Chapter Text
Louis had always been told not to smoke alone. Zayn said it every single time. Usually while actively stealing Louis' lighter. Usually while rolling his own.
Which was hypocritical as fuck, but that wasn't the point. The point, according to Zayn, was that weed made Louis think too much.
Louis disagreed. Mostly because he didn't need weed for that. Still. It was admittedly more fun with company. Him and Zayn can sit on someone's shitty balcony at two in the morning and tell each other things they'd never say sober. Things they'd never think of in the daylight. Hell, Louis was fairly certain their friendship existed purely because one day they'd both gotten stoned enough to stop pretending they disliked each other.
They fight all the time. Always have. But somewhere between the insults and the shouting and the occasional threat of bodily harm, they'd accidentally become family.
Anyway. Zayn wasn't here. The fucker.
And Liam was useless. Not actually useless. Just Christmas useless. Liam had been possessed by some festive spirit, just his mother, that demanded every surface be cleaned, every decoration hung, every cupboard reorganised. By the time Louis got home tonight, grocery bag in hand, Liam had looked one bauble away from collapse.
So no help there.
Not that Liam would've smoked with him anyway. That would require Liam willingly breaking one of Liam's own rules.
And Liam loved rules. Liam hated alcohol. Or, more accurately, Liam hated Louis' relationship with alcohol. Liam hated weed because it smelled. Liam hated cigarettes because they killed people. Liam hated energy drinks because they were apparently liquid heart attacks.
Honestly, Liam just hated fun.
So now Louis is sprawled flat on his mattress, staring aggressively at his phone like he's trying to win a staring contest against technology. The bastard device stares right back.
Harry still hasn't answered.
The little read receipt sits beneath Louis' apology like a personal insult. Seen. Read. Acknowledged. Ignored. No reply. Not even a bloody thumbs up.
His jaw tightens. The weed has left him floating somewhere between relaxed and irrationally offended, which is arguably the worst state for him to exist in.
Because now he's thinking. And thinking is dangerous.
The one time, the one fucking time, he tries to be the bigger person, he gets left on read.
He knows he shouldn't have answered Harry's phone. He knows that. Especially considering he'd known the bloke for approximately five minutes and one near death experience.
Normal people didn't answer strangers' phones. Normal people definitely didn't accidentally corner strangers into emotionally devastating conversations with their mothers.
But then again. Normal people don’t offer rides to drunk strangers.
Still. What was the point of apologising if the person you're apologising to couldn't even be bothered replying?
Wasn't apologising supposed to make you feel better? Wasn't there meant to be some magical lifting of the chest? Some emotional closure? Some bullshit life lesson?
Because Louis feels exactly the same. Actually, scratch that. He feels worse. The apology hadn't eased anything. If anything, it'd driven him to smoke alone and lie in bed stewing over a man he'd known for less than a week.
Ew. The thought makes him physically recoil.
Stewing over a man. There has to be a better word for it.
When he'd run into Harry outside the vet clinic, he'd expected something. A nod. A smile. A sarcastic comment. A middle finger.
Anything.
Anything that acknowledged Louis existed. Instead Harry had looked straight through him. Like Louis was background noise. Like he didn't have the energy to spare.
Which. Okay.
In hindsight. Harry had looked terrified. Properly terrified. Not annoyed. Not angry. Scared. But Louis is currently high and offended, and those two things are winning the argument.
Louis squeezed his eyes shut.
For fuck's sake. Now he was feeling bad again. Harry's pet might be dying. And Louis is annoyed about a text message.
Brilliant priorities, Tommo.
His gaze drifts back to the screen. The last thing he'd sent still sits there.
Louis: sorry about answering your phone the other day. just didn't want to be the reason you left your mum hanging. turns out i'm a twat. didn't mean to make things weird with your mum
Nothing underneath. No response. No typing bubble. Louis glares at it a little harder, as if intimidation might somehow force Harry to answer.
It doesn't. Shocking.
Fuck. He’ll just have to try something else.
With a groan, Louis shoved himself upright. The room tilted slightly before settling. Fairy lights blinked lazily around his bedroom, casting soft gold across the walls.
His gaze landed on the dresser.
On the wallet. Harry's wallet. Still sitting exactly where Louis had left it. Safe. Untouched. Waiting.
Louis stared at it for a moment. Then another. Then sighed dramatically enough to qualify as theatre.
He pushed himself off the bed. His feet shuffled across the carpet. Louis picks it up and turns it over in his hands. The wallet felt cool. Real. Solid. Unlike whatever weird bullshit was currently happening inside his head.
Maybe he'd planned on dropping it off at the pub tomorrow. Maybe he'd planned on pretending the apology never happened. Maybe he'd planned on being mature.
Unfortunately, maturity has never survived prolonged exposure to him.
He trudges back to the bed and drops onto it. The mattress bounces beneath him.
The fairy lights strung around his room cast everything in soft gold. Just enough illumination for Louis to point his phone at the wallet and snap a picture.
The result is terrible. Blurry. Dark. Slightly crooked. Like it was taken by someone actively being shaken during an earthquake. Louis squints at it. Perfect. He immediately sends it. The message appeared beneath his unanswered apology.
For a moment he considered leaving it there. Just the picture. Just enough to prove he'd found it. Just enough to make Harry respond.
Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not.
Louis chewed the inside of his cheek.
Then typed. Stopped. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too.
His jaw tightened. Because apparently getting ignored was driving him completely mental.
Which was ridiculous. He barely knew Harry. A few conversations. One or two awkward car rides. One disastrous phone call. That was it. So why did it matter?
Why did the silence itch beneath his skin? Why did every unread minute feel personal?
The answer arrived before he could stop it. Because Louis hated being left behind.
Always had. He could leave. That was easy.
Disappear, walk away, burn bridges, pretend not to care. He was brilliant at that.
But being the one left? Being the one ignored? Being the one waiting?
That was different. That reached places he preferred not to think about. Places that sounded suspiciously like abandonment. Places that looked like train stations and empty promises and people choosing someone else.
Louis swallowed. Then typed.
Louis: Found your wallet, by the way. Nearly broke my neck on the thing. You're welcome.
His thumb hovered. A beat. The message vanished into the conversation. Delivered. Louis stared at the screen.
Waiting. Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened. The little read receipt beneath his apology remained. Silent. Unmoved.
Louis dropped his head backwards onto the mattress. The ceiling offered no feedback.
Somewhere across London, Harry Styles was either ignoring him in his stupid little house, sitting in a veterinary clinic, or both. And somehow Louis suspected all three possibilities annoyed him equally.
Which was probably a problem. A very stupid problem. A problem that made him stupidly pissed.
The glowing white numbers on the corner of Louis' screen read 2:14.
The house was dead silent, but for the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the faint, wet slap of London rain finally started to hit his windowpane. The weed was beginning to slide from an acute, prickly irritation into that heavy, dragging comedown where everything feels slightly too far away.
Except for the phone. The phone felt like it was burning a hole in his palm.
He stared at the blank space beneath his last text. Delivered. Not even Read this time. Just floating out there in the digital ether, a digital monument to Louis Tomlinson making a complete and utter tit of himself twice in one evening.
He tossed the phone onto the mattress beside him. It bounced once, landing face down, the little blue light on the edge blinking like a smug, mechanical eye. He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillows, trying to force his brain to shut up.
He tried to think about Liam’s stupid Christmas party. He tried to think about the pain that still flared in his ribs. He tried to think about the tattoo shop, about the absolute nightmare of a cover up he had to do on Thursday. He tried to think about literally anything other than green eyes and a plastic pet carrier.
It didn’t work.
Every time he closed his eyes, he just saw Harry’s hands. Harry had nice hands. Long fingers, usually decorated with chipped rings and that stupid purple nail polish. But tonight they’d been bare, raw from the cold, trembling so hard he looked like he might drop his own life on the pavement.
Why do you even care?
Louis asked himself, aggressively shoving his face deeper into the pillow.
He’s a stranger. A posh, quiet, overly sensitive stranger who thinks you’re an intrusive prick. Which you are. And he is also a man.
He laid there for ten minutes. Maybe twenty. The silence in the room grew heavier, suffocating him until he couldn’t take it anymore.
Fuck.
With a sharp, irritated breath, Louis flipped back over and snatched the phone. He didn’t check the chat. He wasn’t going to give Harry the satisfaction of seeing him hover.
Instead, he unlocked it, opened his music app, turning the volume up until some indie band he’d listened to a thousand times was loud enough for him to hear but Liam wouldn’t wake up to it.
He stared at the ceiling, watching the shadow of a tree branch dance against the golden glow of the fairy lights.
Louis lasts approximately fourteen more minutes. Which, frankly, is a personal best. The song changes. Then changes again. The rain keeps tapping against the glass. And Harry still doesn't answer.
Louis stares at the ceiling. Stares at his phone. Stares at the ceiling. Stares at his phone.
Clearly Harry has decided silence is a personality trait. Louis unlocks the screen. Opens the chat.
Types. Deletes. Types again.
Louis: so we're doing this then
Send. Nothing.
Louis: just ignoring me
Send.
Louis: after i SAVED your wallet
Send. Then a moment later.
Louis: heroism really is dead
Louis squints at the screen like Harry might magically appear if he concentrates hard enough. No typing bubble. No read receipt. No anything.
The irritation starts crawling back under his skin. Not proper anger. Something pettier. Something stupider. The kind of annoyance that only exists at two in the morning when you're high and lonely and have nobody around to tell you you're being an idiot.
Louis: beginning to think u don't appreciate how expensive funerals are
Louis: i nearly died tripping over that thing
Louis: would've been on your conscience forever
The messages sit there. Unanswered. Louis huffs and throws his head back. Then immediately grabs the phone again. Because apparently self respect has left the building.
His eyes drift upward through the conversation. Past the wallet photo. Past the apology. Past older messages. Past the memory of Harry's mum.
Nice young man.
The words drifts back into his head. Louis frowns. Because now that he's thinking about it—Actually.
No. Wait. Hang on.
The question has been rattling around somewhere in the back of his skull ever since that phone call.
Harry's mum had said it so casually. Like it wasn't a surprise. Like she'd known. Louis chews the inside of his cheek. Then starts typing.
Louis: can i ask u something
Send.
Louis: actually doesn't matter
Louis: no it does matter
Louis groans into his pillow. Jesus Christ, what the fuck is his life.
Louis: your mum called you gay
The message sends. The little delivered stamp appears beneath it. Louis immediately regrets existing. Then doubles down. Because if you're going to embarrass yourself, you might as well commit.
Louis: are u gay?
Louis: a queer, a fairy, whatever they call themselves these days?
Louis: or was she just saying random words
A pause.
Louis: because parents do that
Fuck.
Louis: mine once called a microwave a dishwasher for three weeks
Louis' leg bounces restlessly beneath the blanket.
Louis: not that it matters
Louis: i’m straight but i don’t care who u fuck
A beat.
Louis: i’m sorry :/
He doesn’t send that one, just drops the phone onto his chest. If Harry thought Louis was an arse before this, then he definitely thought so now.
✮
Harry paced the length of his room like it was a prison cell. Five steps to the bed. Turn. Five steps back. Turn again. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, a rhythm that had long since stopped sounding human and started sounding desperate.
The phone pressed against his ear as it rang. Once. Twice. Three times. His stomach twisted tighter with every unanswered ring.
He shouldn't be doing this. He knew that. It was nearly two in the morning. Any reasonable person would wait until morning. Sleep on it. Give themselves time to think.
But Harry had spent the last 12 hours thinking. Thinking while the vets examined Skip. Thinking while he signed forms. Thinking while he handed over his card and tried not to look at the total. Thinking while he drove home alone with an empty pet carrier sitting in the passenger seat.
The silence in the car had nearly killed him. He just needed one thing off his chest. One thing.
Christmas.
He couldn’t handle pretending everything was fine while Skip spent the night in a clinic cage surrounded by strangers.
The vets hadn't given him answers. Just possibilities. Observations.
Maybe she wasn't eating. Maybe she was dehydrated. Maybe it was an infection. Maybe—Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
No. Absolutely not. He wasn't doing that.
The vets were professionals. They knew what they were doing. They were taking care of her. They had to be. Because if Harry let himself follow every horrible possibility to its conclusion, he'd never stop.
The phone rang again. And again. He let out a slow breath, he should hang up, he should call tomorrow. The moment his thumb began lowering the phone—"Harry!"
His entire body tensed.
Shit. He hadn't actually expected her to answer. For a second he considered hanging up anyway. Pretending the call had dropped. Pretending he hadn't done something incredibly stupid.
But it was too late. His mother's voice flooded through the speaker. And it immediately felt familiar. The words were clear enough. Polished enough. Carefully arranged the way she always arranged them.
But there was a softness around the edges. A slight drag between syllables.
Harry closed his eyes. Of course. She'd been drinking. His hand tightened around the phone.
Every time she and his father fought, she found her way back to a bottle. Not dramatically. His mother never did anything dramatically. She did everything quietly. Elegantly.
A glass of wine became two. Two became three. Then suddenly her voice sounded like this. Warm. Emotional. Dangerously honest.
The version of her Harry never quite knew how to handle. "Harry?" she asked again. "Darling, is everything alright?"
The concern in her voice hit him harder than he expected. His throat tightened.
No. Nothing was alright.
Skip was alone in a veterinary clinic. His bank account had taken a hit he was trying very hard not to think about.
He hadn't eaten since last night.
He hadn't slept.
And somewhere, Louis was probably getting drunk and laughing his arse off about how distant Harry looked when he ran into him.
Harry almost laughed. Instead, his chest hurt.
“Harry?" His mother sounded closer somehow.
The silence had stretched too long.
He swallowed. “It's about Christmas." The words came out rough. Instantly rougher than he'd intended.
This was admitting something was wrong, and he didn’t know how to do that.
The flat suddenly felt enormous around him. Empty. Too quiet. Where the fuck was Niall’s snoring when he needs it?
His mother's voice rose again. "Oh, what about it?"
Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because now that he'd finally gotten her on the phone, now that she'd actually answered, the words suddenly felt impossible.
I can't come.
It should've been simple. Four words. Four stupid words. Instead they sat in his throat like broken glass. Because he was scared. He always is when he knows he’s letting down the version of him his mum still holds for him.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
Fuck. Just say it, Styles.
His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times. Harry frowned. The buzzing against Harry’s palm was relentless, vibrating right through his knuckles and interrupting the fragile silence stretching between him and his mother.
"Harry? Darling?" Anne's voice drifted through the line, sounding slightly muffled, the gentle slur of the wine making her patient but distant. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah," Harry choked out, his eyes dropping to the glowing screen as it lit up with notification after notification. "Yeah, Mum, just... hold on a second."
He pulled the phone away from his ear, his thumb swiping down the notification shade just to clear the distractions so he could focus on the impossible words stuck in his throat. But the name at the top of the screen made him freeze.
Louis.
Then another. And another. A literal barrage of text messages, sent in rapid succession. Harry’s brow furrowed. He tapped into the chat, his eyes scanning the chaotic wall of green bubbles that had broken through his wall of isolation.
l: so we're doing this then
l: just ignoring me
l: after i SAVED your wallet
l: heroism really is dead
l: beginning to think u don't appreciate how expensive funerals are
l: i nearly died tripping over that thing
l: would've been on your conscience forever
There was a small break.
l: can i ask u something
l: actually doesn't matter
l: no it does matter
l: your mum called you gay
Harry’s breath hitched. His heart did a sudden, violent thud against his ribs. His eyes widened, staring at the screen as the final messages loaded.
l: are u gay?
l: a queer, a fairy, whatever they call themselves these days?
What. The. Fuck.
The blood rushed to Harry’s ears. A hot, blinding wave of humiliation and sudden, sharp anger turning his vision blurry. The raw vulnerability of his entire day. The cold vet clinic, the empty pet carrier, the crushing weight of his finances, and the terrifying prospect of letting his family down. Suddenly collided with the absolute audacity of Louis midnight interrogation.
It felt like a physical blow. A mockery of the quiet, carefully guarded box Harry kept his life in. To see those words laid out so casually, typed with the reckless carelessness of someone who clearly didn't give a shit about the wreckage they left behind, made Harry’s stomach turn completely over.
"Harry?" Anne’s voice tinny and questioning from the speaker near his cheek. "Is everything alright? You mentioned Christmas..."
"I have to go," Harry interrupted, his voice tight, sounding completely unrecognizable even to himself.
"What? But sweetheart, you called—"
"I have to go, Mum. Goodbye."
Before she could protest, before he could lose his nerve and let the tears prickling the backs of his eyes spill over, Harry slammed his thumb down on the red end call button. The line went dead. The silence of the flat rushed back in, heavier and suffocatingly loud.
He stood there in the center of his room, the unfinished confession about Christmas rotting in his throat, completely eclipsed by the burning, furious heat radiating from the phone in his hand.
Who the fuck asks something like that at two in the bloody morning? To someone they'd known for less than a week. Apparently Louis fucking did.
Harry turned his phone over in his hands as it buzzed again. And again. Then, finally, it stopped. Silence settled over his room once more, but it did nothing to quiet the anger simmering beneath his ribs.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He should delete the conversation. Block the number. Throw the bloody phone across the room. Instead, he found himself staring at Louis's messages until the words blurred together.
Are u gay?
As if it were a casual question. As if it were something you threw at a stranger between photographs of a lost wallet and complaints about being ignored.
Harry's jaw tightened. He'd spent years carefully measuring who knew. Years listening to every joke before deciding whether it was safe to laugh. Years wondering whether one wrong person finding out would cost him his family.
And Louis, someone who didn’t know his surname, had tossed the question into a text conversation like it meant nothing.
Like it couldn't possibly matter.
God.
He almost wished he could drag Louis home for Christmas, shove him onto through the door, and say, Here. This is what you could've had. Am I really such a disappointment now?
Because Louis was everything his parents complained about. He swore too much. Picked fights over stupid things. Drank like he had something to outrun. Worked in a tattoo shop, smelled of cigarette smoke and ink, and seemed determined to make every conversation twice as difficult as it needed to be.
And somehow still managed to walk through the world expecting everyone else to keep up.
Harry was so tired of people like that. So tired of watching men treat everything like a joke because they'd never had to worry about the punchline landing on them.
Harry could already hear his father's voice. "No son of mine..."
He'd probably take one look at Louis and decide the boy was beyond saving. Then Harry's thoughts caught up with themselves.
If Louis were gay... Harry's stomach twisted.
His father wouldn't simply disapprove. He'd despise it. Everything that made Louis loud and stubborn and impossible would suddenly become secondary to one thing.
One word. Gay.
Harry knew exactly how that conversation would go, because he'd rehearsed versions of it in his own head for years.
It didn't matter whether you were kind. Or loyal. Or frightened. Or trying your best. None of it counted after that. The label swallowed everything else.
His grip tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white.
It was almost enough to make him resent Louis for asking so carelessly. Because Louis didn't seem to understand that, for some people, the answer to that question could change their entire life.
Maybe Harry was being unfair. Maybe Louis meant it was good intentions. Maybe Louis is drunk. Maybe he's just curious. But right now, Harry didn't particularly care which one it was.
All he knew was that Skip was spending the night alone in a veterinary clinic. He’s supposed to be canceling his Christmas party. And somehow, despite all of that, Louis had still managed to become the second most exhausting thing about his evening.
Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He just needs to block Louis. He made a mistake even allowing Zayn to give him his number.
Blocking Louis will be easier. He wouldn't have to deal with him ever again. No more strange encounters. No more impossible conversations. No more infuriating text messages sent at ungodly hours.
Why the fuck was Louis even awake right now?
His finger drifted toward the option. Stopped. Because of the wallet.
Fuck.
His bloody wallet. Louis still had it. Of course he did. Nothing with could ever be simple. His phone was still warm in his hand as he unlocked it again, his eyes falling back to the messages. He settles back into his bed, the bedding pooling around him.
The photograph.
Christ.
It was somehow the worst picture anyone had ever taken. Half the wallet was cut off, the lighting was dreadful, and Harry was fairly certain Louis's thumb was covering part of the lens. He should've been grateful. Louis had found it. Kept it safe. Gone out of his way to tell him.
Instead, all Harry could focus on was everything that came afterwards.
Are u gay?
Harry's jaw clenched again. The question lingered on the screen.
So blunt. So carelessly asked. No warning.
No hesitation.
Just... there.
Louis had clearly picked up on what Harry’s mother had said. Harry wished he hadn't. Then again, it had been so painfully obvious that maybe he should've expected it.
His mum hadn't exactly been subtle.
“If you don't find a nice young man before you come home.” The words had barely left her mouth before the atmosphere in the car changed.
Harry remembered it now with painful clarity. Louis had gone quiet. Not just quiet. Rigid. His shoulders had tightened almost imperceptibly. His easy grin had disappeared. For a split second, he'd looked... lost.
Like someone had yanked the ground out from beneath him.
Harry had noticed it immediately.
He always noticed.
Years of watching people's faces had taught him to catch the smallest shift in expression. The flicker before someone laughed too hard. The hesitation before they asked a question. The tightening around the eyes when they realised exactly what Harry was.
Most people thought they hid it well. They didn't. Neither had Louis.
Harry had spent the rest of the drive pretending he hadn't seen it. Pretending he hadn't suddenly become hyperaware of the space between them.
Louis hadn't said anything cruel. Hadn't made a face. Hadn't asked Harry to get out of the car. He'd simply... changed.
Just enough for Harry to notice. Just enough for Harry to wonder.
The messages made one thing abundantly clear. Louis wasn't homophobic. Not in the obvious sense, anyway. If anything, his frantic stream of texts suggested the opposite.
Awkward. Ignorant. Painfully tactless. But not hateful.
Still... Something had happened in that car. Harry couldn't shake it. Maybe Louis had simply been surprised. Maybe he'd never met an openly gay man before.
Maybe he'd been trying to figure out whether he'd accidentally flirted with one. Maybe it was something else entirely.
Harry didn't know. And he wasn't interested enough to find out.
Because whatever spark had existed between them, that reluctant curiosity Harry had tried so hard to ignore, had gone cold the moment Louis stiffened beside him.
It was a shame. Because Louis was... Harry sighed.
Annoyingly attractive. Fine as hell, if he was being completely honest with himself. The tattoos. The sharp jaw. The stupid grin that always looked half a second away from getting him punched.
Harry had noticed all of it. Against his better judgement.
But attraction had never been enough. Not when experience had taught him how quickly it could curdle into disappointment. How quickly fascination could become distance. How easily someone could look at him differently after finding out.
Harry wasn't willing to gamble on another maybe. Not for Louis. Not for someone who asked if he was gay at two in the morning like it was a passing thought. Not for someone who'd answered his phone without even asking first.
Whatever interest Harry had entertained died in that car. He wasn't going to waste time wondering why Louis reacted the way he did.
The reason hardly mattered anymore. The reaction did.
The silence in Harry’s room felt less like a protective bubble now and more like a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in his eyes, tracking the chaotic, rambling history of Louis’ late night intrusive thoughts.
Fuck.
He didn't want to reply. He wanted to throw the phone under his bed. Pull the duvet over his head. And pretend the entire world, including his flat with Niall starting to snoring in the next room, his sick cat, and the loud mouthed alcoholic, didn't exist.
But the photo of his wallet sat right there. He actually needed that back even if all there was left in it was old receipts.
Harry exhaled a long, shaky breath through his nose. His fingers, still cold from the winter chill, hovered over the keyboard. The anger was still there, but beneath it was a profound exhaustion. He didn’t have the energy for a fight, and he certainly didn’t have the energy to dance around Louis’ complete lack of boundaries.
He tapped out a response, his thumb striking the screen with more force than necessary.
Harry: What the fuck are you texting me so fucking much?
Harry: And yes, I am. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use slurs, even if you’re trying to be funny.
Harry: Leave the wallet with Zayn at the pub tomorrow. You don't need to text me again.
He hit send. The small whoosh of the message delivering felt final. Cold. Exactly how he wanted it. He locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress, refusing to watch for a typing bubble.
He was so fucking tired. His eyes burned. His head throbbed. Every muscle in his body ached with the kind of exhaustion that should've dragged him into sleep hours ago.
But he couldn’t. Not without Skip.
Every night she claimed the same spot, sprawled across his legs like she owned them, radiating enough heat to make the duvet unbearable. She snored. She twitched in her dreams. Sometimes she'd stretch so dramatically she'd shove Harry’s leg to the edge of the mattress.
He complained about it constantly.
Now he'd give anything to feel her crushing him into the bed. The flat felt wrong without her. Too still. Too cold.
Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. Even if he forced himself to go to Christmas, Skip couldn't come. She'd either still be at the vets or back home recovering.
And Harry knew exactly how nights would go without her. He'd lie awake in his childhood bedroom, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, waiting. Waiting for raised voices. Waiting for the first passive aggressive comment. Waiting for his father to say something just cruel enough that everyone else would pretend it wasn't. Waiting for his mother to smooth it over with another glass of wine and another desperate change of subject.
Waiting for the annual performance they'd all memorised years ago.
When Gemma still came, it had been... easier. Not good. Never good. Just easier. She'd catch his eye across the dinner table. Roll hers when their father started. Kick him under the table when she knew he was about to react.
She'd been a buffer. A witness. Proof that Harry wasn't imagining any of it.
Now she'd stopped coming altogether. Harry couldn't even blame her. Sometimes he envied her. Which meant this year it would just be him again.
Alone.
A stupid thought slipped into his mind before he could stop it. Louis. Harry actually laughed. A dry, humourless breath.
God. He’s thinking about this again.
Louis beside him in the family photographs, grinning like he belonged there. Louis squeezed into an uncomfortable suit he'd complain about all day. Louis enduring the endless handshakes, fake smiles and rehearsed conversations with people who cared more about appearances than kindness.
Louis at the dinner table. Harry could picture it so clearly it was almost irritating. His father would make one cutting remark. Louis would fire one straight back. His mother would gasp. His father would bristle.
And Louis... Louis would smile. That infuriating, crooked smile that looked like he genuinely enjoyed people trying to knock him down.
Harry had seen flashes of it already. At the pub. In the car. Even in the ridiculous stream of messages cluttering his phone.
Louis didn't seem afraid of confrontation. If anything, he walked towards it. Like he had something to prove. Like conflict was simply another language he happened to speak fluently.
Harry wasn't like that. He never had been. He spent Christmas making himself smaller. Quieter. Less. Trying to still be the boy his parents wished for him to be.
Louis would do the opposite. He'd fill every room he entered. For one stupid second, Harry wondered what it would feel like to have someone like that standing beside him. Someone impossible to intimidate.
Someone his father couldn't quietly bulldoze into silence. Someone who might make the house feel just a little less lonely.
Harry's stomach tightened. Jesus. What the fuck. Louis was straight. Bringing him to Christmas when Harry was openly gay would make people assume Louis was too.
And his father would absolutely destroy him for it. The thought cut through the haze of Harry's exhaustion like ice water. If Harry brought a bloke home, especially a bloke like Louis, who practically radiated defiance from every ink-m stained pore, his father wouldn't just be disappointed. He’d be vindictive. He would dissect Louis piece by piece, using every drop of his quiet, upper class malice to make Louis feel like dirt beneath his polished shoes.
And the worst part? Louis wouldn't even know why he was being targeted. He’d just be collateral damage in a war Harry had been fighting his entire life.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, a hot prickle of shame rising in his throat. It was incredibly selfish to even fantasize about it. To imagine using someone else as a human shield just because Harry was too cowardly to stand up to his own family. Louis didn't deserve that.
Nobody did.
The phone buzzed in his palm. Harry tensed, his thumb automatically sliding the screen open before his brain could stop him. He expected a defensive snap. He expected Louis to double down, to tell him to take a joke, or to call him dramatic.
Instead, a rapid succession of green bubbles filled the screen.
l: fuck. i’m high, i didn’t mean it like that. just was curious yk? no problem that you are
Harry stared at the screen. The anger that had been simmering so hot beneath his ribs didn't disappear. It just... stumbled.
This is not what he expected. He expected a prick—Instead, another message appeared before Harry had even finished reading the first.
l: the slur thing wasn't me taking the piss
Another.
l: i genuinely couldn't remember what words people use now
Harry blinked. His eyebrows drew together. What?
l: that sounds worse written down.
Another.
l: fuck
Harry could almost picture him. Pacing. Running a hand through his hair. Realising, one message too late, that he'd managed to make everything infinitely worse. The typing bubble disappeared. Returned. Disappeared again.
l: i wasn't laughing at you
Harry's thumb hovered over the screen. Something inside him shifted. Not enough to erase the knot in his stomach. Not enough to erase the humiliation. But enough to make certainty slip through his fingers.
Because... That didn't read like someone making fun of him. It read like someone desperately trying to explain themselves.
Poorly. Very, very poorly.
Another message arrived.
l: Zayn would've punched me if he saw those texts
A reluctant breath escaped Harry's nose. He hated that. Hated that, despite everything, he could almost hear Louis saying it.
Matter of fact. Entirely serious. As though Zayn knocking him flat was not only possible, but deserved.
l: i just didn't want to assume.
Harry frowned. Didn't want to... Assume? His eyes drifted back up the conversation. Back to the car. His mother's comment.
If you don't find a nice young man before you come home...
Louis going quiet. Rigid. Lost. Harry had spent hours convincing himself he'd recognised that look. He'd seen versions of it before. Discomfort. Distance.
The moment people started looking at him differently. But... What if he hadn't? His stomach tightened.
No. He wasn't doing this. He wasn't rewriting history because Louis had sent a half arsed apology.
The reaction in the car had been real. He hadn't imagined it. Even if he'd misunderstood it... It had still happened.
Another message landed.
l: sorry
Harry stared at the single word for a long time. It looked strangely out of place amongst the chaos. Like Louis had finally run out of ways to hide behind humour.
Harry leaned back against the headboard, exhaustion settling over him all at once. Skip was still at the vets. His mother still thought he was coming home for Christmas. His bank account was still several hundred quid lighter.
None of that had changed. But somehow the anger he'd been clutching so tightly had loosened its grip. Not because Louis was off the hook.
He wasn't.
Asking someone if they were gay over text at two in the morning was still an unbelievably stupid thing to do. Using slurs, even out of ignorance, was worse.
Louis deserved to know that. He would know that. But Harry was beginning to suspect something that was, somehow, even more exhausting. Louis wasn't malicious. He was just catastrophically, painfully, spectacularly bad at being a person sometimes.
And for reasons Harry couldn't begin to explain... That almost felt more like trouble.
With a sigh, Harry allowed himself to relax enough to respond.
Harry: It’s okay, but you’re still not off the hook. As for my wallet. Forget the pub, i have to go to the vet tomorrow, when do you get off work? You work at the tattoo place?
The reply comes before Harry’s even sure it’s sent.
l: yeah. ink & iron. i'm there till six tomorrow but i can sneak out early if you need it sooner. or i can bring it to the vet. seriously Harry, just tell me where to go
l: and i know i'm not off the hook. i'll buy you a coffee. or a proper drink. or a whole new wallet. whatever it takes to stop me looking like a total bastard
Harry read the rapid replies, a faint, exhausted pull tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ink & Iron. He knew the place. Next to the vets. It suited Louis perfectly.
The offer to bring it to the vet or sneak out of work felt... a bit much. A bit too eager. It was the same reckless momentum Louis seemed to apply to everything, but after a day of dish washing, feeling completely invisible to the busy clinic staff and completely out of reach to his own mother, the sheer, concentrated effort Louis was putting into not being a bastard was bizarrely grounding.
Harry shifted against his headboard, pulling the duvet tighter around his shoulders. The flat was still freezing, thanks to Niall.
He typed back with his thumb, his movements slower now as the midnight fatigue finally started to claim him.
Harry: Don't sneak out of work. And don't come to the clinic. I'll meet you out front when you're finished. Around 6:15?
l: copied that. 6:15 at the shop. wallet will be safe and sound, promise.
l: night, Harry :)
Harry’s heart stalled.
Oh. Fuck you.