh my god hi gorgeous. What’s your name?” 

Louis rushes over to where Belinda is resting a few feet above her pineapple. “That’s Ms. Belinda,” Harry says, joining him. Louis bends down as if trying to make eye contact. “She’s my pride and joy. The very best girl.”

“Hi Linda. Ms. Bee. You are perfect. I love your pineapple.” Harry’s smile is so soft he’s convinced it’s on the verge of melting. He stares, too, at Belinda’s purple scales, which fade into the poofy red tale billowing behind her, and decides that she truly is the world’s most incredible creature. “Harry, can I give her her food? Or a treat? Please?” 

Louis glances up at him from his crouched position, his blue, blue, blue eyes wide and desperate, pale lips puckered in a pout. Harry realizes, at that precise moment, that there are some people on this planet who are simply never meant to be told no. “Yes. Yeah. Of course.” Belinda already had dinner, but. She probably won’t protest the chance to indulge. “Here.” 

Harry grabs the Betta Fish food and tells Louis to pinch out just a little to drop onto the water. Louis does as instructed and, with a soft smile, lets Harry open the top of the tank. Food is sprinkled over the water. Belinda surges towards the surface. Louis’ shoulder brushes Harry’s. Harry can’t breathe. 

Finally, finally, finally, he recovers enough to say, while Louis watches Belinda, “I think our ziti is ready, if you’re hungry.”   

“Oh my god. Yes. I’m starving” Louis turns away from the tank and offers Harry one of his radiant smiles. “Thank you so much for making baked ziti. I love baked ziti.” 

Harry leads them out of the living room- as Louis says, “See you later, Ms. Bee!”- and grins at the floor. “It’s no problem, Lou. How do you feel about spinach lasagna? Or regular lasagna? I also vaguely know how to make stuffed shells, but. They’re still a work in progress.” 

“.... Have I told you that I would really, really like to keep you in my life post Operation Gay War Crimes?” 

“Ha.” Please, please, please stay in my life post Operation Gay War Crimes. Also… Gay War Crimes? “I promise my stuffed shells aren’t that good.” 

Louis snorts. “Do you need help with anything?” 

“Would you be able to pour us some wine? I already have the bottle and glasses on the table.”

Together, Louis and Harry move around the kitchen; a practice met with an odd sense of familiarity, of ease. They make small talk about the weather forecast for the weekend and their plans and the ridiculous movie Louis watched last night so he could finish writing a skit. Then they take their places at the dining table. Louis sits across from Harry, tucking his foot underneath himself on the gray chair cushion, and Harry reaches across the small, circular surface to accept his glass of Pinot Noir. 

“How’s the show looking for tomorrow night?” Harry asks. Even as he goes to cut off a noodle, Louis’ eyes crinkle. He looks away from the dish and meets Harry’s gaze. 

“It’s going to be amazing, I think,” he says, “I’m actually really proud of everything I wrote this week? Me and Evie are just putting the finishing touches on the script tomorrow, but. I think it’ll be really good. And we’re bringing in a trans woman who started a non-profit in Minneapolis that provides resources for transgender kids who were kicked out of their homes and her story is so inspirational because she hasn’t spoken to her family since she was sixteen and now she’s, like, doing all of this? She’s made a name for herself and is making an entire community better and just, like… Niall’s interview with her is going to be amazing. I’m so excited. Plus, MUNA is performing, so. I have already prepared both my rollerblades and my mini skirt.” 

Harry laughs. “That sounds incredible. I’m so excited to watch. I’ve already set my TV to record it, just in case I’m not home for whatever reason.” 

“You’re going to watch?” Louis pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Really?” 

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss it. Consider me The Bughouse’s new, biggest fan.” 

Though Louis laughs, the sound isn’t quite as rancorous as Harry’s grown used to. It’s softer, almost. Gentle. He smiles down at his plate. “Thank you Harry.” His tone sends a new warmth to Harry’s cheeks. They flush further when Louis adds, “And, not to be dramatic, but after a single bite, I can easily confirm that this baked ziti has changed the trajectory of my life.” 

And Harry cackles, breathless and so, so endeared. 

*****

“Okay. So.” Louis twists until he’s cross-legged on the couch. With a pillow in his lap, his computer hugged to his chest, and a third glass of wine resting on the coffee table, he sends Harry a lopsided grin. Harry mirrors him in every sense of the word. “Shall we simply swap laptops, Styles?” 

Harry nods. “Yeah. Okay. And then we can read the facts and take turns asking follow up questions?” 

“Oooo, I love the idea of follow up questions,” Louis says, “Also, we should exchange emails so we can share these documents. That way we can both… study in our free time.” 

“Study. Right.” Harry opens his laptop. Louis rests his own on his pillow and follows suit. “Okay. Should we have a drumroll? A countdown?” 

“What if we both just chuck our laptops at each other as hard as we can?” 

With a laugh, Harry (gently) picks up his laptop and extends his arm towards Louis. “That is so tempting Lou, but. Laptop shopping actually isn’t in my weekend plans. Neither is a trip to the ER. Sorry.” 

“Lame.” Once they have each other’s laptops, Louis nods at Harry. “Okay. One.”

“Two.” 

“Three,” they say together. And then Harry looks at the chromebook. His heart skips several beats. 

Things to Know if You Would Like to be My Boyfriend 101

1. I write scripts for The Bughouse Chronicles (a proud Bughead! We claimed the name before Riverdale stole our thunder) and am a part time barista at the Starbucks on Taylor Street, but my most important role in life is making my coworker, best friend, and roommate Niall’s life miserable :-) 
2. My dream pet is either a mini Australian Shepherd, a bunny, or a kangaroo 
3. I believe very strongly that science is green and Thursday is 7 and if you don’t agree…. I don’t see this working sorry :/
4. There are rats in my brain and sometimes they try to stage a coup* (aka I get bad migraines and probably have ADHD, but that theory remains untested**)
5. Taylor Swift has been my #1 artist on Spotify for the past 4 years 
6. I cannot stomach eating with large silverware utensils? I don’t know what it is, but I hate that sometimes you can taste the metal when you’re going to take a massive munch of your pasta? It ruins my dinner? I hate it. (But I love, love, love PASTA) 
7. I had a pet hamster when I was 8 and my little sister decided Mr. Murph needed a bath and drowned him in our kitchen sink :( his coat did look better afterwards tho (I have never mentally recovered from his murder)  
8. Grocery shopping is objectively the easiest way to gather one’s needed sustenance and protein in the entire course of human history, but I would still rather gouge my eyes out with my arch nemesis (a big spoon) than go to Whole Foods? But I embark on the dreaded journey every Thursday night because there are less people <3 
9. Cuddles are my passion 
10.  I am facing immense pressure at work to sacrifice my morals and integrity for the sake of success (they want me to download TikTok because they think I’d be “good at it.”) Why can’t they understand that TikTok will be obsolete in 3 years MAX and is a waste of our time? No, I don’t want to be in your TikTok and I don’t want to learn how to use it, Niall!!!!!!! 

(sorry, I wrote this list on my lunch break, if you can’t tell x) we’re planning a hilarious skit for this Saturday night centered around the evils of TikTok)

*my only method of defense against the aggrieved rats is appeasing them with what they love most (juice. They love juice. I always take my migraine medication with juice and I’m convinced my silly little drink is more effective than the drugs) 

**getting an official diagnosis is expensive and I am so poor

Anyway, that’s me x) it’s nice to meet you :-) 

Harry blinks. He stares and stares and stares and blinks again and then reads the list once more. 

Before he’s even fully aware of his actions, he glances up to where Louis is still reading over Harry’s list- lips moving silently as his finger traces lightly over the screen- and says, “I am so sorry for your loss. Poor Mr. Murph.” 

The little ray of sunshine (the enigmatic sapphire who is far too lively, too bright, too funny for Harry) cackles. “And I am so sorry you didn’t have a good sushi place growing up? I would have died? That’s probably grounds for you pressing charges for child abuse? And that’s absolutely a green fact, Harold, if only so I can mentally prepare myself for this visit. But anyway, seriously, that is evil. ” 

Harry smiles at his hands. “I’ll think about hiring a lawyer.” 

“We should go get sushi next week,” Louis says, casual and easy. “If that’s your favorite kind of date. I’d be a terrible fake boyfriend if I deprived you of such wonders.” 

We can do things together as friends, too, Harry wants to say. It doesn’t all have to be for Operation Gay War Crimes(?). 

Instead, he nods. “I’d like that. Yeah. Also the big fork thing? Lou? I need you to explain yourself a little bit?” 

“I hate the taste of metal!” 

“... I get that, but surely there are times when you can’t get around it?” Harry reaches for his glass. The rich taste of cherry lingers after he swallows. “Like when you go out to eat. How do you handle that situation?” 

“I keep emotional support utensils with me at all times.” 

Harry pauses, blinking slowly. “Again, I genuinely can’t tell if you’re joking.” 

“I don’t joke about my forks, Harold.” Louis looks at his screen. “Also… photography? That’s so cool? Would I be able to see your pictures sometime? Do you take a lot of the pier?”

“I do, yeah. I love the pier. And I… I’d love to show you a few, at some point. I think they’re decent.” 

“Please. I bet they’re far more than decent.”

Scarlet cheeks seem to be the norm when Harry’s around Louis Tomlnson. “Thanks, Lou,” he says, soft. Being the subject of Louis’ light, his focus, is almost intimidating. “Also, I’m sorry about your brain rats. Migraines are the worst. Do you get them a lot?” 

“Ehhh, a few times a year. They’re unpredictable, but I don’t yet get them enough for them to be a real concern.” Louis shrugs. “Luckily the rats are pretty easy to keep happy.” 

Harry grins. “Just give them juice.” 

“ So much juice. Thank god for juice. I owe my life to my fruity little drinks.”

“ Ha .” Harry snorts and Louis kicks at him lazily and… and… 

And how, how, how did Harry get this lucky? How- of all the people in this city, let alone in the world- did he manage to find himself here on a Friday night, sitting opposite a radiant Louis Tomlinson, who can keep a conversation flowing like it’s second nature, who’s effortlessly hilarious and kind and far, far too fun for someone like Harry? 

The coattail of that thought promptly sours the smile on Harry’s face. He looks down, eyes trained on the couch, and after a moment or two of an awkward pause, mumbles out, “I’m sorry my facts weren’t as fun or as interesting as yours.” 

I’m sorry I’m not as fun or as interesting as you are. 

Louis frowns, tilting his head to the side. “Are you kidding?” He says, “Harry, these were all really good things to tell me. I liked learning more about you. These are all details I need to know and… and it makes sense that your facts were a little more biographical. I’m the one meeting your family. We’ll need to find a way to fool them, and these facts will help, which was the purpose of doing this in the first place. That doesn’t mean yours aren’t interesting.”

Harry pauses. “Really?” 

“Definitely.” With a soft smile, Louis closes the laptop. As he sets it on the coffee table he adds, “But hey, little daffodil, tell me the weirdest fact or the funniest story about yourself that you can think of within the next five seconds. Go.” 

“ Five seconds?” Harry squeaks.

It took him three hours to write a list of normal facts. 

“Four…” 

“ Lou.”

“... Three…” 

“Okay, okay. Fine. Um…” Harry sits back and, when Louis’ laptop begins to slide, reaches forward and steadies it. Like Louis, he closes the screen. “Okay. When I was… six? I think? I was mad at my older sister, Chloe, because she changed the channel when my favorite show was on, so I told my mom that she was the worst thing I could possibly think of.” 

Louis’ eyes widen. “Oh no. What was it?” 

“... I said she was a drug dealer,” he mumbles. 

“ No.” 

“My mom didn’t believe me.” 

Louis tuts and shakes his head. “I can’t believe she wouldn’t take you seriously,” he says, “When I meet Chloe, should I ask her if the drug business is booming?” 

“Oh my god. Please don’t. Or do, actually. Please do.”

Together, they burst into a fit of laughter that makes Harry certain that no remaining tension from the long work week remains locked in his body. 

An hour later, after they’ve returned to the couch with the pastry bag between them, Louis drapes his feet over Harry’s lap. He nibbles on a brownie and admits, “My favorite book series is Percy Jackson.” 

Harry freezes. “Are you serious?” 

“Yep! I really like Heroes of Olympus, but. I think the original five books have a special place in my heart. They’re just the best things, like, ever. Have you read them?” 

“I… I have,” Harry says. Marry me. “I… I kinda lied on my fact sheet? My favorite books are the Percy Jackson series? But I… wanted to impress you? Because you’re a writer and everything? I thought you would be all judgey.” 

The admission feels slightly awkward, revealing and unnecessarily honest. Louis’ smile never falters. “Babes, please. I appreciate Joseph Heller as much as the next literary nerd, but. There’s something special about Rick Riordan. He just gets it, you know? He gets it.” 

He does. Harry nods and, with a million and one yearnings running through his hazy, tipsy mind, he begins interrogating Louis about his favorite characters. 

***** 

Two in the morning creeps in like the final days of summer; still lively, too warm, too much to believe the feeling of the sun on one’s face will ever fade. Their conversation flows. They discuss more books and music (Louis loves, loves, loves Taylor Swift, Harry finds. To the point that he insists on making Harry a playlist after Harry admits to only really knowing her biggest hits) and then the technical aspects of the whole fake boyfriend gig. Harry tells him more about his family. Louis asks questions and nods along m to details about the dynamic back home. He asks if Harry wants one of his lawyer friends to draw up a contract. After a moment or two of consideration, Harry gives a slow nod. 

“I trust you,” he tells Louis, and it feels ridiculous to be this confident. “I don’t think either of us are going to fuck each other over, but. Just because there is money and traveling involved, it feels like we should sign something? If that’s okay with you.” 

Louis nods. “Of course it is. I think it will make me feel more comfortable, too,” he says, “We can make it super simple. Just the basic agreements and stipulations and everything? And a timeline.” 

“I’ll be off for three weeks,” Harry tells him, “Starting the sixteenth and going until January ninth.”

“Our holiday show is the seventeenth,” Louis says slowly, “Would you mind leaving that Saturday after, like, five? I’ll officially be on my vacation then. The Bugheads will have to suffer through the New Year’s show without me. Those poor unfortunate souls. And I could stay in Ohio through the first week in January. We take a week off, so. What if we came home on the fifth or sixth?”   

“That sounds good. It’ll give us more time to settle back into Chicago.” 

“Perfect! I’ll have the smart law people put that in writing, then,” he says, “And I’ll have them put in a clause that says if I don’t make each member of your family smile five times each, then I have to give you back all your money.” 

Harry snorts and kicks him. “Speaking of money… shall I venmo you? I know you said first half deposit before December and then the second half before we leave.” 

“I can’t believe you remembered that. I’m so impressed. This is why you are in a smart, technical job that I am too stupid for.” 

Harry frowns. Louis tries to wink. He fails.

“And Venmo works! I’ll put the payment deadlines and methods in the contract, too.”  

For just a moment, Harry pauses, if only because nothing about this conversation is awkward (isn’t having a conversation about money or finances always supposed to be awkward?) and he can’t quite remember ever feeling this comfortable with someone else. He wonders if Louis feels this comfortable with him in return. And if he does, does it feel special, too? Does he also feel like- even if this is only the second time they’ve spent time together- they could build something really, really good? 

Something real.

Once his mind crosses that line, Harry shakes his head and presses on. “And in terms of PDA… nothing crazy, you know? We’ll just do what feels natural. I feel like we get along well enough already.” 

Louis nods. “Agreed. The idea of us being in a relationship isn’t far-fetched. We have enough in common and, like, a very easy way of talking to each other. Besides, it’s not like your family is going to be trying to poke holes in our relationship, you know? Actual relationships are more common than fake ones. Who would even think to question us?” 

“That is true. We definitely have the upperhand.” 

“Because we are liars. Who lie.” 

They exchange small, soft, somewhat sleepy smiles and then move on to their next topic of choice: how to get Zayn to believe them. 

Twenty minutes later, after Harry decides to shelve the Zayn-problem for another day, Louis cuddles further against the cushion, hugging his large, plush pillow to his chest. A yawn that is all too telling escapes him. “This was so much fun,” he says. His eyes are heavy and tired. He wiggles his feet against Harry’s thighs. “But I have to be in the Bughouse by noon. And all my things are at home and… Niall is definitely going to make fun of me for staying out this late. He’s the rudest roommate ever.” 

Harry’s own tired expression softens. He watches Louis nuzzle his cheek against the pillow, as if the lilac feathers stitched into the fabric can encourage a burst of energy, and something shifts in his gut. “Let me call you an Uber.” 

“No, that’s okay.” Louis yawns again. “Uber’s are expensive and it’s late. I can-” 

“Lou, I am calling you an Uber. It’s on me.” Though his entire body is already angled towards the other boy, Harry shifts closer. Louis’ ankles slide onto the cushion as his calves steal their place atop Harry’s leggings. “It’s the safest and warmest option. And I’ve held you hostage for eight hours. I can take care of your ride home.” 

“You haven’t held me hostage. This was fun.” The words are a whine. “But fine. I get to buy you sushi next week, though.” 

Harry smiles and reaches for his phone. While navigating the Uber app, he says, “Okay, deal,” and then asks Louis for his address. Louis rambles out the details for an Albany Park apartment complex on Lawrence Avenue through another yawn. There’s a car twenty minutes away (a miraculous find, really, for two in the morning) that accepts the request immediately.

“How long is your day tomorrow?” Harry wonders. “I’m really, really sorry it’s so late.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Louis assures him. “Really. I would’ve left hours ago if it wasn’t. I only technically work until five, and it’s just to perfect all the scripts and go through some producer shit. I always end up taking a dinner break and coming back for the actual show at nine, though. Watching it live is my absolute favorite thing in the world. I love seeing the crowd’s reaction.”

“I love that you love it so much.” 

“I’m just… so proud of what we’re doing? And where it could go?” Louis shuffles upwards, sitting taller as he stretches. His movements are languid. “Just… being a part of something this special feels special, I- oh my god. Sorry. That was way too Glee of me.” 

Harry’s laugh is far too loud. “Okay, Rachel Berry.” 

“Please. I am Brittany S. Pierce or I am nothing.” 

“Does that make me Santana?” 

Though Louis tilts his head, giving him an exaggerated once-over, he takes only a few seconds to consider. “Nah. You’re way too sweet.” Louis reaches forward and jokingly tugs at the curls splayed across the couch, a mess that only grows worse the longer Harry leans his head against it. “Plus the curls are hardly giving Santana. You’re in your own league, Styles.” 

Harry’s breath hitches, stunned and a little too warm from the brush of contact, and he misses Louis’ touch the moment the other boy leans back. He racks his brain for something to say- whether to continue their Glee conversation or ask more questions about The Bughouse or maybe to say that he wishes he could feel as proud and as passionate about his own work- but his tongue feels heavy. His brain is slowing and he’s staring, he knows, but so is Louis and the weight of that gaze is enough to cave his chest in. 

“Hey, Harry?” 

His voice has grown raspier, in the late hour. Harry closes his eyes. “Yeah?” 

“Why do you need a fake boyfriend?” He asks, soft and slow. Timid. “Just… I get staying single, I haven’t put any effort into dating for a while, but. I guess I just… I know we’re going to visit your family over the holidays. Do they, like, expect you to have a boyfriend? And do you not want one? Or is it something else?” 

And. God. Harry keeps his eyes closed. Pleas to leave it, to drop this conversation, rest on the tip of his tongue. He wants to ask Louis to leave those questions (no matter how relevant) for another late night, one that is less warm. Less perfect. Rehashing those details feels wrong, right now. 

Still, it’s not like Harry can keep his motives a secret.

Before Harry can decide on an answer, though, Louis interjects. “I’m sorry if that was too personal. I just-” 

“No, you’re fine.” Harry opens his eyes and tries his very best to assure Louis with a smile. “Truthfully. I… it’s not like I’ve avoided dating by choice. I’m just really busy with work and it’s just… never happened? There’s not much else to tell.” 

Louis nods. “I get that. Usually I make it through a few Bumble dates at most before it fizzles out.” 

“Same. And it’s just… it hasn’t been my focus for awhile now. I haven’t given it a lot of thought, but. To be completely honest, I don’t think my family is going to be overjoyed that I’m bringing someone home. It’s… complicated.” 

“You can tell me, if you want.” For someone who is so naturally bouncy- who moves from room to room, from topic to topic, without hesitation- Louis is utterly still. He watches Harry with unwavering focus. Even his chest rises and falls slowly. He’s zeroed in and the attention is as appreciated as it is overwhelming. “Am I going into hostile enemy territory?” 

Harry smiles. “I think we both will be. Me especially.”

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s… been awhile since I’ve gone home,” Harry admits, the words slow and weak. Louis tilts his head. “Like, a really long while. And it’s partly because I’m busy with work, but also because I just don’t really feel like I belong there? Or like my family understands… me or the decisions I’ve made.” 

Louis hums, nodding once. “Your decision to move to Chicago?”

“And to break up with my boyfriend when I moved to Chicago,” Harry says, the words tasting bitter in his mouth, especially after the sweet elation of this evening. “I… that one really didn’t go over well. My mom started planning our wedding when I was, like, sixteen. Probably. Legend has it she still has the binders with all the details on her bedside table.”

A small, gentle smile pulls at the corners of Louis’ lips. “But sixteen…” He shakes his head. “Sixteen is so young. Most people don’t… that’s a lot of pressure to put on a teenage relationship.”  

“Tell me about it,” Harry mutters, “But I… I started dating my highschool sweetheart then and I was lucky to have such an accepting family and I know that, but. It was almost too much and I don’t know if that makes me sound ungrateful-” 

“It doesn’t,” Louis says quickly. 

“-But it… pressure is a really good word for it. It’s like… I couldn’t do anything without my family wanting to include him. He was invited to every holiday dinner and our families went on vacations to Myrtle Beach together. I couldn’t go out with Zayn without my mom suggesting I invite my boyfriend and… I was a kid, Lou. I didn’t even know who I was yet and it felt like my entire identity was tied to another person.” 

Big, sad blue eyes stare at him and Harry is relieved- but not surprised- to find no judgment. It makes it easier to speak, to breathe, and he finds himself continuing without prompting. 

Why isn’t talking to everyone this easy? 

“And he was a year older than me, so he graduated first and my senior year was actually really nice because I could, like, be my own person a little more? But then my family pushed me to apply to the local university because he was a student there and it was close to home and when I got there it was even more just… suffocating? Like. Being in your first year of college is supposed to be about self-discovery, but I just kept joining every club Alec was in and my only friends were his friends and… and it was fine, but I wasn’t happy. I just wasn’t.”

“Alec is your ex?” Louis’ tone is soft. Harry nods. 

“Yeah, and he was… I wasn’t miserable with him, but I also just, like… I knew it wasn’t right and maybe I was selfish or took him for granted because he did love me, I think, but I was also a kid and I needed some time to just be me, by myself. So, after my first two semesters, I was sort of just… done. I spent that third semester applying to other schools. And when I was accepted into my dream school in Chicago, I immediately withdrew. I took the spring semester off. And then I broke up with Alec. And told my family. And then moved here that next summer and have been here ever since.” 

When Harry finally meets Louis’ gaze, he finds warm blue eyes and an expression that, mercifully, isn’t pitying. “And your family wasn’t supportive?” 

“They spent the last six months I lived there telling me that I was making the biggest mistake of my life.” Harry rolls his eyes. “My mom begged me to let her call Alec so we could work it out. I guess… I always knew she loved him? And so did my family? I just didn’t realize they loved him more than they loved me.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true, H.” 

“I think it is. Even if it wasn’t always true, I haven’t been home in six years. They… their life went on without me, and I graduated early and then enrolled in Chicago’s Masters program and got another degree and no one came to either graduation and that… it hurt. It still hurts, and I think that’s why I’m giving in and going back for the holidays. I do… I don’t regret leaving, but. I miss my family. I’m sick of missing my family.”

It’s by far the most Harry has ever talked about his relationship with his family; the doubts surrounding his career and his place in the world, and he can hardly believe he’s spilling his secrets at two in the morning, to a near stranger he’s barely known for a week, but. It doesn’t feel wrong. Harry is lighter than he’s been in years, and Louis’ eyes are still cautious, still bright.  

He reaches forward, again, and squeezes Harry’s arm. Harry’s breath hitches. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re really brave,” he whispers, his gaze unwavering. And though Harry’s first instinct is to argue, Louis’ expression silences him. “Seriously, Harry. It takes so much courage to go against everything and everyone you’ve ever known and make the best decision for yourself. It takes a lot to realize you deserve better. And I… do you think you made the right choice?” 

“I do.” 

Louis squeezes his arm once more before leaning back. “Then you did. You don’t owe anyone an apology. Do you…” He hesitates. “Do you regret breaking up with Alec?” 

“Not even once, like, not ever,” Harry says quickly, “But just… I guess it’s confusing? Because he… he got engaged? Like two weeks ago? To this guy we went to high school with? And… and I don’t regret leaving, but. It makes me wonder… if I hadn’t left him, would we be married now? Would I be settled? Would everything be different?” 

“Everything would be different,” Louis concedes. “But it sounds like you wouldn’t be happy.” 

I wouldn’t be. And sometimes I’m not now, either. But… but I am at this exact moment in time. Here. With you. On this couch. 

“Thank you for listening to me,” Harry says and Louis smiles at him. “I guess that’s it? It’s just… I couldn’t stomach the thought of returning home for the first time in six years single? Especially when my ex is engaged? And, like, I don’t even mind being single. I just know what my family would say.” 

Louis nods, brushing back his bangs. He yawns. “I get it. And I will be the best fake boyfriend ever. We will show that town the true meaning of love. And Christmas.” 

Harry laughs just as his phone buzzes, a warning that his Uber is five minutes out, and he knows- he knows, he knows- that Louis needs to get some rest. Still, he doesn’t want this to end. 

Stay, he yearns to say. 

“C’mon. We should get you packed up,” he tells him instead. Louis yawns for the millionth time. 

Slowly, miserably, they come untangled. Louis pulls his feet off Harry’s lap and stands. His body sways. Before stretching, Harry holds out his arms in anticipation of a fall. They both remain steady, though, and Louis soon has his laptop tucked back in his bag. He tells Harry that he can keep the remaining pastries. “I have free access everyday,” he says, “Enjoy your cake pops.” 

In the foyer, watching Louis slowly bundle back up in his ridiculous jacket, his hat and his scarf and the shoes that fit so well next to Harry’s, feels wrong for reasons Harry can’t understand. “Thank you again for dinner,” Louis says, doing up his jacket’s mahogany buttons. “I’m sorry I didn’t help a lot with clean up.” 

“You loaded the dishwasher,” Harry reminds him, smiling. “Even when I told you you didn’t have to.” 

“I felt bad.” 

“You didn’t have to,” Harry repeats, “But thank you. And thank you for coming over and, like, everything? I… I really like spending time with you.”

Louis’ eyes crinkle and he’s so lovely. “I really like it, too,” he says, “Which is a good thing, I guess, if we are to appear madly in love for two whole weeks. And I’m happy you told me about your ex. Now I know my role a little better.”

“Oh, do you?” 

“I do.” Louis still can’t wink. Something close to adoration burns through Harry. “We are going to appear so in love that everyone in ‘Ohio’ is going to wonder which couple is actually engaged. They will be jealous of us . Not the other way around.” 

Harry’s small giggle freezes in his throat when Louis steps closer. The lingering smell of coffee clouds Harry’s senses and his breath hitches and his mind freezes and what, what, what, what? Louis’ eyes flutter down. His eyelashes kiss his cheeks. He’s an absolute work of art. Harry can’t understand why he hasn’t spent his entire life taking pictures of him. 

Louis’ nose brushes along Harry’s cheekbones. Without his permission, Harry’s eyes fall shut. “I am all in on the pretending gig.” When Louis speaks, the movement of his lips tease Harry’s, which are parted ever so slightly a few centimeters over. It’s dizzying. It’s intoxicating. Harry can’t breathe and he can’t move and he wants to turn his head, suddenly, he wants to turn and meet Louis in the middle and he’s so frozen. “We will wow the fake Ohio audiences.” 

God. 

When he shifts again, Louis’ lips land closer to Harry’s ear. His free hand lifts to push back Harry’s curls. Harry’s body curves inward, towards the touch. Towards Louis. Every cell is screaming for more. “I have a feeling we’re already experts on the matter.” Louis’ lips brush his temple. Harry shivers. “G’night, H.” 

Louis pulls back- without warning, just as he arrived- and when Harry opens his eyes, it’s to find flushed cheeks and blue, blue, blue eyes and pink lips that are now too far away. 

Any and all words are stuck in Harry’s throat. 

Louis smirks and waves and then he’s gone.

Just like that.

And Harry is probably, definitely, certainly ruined. 

*****

lewis tom @ommotuol  

is someone with really pretty curls making you life-changing baked ziti grounds for a proposal be honest 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

@ommotuol yes :)  

lewis tom @ommotuol  

@HarryStyles_KE oh perfect! pls say yes 

neil the whore ran @whoreyneilran

@ommotuol @HarryStyles_KE …….. inchresting 

***** 

The following afternoon, just as Harry’s stumbling back into his apartment with sweat-soaked hair and muscles that feel like they were dragged through a meat grinder, his phone starts ringing. 

Harry drops his gym bag and pulls it from his pocket. When he sees the caller ID, he smiles and answers without hesitation. “Hello?” 

“Hey! Hi. You really, really, really didn’t have to do that, H. “

“Well, duh. But I wanted to.” Harry does his best to unbutton his jacket with one hand. “Was everything okay? I kinda guessed my way through the order.”  

“Babes, it was free coffee. It was perfect.” A deafening crash rings through the line, followed by a chorus of shouting. Someone yells for God’s sake Niall. Harry giggles. He officially abandons his attempts to unbutton his jacket and instead wanders over to the couch he shared with Louis twelve precious hours ago. “My ridiculous, clumsy roommate really appreciated you DoorDashing him a coffee, too. He sends you his love. And metaphorical flowers.” 

“Metaphorical flowers are my favorite.” 

Louis giggles. “Noted,” he says. Harry’s heart swells at the mere thought of his eyes crinkling. “But, seriously. I just wanted to call to thank you. The surprise coffee made my day so much better.” 

Harry decides that he will order coffee for Louis every single morning if it means getting to talk to him. If it means making him happy. “I’m so glad, Lou,” he tells him, curling further against the cushion. “Do you still have a lot of work to do?” 

“Not really, actually. Things have gone almost suspiciously smooth all afternoon. I may get to leave at 4:30!” 

“That’s amazing. I’m so excited to watch the show tonight.” 

Sometimes, Harry swears he can hear Louis’ smile. “I’m excited to hear your thoughts on it,” he says, “And, hey… if I can get out at 4:30… and if you are free… do you think that we could maybe, potentially get dinner? Together? Bump up our sushi date?” 

Harry also wouldn’t be surprised if, in turn, Louis can hear his smile. “That sounds perfect.” 

***** 

Tonight! Live from The Bughouse… 

After grabbing drinks with Liam, who is headed home for two weeks to visit his family, Harry plops on his couch with a glass of wine and watches Louis’ mind at work. His wit and humor- the quips and one liners Harry adores- shine through the scripts he wrote, the scenes he directed. Harry lasts exactly three minutes before he’s pulling out his phone. 

Harry: THAT OPENING MONOLOGUE??? SNL IS QUAKING??? 

Harry: oh my god you definitely wrote that bit about the twilight baseball scene didn’t you? that has you written all over it 

Harry: LOU 

Harry: LOUIS 

Harry: L O U I S 

Harry: DID YOU JUST 

Harry: WRITE AN OHIO JOKE???????? INTO THE SHOW??????

Harry: IM SCREAMING I HATE YOU SO MUCH

Harry: also! the “we’re coming out” sequence? LOU THAT IS GENIUS YOU ARE ALL GENIUSES!  

Harry: i can’t believe i’ve never watched the show before? that’s a tragedy? you’re so talented and so is the cast? i’m loving this :-) 

Twenty minutes later, following the introduction of the Pink Triangle segment, inspiration strikes Harry. He opens his phone camera and snaps a quick shot of the fish tank. 

Harry: ms. bee is a captive audience, too <3 

Louis (My Fiance?): I LOVE THAT FISH SO MUCH. I MISS HER 

Louis (My Fiance?): and thank you so so so so so much :) i am loving your live updates. niall kept making fun of me for laughing out loud when we were chilling together backstage x) 

Louis (My Fiance?): you should watch the show live, sometime! i have some connections to secure backstage passes hehe 

Louis (My Fiance?): it’s me (hi) i AM the CONNECTIONS. i am simply too powerful 

Harry: ajsjdfsfsf oh my god yes please 

Louis (My Fiance?): :’) 

*****

The Starbucks located on Taylor Street is a little out of the way for Harry- especially when there are approximately a million and one other cafe’s lining the city blocks resting between the West Side and Kotler Emporium- but on Monday afternoon, after yet another grueling day of projects and meetings and reports, Harry hops on the Blue Line and takes it to the stop nearest the United Center. From there, it’s another fifteen minute walk. The late autumn air cuts at his cheeks. His work shoes dig into his heels. Still, his fingers tap against his thighs. He can’t stop smiling and surely he’s never been this excited to spend almost eight dollars on coffee in his entire life.

Inside the café, a scruffy barista in a messy apron is laughing as he makes a customer her drink. Harry smiles, too. 

He steps inside, chasing the warmth from the mercifully empty shop, and hears Louis say, “-Ahhh that’s amazing! So Marissa’s concert went well then?” 

“It did! You should’ve seen my baby, Lou. All of those times she was up playing her cello until three in the morning is paying off. Maybe I’m biased, but…” 

“You’re not. Juilliard will be calling any day now.” 

The woman laughs. “Watch yourself. I think I will probably die when she moves away for college.” 

A resounding click sounds when the door closes behind Harry. Louis looks over. “Hello! I’ll be right with- Harry! Hi! ”  

Louis’ already impossible smile, eyes crinkling in that gorgeous way they do, widens. Any lingering nerves or doubts or worries Harry had- the concern that maybe visiting him at work is crossing a few too many invisible lines- fades. Harry’s shoulders relax. His hands stop drumming against his thighs. “Hey, Lou,” he says, “Take your time. There’s no hurry.” 

A bright pink tint coats Louis’ cheeks as he turns back to his task, grinning at the espresso machine. 

The woman turns to Harry with a similar smile. Her eyes, though, flicker between Louis and Harry. “Well, hello!” She says, “I see you’ve found our hidden gem of a Starbucks. I’m Lena.” 

“I guess so,” is what Harry says, rather than I think, actually, that I’ve found our hidden gem of a barista. “I’m Harry.”

“You’re Louis’ friend?” 

Ha. What an interesting, interesting question. Harry doesn’t quite know the answer. 

Neither, it seems, does Louis. His laugh sounds a little forced. “You do not need to interrogate him, Lena,” he says, “Harry’s harmless. And curly. All is good.” 

Lena quirks one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows. She gives Harry a onceover. “It better be.” 

“Ugh. I forgot what you’re like when you get into Mom Mode.” 

“Funny, Marissa says the same thing.”

“Speaking of! Here’s a caramel frappe on the house.” Louis slides over the drink before handing Lena her own coffee. “For the little one. Consider it a concert gift.” 

“Lou, you don’t have to. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” 

“Please. The multi-billion dollar company is going to be fine. Take it.” 

Lena smiles gratefully, and all Harry can think is, you are so, so lovely. 

Eventually, though, his brain is called upon to have some sort of productive thought. Lena takes her drinks, bids Louis a good day, and gives Harry one last lingering look before exiting. And then Louis turns to Harry and Harry suddenly forgets how to speak and how to smile and how to order a drink at Starbucks. What is coffee? What is his usual? Are coffee beans even real? 

How is one person this wonderful? 

“Hello,” Louis says again, strolling over to the register. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here. It’s quite the journey you’ve made.” 

Harry could be witty, he could wink and say something like I’ve heard the best barista works at this specific location and Louis would either flush or roll his eyes, but he’d also most definitely be pleased and Harry would be proud of himself for making Louis smile and- 

Louis clears his throat, looking down at the iPad screen, and Harry realizes he never actually answered. “Um,” he says, incredibly eloquently. And why is this the first time Harry’s ever felt anything less than comfortable around Louis? “Yeah, hi. I just…” 

Wanted to see you, is what he means to say . 

“Wanted some coffee,” is what comes out instead. “And I remembered that my lovely fake boyfriend is an incredible barista.” 

Louis smiles. “I see. So you wanted a discount.” 

“... That’s an option?”

“Hmmmm.” Louis juts out his hip, pretending to consider. “For you, it is. What can I get ya, Curly?”

Harry fumbles through his order- a cold brew, definitely, is needed, and he asks for a pesto sandwich too because then he doesn’t have to worry about dinner- and when Louis grins and charges him six dollars for a near fifteen dollar order, Harry tips twenty. 

“How was your day?” Louis asks after setting the sandwich in the mini oven.

Harry shrugs. “It was fine. More of the same. Have you been busy?” 

“Ehhhh, a little around noon, but. Nothing Chicago’s Best Barista and his brain rats can’t handle.” 

The smile that builds on Harry’s face is  fond. He sits on the stool and watches Louis in action, navigating the machines Harry wouldn’t even begin to know how to tackle, and he’s humming along to the radio- it’s Taylor Swift, Harry knows. He may not yet be the world’s biggest fan, but he’d recognize Love Story anywhere- while he goes. It’s an odd, easy lull that feels out of place in a Starbucks. It’s also the perfect way to unwind after the world’s longest day. 

The smell of coffee beans and of pastries is very welcome, too. Harry finds himself wondering if Louis always smells like that after a long shift. 

And then he ends that line of thinking. Because it is dangerous. 

“Hey, Lou?” He calls out. “Can I ask you something I’ve always been too scared to ask any other barista?”

Louis’ laugh is loud. The oven beeps and he moves to open it. “Ask away.” 

“... How do you actually pronounce the strawberry refresher drink?” 

“Ah! Great question!” Louis sets Harry’s sandwich inside a paper holder. “It’s ah-sigh-ee, baby love. A strawberry acai. The second syllable is stressed.” 

“Oh my god. You are a lifesaver. Now I can order it without sounding like an idiot.” 

“Good thing you asked. We’re taught in training that if someone mispronounces acai, then we’re supposed to take them out back and shoot them.” Louis hands Harry the wrapper. A shocked snort escapes him. “Same if they try to say small instead of tall, or medium instead of grande. It’s in the Starbucks code of conduct, right next to the chapter on union busting.” 

“Oh my god.” 

Just as Louis moves to top off Harry’s drink with the salted caramel cold foam, the door opens. Three children sprint inside. Their words echo, utterly indistinguishable, and Harry flinches at the noise and the sudden chaos, but Louis’ smile remains easy, his expression light. 

A frantic mother comes bounding inside three seconds later. “Jenna! Josh! Julia!” She admonishes, “I told y’all to wait!” 

Rather than looking impish, the kids continue bickering. 

“I’m so sorry,” the woman says, both to Louis and Harry. Louis waves her off. 

“You’re fine! No worries. Kids being kids. I know how that is.” 

The woman’s shoulders relax, then, but all Harry can do is look at Louis and think, you do? 

Louis writes something on Harry’s cup before offering him the cold brew. Harry turns the uneven, cursive script towards himself. 

My relief is coming in 20. Wait for me? x) 

There could only be one answer. 

And here Harry thought he’d be bored or lonely with Liam out of town.

Harry settles in the far right corner, picking at his sandwich while Louis tends to the children and pays careful attention to making sure they each get their preferred flavor of cake pop. And Louis is so gentle and patient. He’s funny. The kids adore him and so do the handful of customers who stop in after, and- not for the first time- Harry can’t help but wonder why this wonderful, wonderful, wonderful person has opted to spend his holiday with a houseful of strangers. 

It’s far too personal a question to ask, and Harry is far too nervous to upset the balance of this newly found friendship, but he still tucks away Louis assuring a mother that he knows how it is when handling a group of children for an analysis to be made later. 

And he promises himself, right then and there, that no matter Louis’ reason for his plans this Christmas, Harry will make sure he has the time of life. 

Twenty-five minutes later, Louis tugs off his apron and steps out from behind the counter, wiping a streak of chocolate off his forearm, and the smile he sends Harry is blinding, brilliant, calming. Harry wants to know everything about him. 

“Wanna get lost in Chicago?” Louis asks.

And so they do. 

*****

During work on Tuesday, Harry catalogs the things he knows about Louis. 

He knows, obviously, the basics provided in his list. The Grotesque Murder of Mr. Murph the Hamster. Louis needing to eat with small utensils. Him loving Taylor Swift and Percy Jackson and cuddles. (That last fact has remained regrettably untested). He tends to blame his hyperactive tendencies on his “brain rats” (a concept Harry still doesn’t fully understand) and it’s not unusual for him to say something along the lines of, “Gotta keep the rats happy” at least five times a day, and usually before making himself another coffee. Grocery shopping does not rank anywhere on his list of favorite hobbies, nor does creating viral TikTok content. Louis has strong opinions about the color of science and Thursday’s connection to seven and he loves, loves, loves his job(s). He has a lilac coat he wears everywhere and a passion for pasta and a best friend named Niall. 

His dream gift- as Harry learned during their time spent exploring Chicago- is a record player, so he can justify spending “an ungodly amount of money” on vinyls. It feels odd to think that the one person who can recite lyrics and melodies as naturally as he breathes doesn’t own one, but Louis doesn’t let it bring him down. He has a wonderfully optimistic way of approaching life that is refreshing. It’s inspiring. 

He has the bluest eyes and the brightest smile and he’s so unfailingly kind and funny and, Harry finds, even seeing his name flash on his screen is enough to make the world feel less cold. 

And it’s all a little insane to grapple with, because Harry didn’t come into this with the hope of making a new friend. He hardly knew if he wanted to pursue the whole “fake boyfriend” thing in the first place. And now- less than two weeks after meeting Louis for the first time- Harry is all but convinced that that accidental DM he sent may have been the best thing to happen to him all year. 

Thank the lord for helogogjs good gksdjid.  

(Thank the lord for Louis Tomlinson).

As the office rushes to finish their work, most yearning for the freedom of having both Thanksgiving and Black Friday off, Harry pauses halfway through a complicated ROI when his phone buzzes. 

(It’s become a bit of a thing. Leaving his phone out. Waiting for texts from Louis. Most are nonsensical musings and funny jokes Niall has made. Yesterday, he sent Harry an entire conversation between the pair- typed out like a movie script- in which Niall was insisting that Elf will forever be the elite Christmas movie of their generation 

Louis (My Fiance?): it went something like this:

louis (the voice of reason): you are completely failing to acknowledge the wonder and beauty of “the grinch” and “rudolph” and “a christmas vacation” and every single hallmark movie ever created. (stomps foot) (blinks). (agitated voice simmers into a calm, contemplative tone). and that includes that cinderella one starring laura marano and mason the werewolf from wizards of waverly place. i am begging you to please be serious. for once in your life.

niall (resident idiot): but elf is so funny! haha! hahahaha! ha! 

louis (the voice of reason): *commits defenestration*). 

((Harry adores every single message he receives, tucking the details ladened in each one to be used as pigments for the painting of Louis his mind is set on perfecting)). 

With a small yawn, he reaches for his phone and opens the newest text. 

Louis (My Fiance): hey! so i was thinking. your family is all being held hostage in a fake land, right? and i’m assuming you aren’t going to visit them in their jail for thanksgiving? 

Harry: ……… 

Harry: that is correct. i am not going to OHIO on thursday 

Louis (My Fiance?): hmph 

Louis (My Fiance?): well, in that case, if you don’t have any other plans, you are very much welcome at mine? 

Louis (My Fiance?): niall and i are hosting a potluck :) most of my coworkers will be there (except for nova. they’re going hOmE. like a LOSER) and they’re all so fun and there will be so much food and you don’t even have to bring anything!!! just your wonderful presence !!!! we usually eat at about 3 or 4 (i’m one of ~those~ thanksgivingners and i make no apologies), but feel free to come later, too! if you want to, of course! just let me know!!!

Harry stares and stares and stares at his screen. 

A potluck? With Louis? And his best friend? And his coworkers? 

A massive group to spend the holiday with? 

The possibility is a far cry from his original plans of ordering a pizza after finishing with work. (Liam and he tried to make a turkey last year. It was a disaster, and this year Liam went home to Montana, so. He would be friendless if he tried to make a turkey and pizza is far easier. It was an easy decision). 

Louis’ offer almost sounds… nice? Nice to see Louis. Nice to have company and good food. 

But also- Harry frowns- all of Louis’ coworkers? An entire group of unknown human beings? People for Harry to meet for the first time and make small talk with? Neither of those things are his forte. Harry’s never been one to dazzle a room or charm strangers into wanting to know him. He’s not so good at first meetings and making positive first impressions. Louis is by far the only exception. 

With a small sigh, and an odd feeling in his stomach, Harry begins typing. 

Harry: thank you so much for the invite! that sounds so fun? i’ll let you know for sure soon, though. i have to work on thanksgiving and i don’t know when i’ll get out :/ 

He’s scheduled until three, but. If he keeps his options open- neither accepting nor declining the invitation- then he can make a definitive decision the day of, when he knows how he feels and if he’s prepared to meet a new group of people. 

He’s a genius, it seems. Even if the knots in his stomach are inundated by waves of guilt. 

Louis (My Fiance?): harold :( you have to work on thanksgiving? i’m so sorry. that sucks 

Harry: it’s okay! i offered. we’re collaborating for an event over the weekend so we have lots of paperwork and planning to do :) and volunteering to work now is actually how i got 3 weeks off for christmas, so. you win some you lose some 

Louis (My Fiance?): oh! speaking of! we should buy our flight tickets sooner rather than later. also i demand a window seat :D 

Harry: lou, honey 

Harry: silly, silly arizonian  

Harry: we are NOT flying home. we are driving !!!!!!! put your midwest thinking cap on, silly!!!!! 

Harry: it’s only a 7 hour drive home, so! i was thinking we could leave on the 17th after you get off work? i can pick you up at the studio :)  

Louis (My Fiance?): ….. we are driving ??? SEVEN HOURS????? 

Harry: yep! and those are rookie numbers! welcome to the midwest, sunshine 

Louis (My Fiance?): omg wait 

Louis (My Fiance?): blink twice if this is your way of admitting that we can’t fly into ohio from chicago because there are no flights from ohio to chicago because ohio isn’t real???? 

Louis (My Fiance?): a fake state that can only be “accessed” by “driving” 

Harry: louis 

Louis (My Fiance?): my theory only makes more sense by the HOUR. i am SO SMART. i CRACKED THE CODE MWAHAHAHAHAHA 

Louis (My Fiance?): we really have no choice but to drive, huh? i guess i understand, given the circumstances 

Louis (My Fiance): but i will be sending you a collaborative road trip playlist within the hour, so we can curate the most perfect soundtrack to narrate our seven hour journey to the sham of a destination 

Fifty-eight minutes later, Louis sends him a playlist called “ A Gayotic Swiftmiss Road Trip .” It has every single track from Speak Now already waiting in queue. 

Harry adores him, just a little bit.

Just a lot a bit. 

***** 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

AND THEY SAID SPEAK NOW-OW. road trip classic. 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

@ommotuo but haunted??? and the bridge of dear john?? we will be belting?

lewis tom @ommotuol   

@HarryStyles_KE someone’s been doing their homework! i’m so proud and excited

*****

Liam Payne: Hey. Hey Harry. Hey Harry Styles. Hey Harry Edward Styles. 

Harry: oh god 

Liam Payne: Since when are you and Louis Tomlinson Twitter besties. And why is he saying he’s excited about something like you’re doing it together? 

Harry: ……….. 

Harry: sinceheagreedtobemyfakeboyfriendforthewinterandnowearegoingtoohiotogetherandheisactuallysupersweetandsuperfunnyandithinkilikespendingtimewithhimmorethanishouldhahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha 

Harry: OKAY BYE 

Liam Payne: HARRY WHAT 

Liam Payne: GET BACK HERE????

Liam Payne: IT TAKES ME GOING HOME TO MONTANA FOR TWO WEEKS FOR YOU TO LISTEN TO ME FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE 

Liam Payne: H A R R Y 

*****

Though Harry tries- he really, really, really tries- to accept Louis’ invitation, to convince himself that it will be a good idea to meet Louis’ coworkers and his best friend, as three o’clock rolls around, he only feels more nauseated at the thought. All he can think is they’re going to hate me and they’ll tell Louis they hate me and Louis will have no choice but to cut ties with me and I’ll be left all alone again and I’ll miss him and I really, really, really don’t want to miss him. Perhaps it is best if I don’t go so I can delay the inevitable for just a little while longer. 

If missing the potluck means Harry can postpone the people in Louis’ life urging him to distance himself from Harry, well. Harry will miss it a million times over. 

Besides, it’s been a long day. A long, long day and sitting on his couch with Belinda and a box of pizza sounds better than putting himself through the process of meeting over ten people all at once. He’ll miss Louis, of course, and he hates losing an opportunity to see him, but. Louis will be busy acting as a co-host anyway. He’ll have plenty of people to keep him entertained, plenty of (far more) interesting conversations to be had. He’ll be fine. 

Really. What business would Harry have there? He doesn’t work with them. He’s not in the entertainment business like they are. All he has in common with Louis’ coworkers is Louis, and… 

Fuck. The invite was a mere formality. Wasn’t it? 

It definitely was. 

The potluck would be a really, really bad idea. 

Harry: heyyyy lou. i’m really sorry but i don’t think i’ll be able to make it :( i still have so much more to do and i am tired, so :( maybe next time? 

After he sends the text, Harry feels just the slightest bit lighter. He finishes his section of the project twenty minutes later and shuts down his computer. While pulling on his jacket, he decides that a walk around Navy Pier would be the best way to spend the afternoon. Even if it’s cold. He has his camera in his bag and his gloves and there won’t be many people braving the weather on a holiday. Perhaps he can take the ferry back to Millenium Park and snap more pictures of the skyline from Lake Michigan. 

An afternoon to himself. Himself and his camera. 

It’s what he always needs. 

Louis never texts him back. A confirmation of what Harry already knew to be true. 

***** 

Three hours later, when his face is numb and his hair rendered a wind strewn mess, Harry follows the familiar path to his apartment. Everything is quiet, still. Silent. Most of his neighbors are visiting family this weekend, he knows. Others are probably napping to prepare for the Great Impending War that is Black Friday Shopping. It is so still. So quiet. So empty. 

So empty, except for the plate waiting on Harry’s welcome mat. 

Harry freezes. He blinks. He… 

What? 

The plate is covered with tinfoil. On top, a pink sticky note lies in wait.

Harry’s hands shake as he reaches for it.

H, 

You deserve a good Thanksgiving meal. I’m sorry it’ll probably be cold. Nuking it should help. I wanted to drop it off before I got too drunk (heh). 

I wish you could’ve joined us. You woulda made everything way more fun. 

Still, enjoy dinner!!! And please get some rest. You deserve it. 

-Love L x

*****

Over the long holiday weekend, Harry- with those annoying guilt worms still making a home in his stomach- invites Louis out to do some Christmas shopping and then makes him wedding soup and sandwiches. (“Wedding soup?” Louis wondered, “Are we actually getting married, Curls? What is that?”)

((It was then that Harry learned wedding soup and its wonderful, delicious mini meatballs are in fact not a universal phenomenon. The world has seemed a sadder place since)). 

(((Louis agreed with him. “Who knew a fake land could make such a delicious concoction? I will absolutely marry you if it means we can have wedding soup at our wedding.”))).

((((And Harry was fine. Totally fine. He absolutely did not choke on a mini meatball. He was fine)))). 

Anyway. 

That particular night, once again, ends with them on his couch, giggling over wine as they finalize their relationship backstory and their travel plans. They talk and talk and talk. Louis leaves at almost three in the morning, blinking through punctuated yawns, with tired eyes that will be the death of Harry. 

Harry sleeps until eleven and then takes the biggest step in the whole fake relationship scheme to date. 

He has to make the plan official. He has to push them to the point of no return. 

He has to call his mother. 

Not for the first time, Harry wishes Belinda could live outside of her tank. This task would be made better with her curled on his lap, offering cuddles and distractions. (Mayhaps this is a sign to get a cat? Harry wonders if he could trust a cat with his beloved fish. He wonders if Louis likes cats). His lungs ache. His legs shake. Everything is too quiet and his heartbeat is too loud and he closes his eyes after clicking the call button. 

Susan Styles picks up on the third ring. “Harry,” she says, and her tone is surprised enough to make Harry feel like a shit son. “Hi darling, how are you?” 

“I’m okay.” Harry keeps his eyes closed, his right hand folded neatly on his lap. He sits as stiff as he did during all those “interventions” in the last few months he lived at home. “What’re you up to?” 

A soft laugh sounds from the other line. “Oh, nothing sweetheart. Just getting ready for an early dinner at an old friend’s house.” 

Alec’s house. Or Alec’s family’s house. 

Harry knows what she means without her saying it. The slight awkwardness, the hesitation, her not specifying when Harry grew up with family friends who always felt like family, is a dead giveaway. There can only be one answer. 

He sighs. “That sounds fun. I won’t keep you then. I just, um, had some news?” 

“Oh? Are you finally moving back home?” She laughs like it’s a joke. Harry knows it’s not. 

“Um, no. Still got a job and a life here.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke. He fails. “But, um… I am bringing someone home. For Christmas, I mean. My boyfriend.” 

His name is Louis, he wants to add, tone quickening until he’s fully gushing. His name is Louis and he’s wonderful. He’s the funniest person I know. He’s so full of life- so bouncy and energetic and loud, loud, loud- but still so patient, too. He knows how to really listen. He is so unfailingly kind and intelligent and passionate and he’s made me feel comfortable from the very start. He has a job he adores. He loves to write and he loves Taylor Swift and can reference anything pop-culture or television or Hollywood at the drop of a hat. He loves pasta. He’s two years older than me and makes me want to be truer to myself. He’s really, really, really special. 

They’re all details that make sense, Harry reasons. For the fake boyfriend gig.

Harry means every word. 

On the other line, his mother is silent. “Oh,” she eventually says. For a tone attempting to be casual, nonchalant, the iciness cuts right at every single cell in Harry’s body. “Oh. That’s great, sweetheart. How… how wonderful.” 

She sounds like she already hates him. Harry swallows. “His name is Louis,” he says, “And he’s-”  

“Well. We’ll all be very excited to meet… Louis, then,” she says, “You’ll have to tell me all about him, okay? But I really have to get to dinner now. I’ll call you later?” 

Later could mean tonight or in three weeks. Harry isn’t holding his breath. 

“Yeah. Fine.” 

“Thanks for letting me know.” 

“Yep.” 

Harry hangs up the phone before she can say another word. 

And he hates this part about calling home. He hates the way his eyes inevitably burn. How his throat constricts. How everything feels heavier. How he can’t move and he can’t breathe and his face is hot. Red erupts behind his closed lids when he presses his palms to his eyes 

This particular phone call hurts more than any before. 

Harry hates that part. 

***** 

Harry: hey, i don’t know if my mom told you, but i am bringing my boyfriend home to meet everyone over christmas. his name is louis 

Zayn Malik: she told my mom, who told me. (are we in middle school?). i think they both cried. legend has it susan is taking down her shrine to you and alec as we speak 

Harry: please. as if she’ll ever get rid of that shrine 

Zayn Malik: lmao true 

Zayn Malik: i shall interrogate you properly when you get home, and let it be known i’m pissed i found out about your new BOYFRIEND from MY MOTHER, but. what’s he like? 

Harry: he’s special, zayn. louis is really, really special 

Harry: i like him so, so much. just getting to be around him is the best part of every day. i don’t know how to put it into words 

Harry: and i just wanted our relationship to be ours, for a little while. before everyone found out. i’m sorry i didn’t tell you

Zayn Malik: :’) i’m so happy for you, babes. i can’t wait to meet him!!! even if i’m still pissed!!!

***** 

Louis and Harry sign the contracts over coffee on December First (Louis likes the symbolism of it, claiming that important legal decisions always happen at the start of the month) and then Harry Venmo’s Louis half the “Fake Boyfriend Fund” with the tag for a gayotic Swiftmiss that he hopes makes Louis smile. 

And then all that’s left to do is finish two more weeks of work. 

While the end of November gives way to December’s first snowfall (which graces them with flurries a record shattering .05 seconds into the new month), Harry steals more moments with his new friend; more lunch dates, more dinners and nights on the couch. On one particular Sunday, six days before they’re slated to leave, Louis shows up at his door with a glint brightening the blue, blue, blue. Dustings of pink pepper his cheekbones. The wind made a mess of the hair poking out from under his lilac beanie and he takes Harry’s hand and tells him they’re going ice skating.

Laughing, Harry has to pause the menace mid-mission to remind him that he’ll need shoes and a jacket and proper clothing before he’s kidnapped. 

Louis is gracious enough to allow him ten minutes. 

Harry is hopeless on the ice. Louis insists that his mittens aren’t doing enough to warm his hands. With a sheepish grin, he slips his fingers between Harry’s.  

They fall together. Dozens of times. 

They laugh together. The entire time. 

And Harry looks at the boy sitting beside him on the ice; his rosy red cheeks and mess of hair tousled by his askew beanie. His fogged breath. Louis looks like the very best of winter. He looks, just a little, like the most beautiful thing Harry’s eyes have ever been permitted to study. 

They’ve not even left for Ohio, but Harry knows that adoring Louis Tomlinson will require no pretending at all. 

*****

Lou <3: can u believe that i get to lie to your entire extended family starting tomorrow 

Harry: i mean. technically we’ve already been lying to them for 2 weeks :) BUT i can’t believe we leave tomorrow? to go be liars and commit gay war crimes in person?

Lou <3: GAY WAR CRIMES  

Lou <3: and i also love lying. cause i’m a liar who lies <3 how many points if i make ur ex cry 

Harry: LOU

Harry: gotta be at least 759 

Lou <3: NICE 

Lou <3: get some rest, h x you’ll need it when ur doing alllllll the driving x 

Harry: but lou :( 

Lou <3: i will sleep the whole time. you won’t hear a peep from me. you’ll be SO bored 

Harry: promise? 

Lou <3: :( 

***** 

Aurora Borealis Studio is a twenty minute drive from Harry’s apartment. He sends the weather fervent thanks for not icing over the night before as he navigates traffic. Skyscrapers entrap him. He passes the building that houses Kotler Emporium and offers another quiet thank you to the skies because he won’t be walking through those doors for three weeks. 

He’s free. 

He’s free and he’s on his way to pick up Louis so they can drive to Ohio together. Where they will then lie to Harry’s entire family. And pretend to be madly in love. And eat Christmas cookies. And partake in various Christmas activities. And spend three whole weeks together. Just the two of them. Nonstop. 

(Truthfully, though, the last to-do on that list is not the one that makes him nervous. Time with Louis isn’t exactly an activity Harry dreads). 

If not for his GPS, Harry could have driven past the inconspicuous red-brick building on South Jefferson. He finds it easily enough, though, and turns his old Prius into the dilapidated, crowded parking lot. Two empty spaces remain open in the third row and Harry parks beside a Chevy Cruze with massive dents and a taped-on bumper. 

Harry: hey, i’m here! 

Lou <3: YAY 

Lou <3: come inside? niall would like to meet the man whose entire family i am lying to <3 he’s such a supportive bestie 

Lou <3: plus my bags are SO heavy :/ 

Though Harry snorts and turns off his car, a heavy feeling sours his stomach. He works quickly, as if that alone will keep his typical fears, doubts, and hesitations at bay. He tries to not grow annoyed or frustrated with Louis, because inviting someone into their place of work is normal for normal people and if Harry knew how to function he would type back an easy of course! and meet all of the people Louis adores so much and it wouldn’t be a big deal. 

God. Harry drives himself insane. 

(Why does being socially anxious have to be so embarrassing?). 

Despite there being no ice or snow, the wicked Chicago wind still stabs at Harry’s skin. Neither his coat or his jeans provide any semblance of protection. His heart thuds oddly. 

Fuck. 

The back door is open, leading into a small hallway with a dimly lit, orange hue. A sign that reads Welcome to the Bughouse! hovers above an image of an old picture of the city (was that a pride parade?). As he goes, Harry finds more pictures hanging over the beige walls. Most are snapshots of the show over the past few years and, if Harry had more time, he would surely stop to look. He would ask Louis to explain the story behind each one. 

When the hallway diverges, the studio forces Harry to decide between turning right or left. (And? Now he gets options? Fucking hell). The right clearly leads to the stage, where the show will go live in just over six hours. A host of small rooms (dressing rooms?) expand on the left side. That hallway is thinner. Harry decides it feels a little less intimidating. He follows a shout of voices and laughter, tucking his hands awkwardly in his pocket. (If these are the sorts of experiences that come with having friends, Harry is never making another friend again. Or, at least, he will make friends with other people who also hate people. It’s why Liam and he are a match made in heaven). 

“I think that it could be brighter, you know! The tutu needs an accessory.” Harry pauses in the doorway of the nearest office space. A collection of clothing racks line each wall. Colorful costumes and sequins are smooshed together, with some hangers holding multiple fabrics. One half of the rack on the right is filled with different color boas. A pile of multicolored feathers has collected on the floor below it. On the far opposite side, a massive mirror (Harry avoids glancing at his own pale complexion) leans back against the olive green wall. Four orange lounge chairs crowd the room’s center. Three are filled with who Harry presumes to be castmates. They’re watching a fourth person study themself in the mirror. “I just- who are you?”

Harry flinches. 

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. 

Suddenly, four pairs of eyes are studying him- each slightly suspicious- and Harry is never, ever going to forgive Louis. 

“Louis,” he squeaks. The castmate standing in front of the mirror tilts their head. Their short, turquoise hair is styled in a mohawk, working brilliantly to brighten their red leotard and tutu. Silver glitter gleams against their black skin. “I mean. Sorry. I’m looking for Lou? I’m, um, picking him up for-” 

“Oh my god!” A castmate sitting crisscross on a chair claps a hand over her mouth. “You’re Harry!” 

Oh? 

Harry’s frown deepens as a chorus of squeals (squeals?) ring through the room. “Yeah, um-” 

“Lou’s been talking about your trip nonstop for weeks,” the girl says. “Like. Nonstop. It’s been so sweet.”

“And I can see why.” Another gives him a not-so-subtle once over. They wink. 

“Do you like my tutu?”  

With flushed cheeks, Harry nods. “I love the tutu.” He only hesitates for a moment before adding. “I think the entire outfit is great. What if you added a boa to it, too? Really go all out?” 

Dark brown eyes widen. “You’re a genius! A boa is always the answer.” They hurry over to the rack. “I’m Nova, by the way.” 

“And I’m Corinne,” the girl sitting closest to the door, her blonde curls falling over the back and nearly reaching the floor, tells him. 

“Jade.” 

“Pat.” 

Having the entire room’s attention is never exactly the most comfortable experience, but. Harry still feels his shoulders falling. His heart slips back down his windpipe, returning to his chest with a familiar thud. “It’s so nice to meet you all,” he says, “I love the show.” 

Nova pauses their quest for the perfect boa. “You should watch it live sometime! Louis would love that!” 

“Definitely,” Corinne giggles. “I know you need to get going, though. He’s in the kitchen. I can take you.” 

“Thank you so much.” Harry waves goodbye to Jade, Pat, and Nova as Corinne hurries over. Her ocean of curls bounce. The ends are multicolored, following the pattern of a rainbow. A fistful of green hair brushes Harry’s arm as she strolls past. 

While Harry follows her down the hallway, he hears Nova ask, “Guys! Blue or green boa?” 

Jade and Pat launch into an immediate debate. 

Like the first hallway Harry found himself wandering down, this one is dimly lit and also filled to the brim with photos. Corinne notices him looking and smiles. “We like to take a picture of every single show and hang it up,” she tells him, “It’s a way of making sure every step we take is permanently here, you know? So we don’t forget any moment.” 

Harry lets his fingers brush against a picture of what most have been a holiday special. “I think what you’re all doing is incredible.” 

“Thank you!” Corinne’s smile is dazzling. “We all also think what you’re doing is incredible!” 

Oh? “What’d you mean?” 

“Getting Louis to take a break? Getting him out of the city?” Corinne laughs and shakes her head. When she pushes her hair off her shoulder, Harry realizes her body is covered in glitter too. “That’s a miracle in and of itself. Lou usually gets so pissed when we make him take his vacation time. He’d work all year round if it wasn’t against company policy.” 

Harry bites his lip and, as they turn to the right at the end of the hallway and another chorus of laughter rings through the air, he has to refrain from asking the questions that are always lingering on the tip of his tongue. “He really loves what he does.” 

“He does. And we love him, but. We’re also really, really happy that he has you now.” 

And? And? And? 

And?

The far end of the hallway expands into a fluorescent kitchenette. Just as Harry and Corinne step closer, a loud, familiar laugh bounces out to greet them. “Wait… so what about… I saw my papa kissing Santa Claus …” Louis sings the tone to the proper beat, but it’s just an octave or two sharp. Harry giggles. “ I’m young but I can tell when my pa’s making out with an oversize elf …” 

Another voice snorts. “Oh my god. I’m writing that down, I can’t believe those aren’t the original lyrics. You’re a genius, Lewis.”

“Taylor Swift is quaking. I am a one of a kind lyricist. I- Harry!” Harry steps further into the room and Louis, from his place atop the tiny, crammed green counter, beams. “Hi!” 

Louis is sitting on the counter. Wearing a Santa hat. His feet are knocking lightly against the bottom cupboards as he bounces, forever unable to stay still. It creates constant, dull thuds. Beside him, immaculately decorated sugar cookies fill several plates. 

His cheeks are covered in flour. Red icing stains his hands. Globs of green cover his white t-shirt. 

He’s so, so fucking adorable. 

“Hi.” Harry’s cheeks always feel so naturally warm when he sees Louis. “I can’t say I am surprised by all of… this.” He gestures at the counter, at the flour on his cheeks, at the hat. Louis’ smile widens. 

“Hey! I have a perfectly reasonable explanation.” 

“I am so absolutely sure you do.” Harry sounds immeasurably fond, even to himself. Leaving a giggling Corinne behind, Harry steps further into the kitchen. He pauses beside the counter. Louis smiles down at him, slowing the swinging of his legs, and the way Harry’s heart flatlines is very probably normal. He breaks eye contact to keep himself from staring for years and years. Instead, his gaze falls to the plates. “Did you decorate the Santa Claus cookies? They look amazing.” 

Louis nods emphatically. “I was… an accomplice.” 

“He made my life fuckin’ miserable.” A new voice grumbles to the left of them. Harry turns to see another man sitting at a tiny, square table built for two. He’s twirling a pen between his fingers. In front of him, scribbles fill a notebook page. A brilliant grin rests on his lips as he appraises Harry, light blue eyes not so subtly looking him up and down. Harry’s now watched enough shows to know he’s standing in front of Niall.  “Thank god you’re taking him off my hands for three whole weeks.” 

“You’re so sweet,” Louis laughs. “H, this is Niall, my roommate and best friend. Ni, this is Harry.”

“Hi!” Harry hopes his smile is genuine and not obviously terrified. 

Niall grins. “Would you like a cookie?” 

“I can have a cookie?” 

“... You may indeed have a cookie, yes.” Niall brushes his short, dark brown hair out of his eyes. He closes his notebook. “Lou, go get cleaned up. Y’all need to leave soon. It’s a long drive.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help finish the elf skit edits? I feel bad-”

“ Lou!” Niall holds up his hand. “Go get ready. Enjoy your vacation. Seriously. We got this.” 

“I know, but I still feel bad.” With a small sigh, Louis slides off the counter, landing within a foot of Harry. “If you need anything-” 

“We won’t.” Though he tries his best to sound exasperated, Niall ruins it by winking at Harry. “Go, bunny rabbit. I’ll keep Harold company.” 

Louis snorts and mouths I am so sorry at Harry. Harry grins before reaching for a cookie. The excess icing on the top- making for an obnoxious santa hat- is all he tastes. Sugar shocks his system. Still, he hurriedly takes another bite. Perhaps he can convince Louis to stop for lunch once they get out of the city. 

He can definitely convince him to get coffee. 

Corinne tells Harry it was nice to meet him and then follows Louis out. Once their footsteps fade, Niall looks at Harry with eyes that are suddenly far less bright. Again, he gives Harry a onceover. This one, though, makes Harry acutely certain that the other man is staring right through his soul and rendering every one of his flaws visible. It puts it all- the nerves, the shyness, the uncertainty- on full display. Harry looks away and takes a slow, awkward bite of his cookie as he awaits the verdict. 

Eventually, though, Niall says, “I like you.” 

Oh? Harry glances back up and finds the light in his eyes has returned. (And it’s so fitting, he thinks, that Louis’ best friend is this radiant. It makes sense. Two little rays of sunshine who found each other). “I, um…” 

I think I may really, really, really like your best friend. A little too much.  

“You accept Louis for who he is,” Niall says, point blank, like they’ve known each other for years and Niall’s spent that time studying every single interaction between Louis and Harry. “All of his antics and quirks and his excessive commitment to the bit. He’s told me a million times over the past few weeks that he feels comfortable being himself around you. Him in all his weird glory. You make him feel safe.” 

“Lou doesn’t seem like the type to need permission to be himself.” 

“You’d be surprised.” Niall offers a warm, all too serious smile. “But seriously, Harry. Thank you for making him feel that way. He needs someone like you in his life.” 

Harry flushes and bows his head. “He makes me feel the same way.” 

“It all just makes me so fuckin’ happy.” Niall props his feet up on the table. “I am so happy that stupid poster actually worked out. Because Lou is so over the top and hilarious and ridiculous and he needs people in his life who know that that makes him the most special person in the world. He needs people who encourage him to just be him .” 

I always, always, always just want him to be himself, Harry thinks.

He says, “I don’t even know him that well yet, but. I know how special he is. He’s… I promise I just want him to be him. I do. He’s… he’s wonderful.” 

“He is.” Niall winks at him. “Now don’t fuck this up or I’ll kill you. I have connections. They’ll never find your body and that is a promise.” 

***** 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

i don’t think that passenger seat!!!! has ever looked this good to me!!!!!

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

@ommotuol babycakes you WILL be driving at least a little bit 

lewis tom @ommotuol  

@HarryStyles_KE OIIII EYES ON THE ROAD 

Harry Styles @HarryStyles_KE

@ommotuol we are at a rest stop eating MCDONALDS 

lewis tom @ommotuol   

@HarryStyles_KE oh right x) can i have some of ur fries :D

*****

For “ease of fry thievery” Louis abandons his chair on the opposite side of the table in favor of sliding into the one directly beside Harry. A pout that Harry knows fools no one tugs at his lips. The smell of coffee and vanilla clings to Louis’ soft, fuzzy cardigan. 

In the deepest parts of his brain, Harry’s rats yearn to nuzzle his face against the sleeve. 

Just as he is resisting that particular temptation, a sudden, shocked gasp shatters the tranquility. “Oh my god. Harry.” 

“What?” Harry twists, meeting wide, panicked eyes and parted lips. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, but… but is Belinda?” 

Harry blinks. “Belinda?” 

“Yeah. like, there’s someone to feed her, right? And clean her tank? And tell her she’s beautiful?” 

Harry blinks, once then twice and then again and… 

And? 

“Yeah, of course,” he assures Louis, “My best friend, Liam, is working in the city over Christmas, so. He’s stopping by everyday to check up on her. And he’s passed all the background checks and passed the training manual exam with flying colors. Ms. Bee is in good hands.” 

“Thank God.” 

Louis dips a fry into his vanilla milkshake. Unlike when he first met him, a little bit of stubble now grazes Louis’ upper lip. His skin is still golden, his eyes still blue, blue, blue. Harry blinks slowly. Marry me, actually, he thinks. 

“Thank you for caring about my fish,” he says. Louis smiles. 

“Duh. She’s perfect.” Louis says, gentle and easy, “And, um, thank you for letting me crash your family’s holiday.”  His shoulder brushes Harry’s every time he breathes. “I’m kind of, like, really excited for this? Even if the circumstances are a little weird? I didn’t actually expect that Tweet to work, and I really didn’t expect to just… click with the weirdo who ass-messaged me.” 

“Oh shut up.” Harry rolls his eyes. Still, his dimples deepen. “But Lou, I am the one who should thank you. You’re making the holiday a lot less miserable for me. And I’m sure you had other places to be, too. I’m sure your… there are people who wanted to see you. So… just. Thank you.” 

A silence, not necessarily tense but not light, either, ropes around them. Harry glances over to see Louis swirling his straw around his milkshake. Eventually, he sighs. “Not really, actually,” is all he says. There’s an air of finality to it. 

Harry blinks. “Lou-” 

“But, hey, I was thinking… I will relinquish my position of passenger princess once we cross over into Indiana, okay?” Louis says. Harry frowns. “I was just teasing when I said I wouldn’t drive. As long as I still get to DJ, then all is good.”

Is it? Harry wants to ask. 

He doesn’t dare. 

*****

There’s a moment an hour or so later, as Harry speeds down the freeway and Louis chatters aimlessly beside him about the most ridiculous of his findings from his “Ohio Research”- “You can’t get a fish drunk?” He sounds almost accusatory, as if Harry himself wrote the law. “Was that an issue before? If it was, I am very happy Ms. Bee isn’t joining us.”- that he nearly forgets how to breathe. 

It’s just. 

Louis is curled on the passenger seat with Harry’s phone resting in his hand (he’s busy lining up the perfect queue for their playlist) and his head is thrown back, allowing the falling sun to spill over his skin, illuminating cheekbones and lips and his crinkling eyes. Everything he is is bright. Everything he is is impossible. Everything he is is more than this world deserves. 

Louis borrows Harry’s oxygen with each gasp of sunlight and laughter. He closes his eyes, head tilting up to the sky. Harry will forever be willing to drain his own lungs, so long as he gets a front row seat to this. 

Phoebe Bridgers’ Sidelines narrates their drive. Harry is an absolute goner; entranced by the instrumentals, the lyrics, the Louis. 

Eventually, Louis opens his eyes, his head lolling to glance at Harry. His smile widens. “Eyes on the road,” he murmurs, soft and light. 

Watch the world from the sidelines,

Had nothing to prove, 

Til you came into my life

Gave me something to lose. 

Now I know what it feels like, 

To want to go outside, 

Like the shape of my outline.   

And. Right. 

Eyes on the road.

Harry swallows, blinks, and turns back to study the vast expanse of corn fields and yellowing grass framing the highway. He squints. “Hey, would you mind looking in my glove box?” He asks Louis, largely to disrupt the silence that borders on too homey. “I think I have a ponytail in there. My hair is driving me insane .” 

It really isn’t. Harry just needs them to find a new topic so that he doesn’t blurt out something nonsensical, like you’re beautiful or sunlight was created to paint your skin golden or these lyrics make me think of you. 

“Doing your hair while driving?” Louis asks with a giggle, reaching forward with his free hand. The glove box pops open, exposing a mess of CD’s and various essentials and probably-important insurance paperwork. “That’s dangerous, Styles. I believe clause three of the contract maintains that you ought not to put my life in danger at any point during our trip.” 

The contract. Of course. Yeah. Yes. 

“But here you go!” Louis’ smile is blinding when he holds out a thin black band. Harry smiles, breath stuttering when their hands brush.

( God, he’s such a cliché).  

“Thanks, Lou.” 

“You’re very welc- wait, what is this?” Harry turns to see Louis pulling out a small, old inhaler from under a pile of CD’s. “Do you have asthma? That wasn’t on your fact sheet, Harold.” 

A small, impossible smile builds back on Harry’s face. “It used to be bad when I was younger, but I haven’t had an asthma attack in years,” he says, shrugging. “That’s been in there since high school. This car is so old. I’d honestly forgotten about it.” 

“But what if you have a flare up?” 

“I haven’t in so long. I’m not worried.” 

“Yeah, well, I am,” Louis insists, closing the glove box, but keeping the inhaler clutched in the palm of his hand. “I’m keeping this on me for the duration of the trip. I’ll return it to its rightful spot on the way home. We are not taking chances, Styles.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Lou.” 

Harry never expects to see the inhaler again. It will likely get lost, he knows. Amid Louis’ luggage and his various belongings and amid the adventures they’ll take during his visit home. It doesn’t matter. The inhaler hasn’t been of use in so long and if Louis needs it to continue his new favorite bit- in his quest to prove himself the best fake boyfriend there’s ever been- then Harry doesn’t mind it being collateral damage. 

Biting his lip to hide his smile, Harry ties back his hair with one hand. Louis cheers him on.

*****

After a resounding, life-altering performance of the Cruel Summer bridge, Louis pauses the singalong with a voice that he probably intends to be serious. Harry can hear the giggle he’s fighting so hard to suppress. “Hey, H?”

“Yeah?” 

“Did you know that if someone in Ohio loses their pet tiger, they have to, by law, notify the authorities within the hour?” He says, “That’s not a lot of time at all. Leaving the poor family no time to grieve. How inhumane.” 

Harry cackles. “Lou. Honey. You are officially on probation,” 

“What?” 

“You are now limited to one Ohio joke per hour.” 

“ Harry.” 

“Following every violation, an extra hour will be tacked onto your driving time.” 

“Harry.” His voice is a borderline whine and that does bad, bad, bad things to Harry’s soul. 

“It’s for your own good.” 

Louis folds his arms over his chest. “Let the records show, I am not being silent. I am being silenced.” 

“Oh my god.” 

*****

At 6:58, Louis sits up a little straighter. His back is perfectly erect, eyes wide and bright and eager. 

At 6:59, he cracks his knuckles and tilts his head from side to side. Then, he sits with his hands folded in his lap and waits. 

As soon as the clock turns over to 7, Harry giggles and says, “Okay, go.” 

“If you are interested in going roller skating in North Canton,” Louis says immediately, “You must first notify the authorities or you could go to jail.” 

*****

Louis drives through most of Indiana and then falls asleep around South Bend. He misses the signs that welcome them into Ohio and Harry is positive he did it on purpose. 

*****

Somewhere around Toledo, Louis blinks awake and reaches for their snacks. As he nibbles on his veggie straws- slow and quiet and the slightest bit grumpy, like a little kitten- he murmurs, “Hey, Harry? Important question.” 

Leave it to Louis, to take an hour-long nap and wake immediately with new ponderings. Harry smiles. “Yeah Lou?” 

“Is there a Target in ‘Chagrin Falls, Ohio’?” He puts air quotes around the town’s name and the state. 

“Hmmmm. There is. Why? Do we need to stop there?” 

“Was it built at an intersection?” 

“Uhhh-” 

“And now they’re calling it ‘downtown’?” More air quotes. Harry blinks. 

Still, an impossible, disbelieving smile pulls at his lips because he knows- he just knows- that no matter where Louis is going with this, Harry is about to learn something new. “I wish I knew what you were referencing, Lou, but-”

“Shut up. You’ve never listened to Noah Kahan? New Perspective? Harold!” 

“I-” 

“It’s literally Midwest music. It was written for us. Hold on.”  

Though his expression is only visible via the lighting on his phone screen, Harry can still make out the fiery expression in Louis’ gaze. The one that’s become synonymous with delight and adventure and the thrill he feels when introducing Harry to new things. Within seconds, the soft sound of Taylor’s Holy Ground is replaced with a soft, folky guitar bleeding through the stereo. The melody makes Harry smile and it feels- suddenly- like the absolute best musical selection for a night time drive down the highway. The beat. The yearning. Lyrics infused with nostalgia and mourning and an indisputable hope. 

Harry giggles when Noah sings, you made Ohio feel just like Central Park. 

“Looks like Noah can agree that Ohio is real.” 

Louis sniffles. “Don’t mention it. I don’t even know what to think. Noah being an Ohio-Truther is putting a massive strain on our parasocial relationship.” 

Harry cackles, his laugh lingering long enough to will Louis’ pout away.

From New Perspective, Louis continues on his Noah Kahan train of thought, playing Dial Drunk and The View Between Villages and Everywhere, Everything. Even without knowing the words or the beats or the melody, Harry finds himself falling for the music in its entirety. Its wonder. Its endless depth. 

Listening to it with Louis at his side, explaining his favorite lyrics and singing along- purposefully out of key- makes the nighttime drive so much better. 

Still, when Louis plays Homesick, an odd pang jolts through Harry. 

I would leave if only I could find a reason,

I'm mean because I grew up in New England

I got dreams, but I can't make myself believe them.

Spend the rest of my life with what could have been.

And I will die in the house that I grew up in.

I'm homesick.

It’s… it’s a heavy song, mirrored by the angry instrumental and the too-specific-but-still-far-too-relatable lyrics. And Harry finds- as the car hurtles eighty miles per hour down the highway, en route to the one place that he successfully escaped so long ago- that perhaps he hasn’t let himself feel any nostalgia or yearning in years because he did make it out. Because he chased his dreams, and wasn’t that supposed to make it all better? 

It did. It did make things better, but. 

But. 

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, maybe Harry does get homesick for what he willfully and happily left behind. 

Beside him, Louis, too, is quiet, as if just as weighed down by the gravity of the song, and Harry has so many questions to ask and not a single clue of how to approach them. 

The air is tentative, a little heavier, when Homesick gives way to Growing Sideways. 

Louis sucks in a breath. Harry glances over and can’t tell if he looks paler because of the faint light, or because of some other hauntings that have little to do with this moment or this car. 

“Tell me something no one else knows.” 

Louis says it quietly, the words almost drowned out by the song, and Harry has to pause for just a moment, almost certain he misheard or imagined the new conversation. Louis, though, glances over at him with wide, earnest blue eyes and the light in them feels like an invitation into a safe place, a new world. 

From across the console, Louis offers him a veggie straw. Harry smiles and accepts. 

He nibbles on it while pondering his answer, drumming his left hand against the steering wheel. There are so many things he could tell Louis- the result of being a shy twenty-six year old who is very, very bad at making friends- ranging from silly to serious and deeply personal. Eventually, though, Harry decides that maybe right now, with this boy, he can let himself be vulnerable. “I’m scared that what I’m doing with my life means nothing,” he admits. His voice shakes, but he finds that being honest with Louis isn’t as terrifying as he feared. “But I’m also just as scared that trying to do something about it would make everything worse. I’m kind of a coward.” 

“You’re not.” Louis’ voice is so lovely when raspy. He sounds so sure. “Cowards would have stayed in Ohio all those years ago. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit for what it took to leave.” 

Harry really, really, really wants to hold his hand. “Thank you, Lou,” he murmurs, “Now you have to tell me a secret.” 

“Please. I am an open book.” 

You are not, Harry wants to retort. “Hmmm, well, if you won’t tell me top secret information, tell me about your last relationship.” 

“Oh god. You want to open that can of worms?” 

Harry giggles, spurred on by the late hour, and says, “Absolutely I do.” 

“His name was Chris. My first mistake,” Louis scoffs. “Niall hated him because he said I didn’t laugh when he was around. And I didn’t commit to the bit as much, either. I never invited him to the Bughouse because I knew he’d find the whole thing stupid.” 

Anyone who thinks that what you do is stupid absolutely does not deserve you, Harry thinks. 

Anyone whose presence actively makes Louis stop laughing doesn’t deserve to be within a five mile radius of him. 

“Did you love him?” Harry asks. 

Louis shakes his head, “No. I think I just loved not being lonely, so. After I broke up with him, I told myself I would never date for the sake of dating again. It wasn’t worth it.” Again, his voice is so quiet, so sweet. “I don’t actually think I’ve ever been in love. Not properly.” 

“Me neither.” 

“No?” Louis wonders. “Not even with Alec? At any point?” 

Harry frowns. “I… I don’t think so?” He quickly approaches another car- the first he’s seen in what feels like hours- and crosses into the left lane to pass. “I mean… there were times when we were really happy? When I really cared about him? But… that feeling people always talk about? That passion and bliss and the all-consuming need to just be with them? I’ve never had that.” 

“Me neither. But I want to, someday. I want to know who I am when I’m in love,” Louis says. He yawns, the sound carrying over Noah Kahan’s Come Over . “I already know I… when I find my person, the connection will be real. We’ll just fit. I hope it will be easy and obvious and I can shower them with presents and find ways to take care of them and make them laugh and… and just have a safe place, you know? I want to feel safe. Accepted and comfortable.” 

Harry smiles. Headlights passing on the opposite side blur his vision. “You deserve that safe place.” 

“You do, too.” 

*****

Harry pulls over once they’re past Sandusky so they can sleep. (The plight of leaving Chicago after five). 

He wakes right before daybreak. While he was sleeping, his entire body curved to the right, as if a natural pull led him to the opposite side of the car. His right hand rests near the gear shift. A pinkie finger grazes Louis’ palm as the other boy snores. 

It’s still and quiet and peaceful. Louis looks so stunning in the dawn’s light. He’s using his cardigan as a blanket and his cheeks are dusted with shadows and, somehow, Harry can’t stop feeling like he’s at least halfway there. 

He lets the world stir while he rests in his tiny car, somewhere in the forgotten lands connecting Toledo to Cleveland, with a boy who feels like a supernova, too bright and too true for this world. And he’s smiling, he finds, without really meaning to. Even if he’s terrified for what’s to come. Even if he’s nervous. Even if this visit home has the potential to be a catastrophic failure. 

Harry is smiling, sleepy and soft. 

He shifts his hand a little further to the right.