Work Text:
a seaside summer in your eyes
The only part Harry doesn’t like about his job is that he has to stare at the beach all day, but isn’t allowed to go on it until past four, when the sun isn’t as high and the pretty boy is already gone. See, Harry loves his job. Most of the people are polite, he gets the cool breeze coming off the water even when it’s hot as hell, and nobody makes fun of his fedora.
Asbury Park is a weird place. Of all the spots on the Jersey Shore, it’s probably the most iconic (thank you Bruce Springsteen), the most divided (half beautiful and buzzing with people, and half sketchy as fuck), and the most gay (who knows how that started). Plus there’s a guy who’s always playing the drums. Harry loves it. Probably because it suits him, but it also brings amazing people. The best part about his job is that he gets to watch them as he pleases. He remembers when his sister first got her license and she would drive them to the boardwalk just to see the passersby.
Harry works at the Ralph’s Italian Ice booth. It’s essentially this: ask, serve, smile, and, “You’re welcome! Have a wonderful day.” The simplicity makes peaceful. Actually, most of the time, he looks forward to the days he gets to spend on the boardwalk. There’s no wardrobe requirement aside from a name tag, and he’s got a little shiny smiley face sticker next to the Harry on his because one day a little girl he was serving loved her lemon icy so much that she insisted she thank him with a sticker. Harry couldn’t possibly object, not with an offer so genuinely sweet.
It’s been a month since he started working. Niall has yet to stop singing along to the bad radio station that’s always blasting the annoying songs that happen to be his guilty pleasure. The pretty boy on the beach never gets Italian Ice. It troubles him greatly.
“Have ya ever thought that he works on weekends, too?” Niall asks him some afternoon in June. He’s making a cherry/blue raspberry swirl in a large cup.
Harry waits until he’s helped the costumer to heave a sigh, and Niall shoots him a look. “No, but–”
“Harry, we’ve gone over my position on butts. I love them, but only on people.” Harry frowns and shakes the hair out of his eyes. “Brighten up, man! The last time you had a crush like this was in middle school and you thought that Dan Berg was your calling.”
“He was nice!” Harry insists. After Dan Berg found out that Harry was supposedly in love with him, he ditched three days of school, came back for two weeks but made eye contact with no one, and by the end of the month, he and his family had picked up and moved.
“Harry, he moved to Alaska and kicked Jeanie in the shins every day during the fourth grade. He wasn’t nice.”
Harry sighs again but relents. “Still. He was my first real crush!”
“Yeah, but this is your fourth and you need to buck up, kiddo.”
It’s the end of their shift and no one is ordering Italian Ice. They sit in hard plastic chairs in their booth. Harry turns the volume of the radio down. Pop songs are one thing, but the obnoxious crooning of a dj with a bad voice and a shrill Brooklyn accent is something else entirely.
Harry waves a hand around at Niall’s words. “Okay, but like– this guy isn’t even a crush yet. He’s not at that caliber. He’s just pretty. I don’t even know his name,” Harry argues. He’s not sounding very thrilled, and apparently, Niall finds it rather amusing. Harry frowns again.
“Oh. I do,” Niall laughs.
“What?” Harry blurts. “And you haven't told me yet?”
“You didn't ask!”
“I didn't know you knew!”
“So?” Niall shrugs. "That should never stop you from inquiring." There are times when Niall brings out his inner philosopher. Harry hates those times. This is one of them. Harry didn’t even know he was aware of the word inquire, let alone be willing to use it conversation.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“It's Louis.”
Harry doesn't want to know what his face looks like in that given moment, but he's sure it's something dazed and embarrassing. What a nice name.
"How do you even know?" Harry asks, sighing yet again.
And of course a couple of kids decide to walk up to them right then, so Harry has to wait as Niall smiles sunnily and takes a few orders, knowing that Harry will listen and make them as he deals with the register. Teamwork during a not-yet-crush crisis is exhausting.
Once they're gone, Harry and Niall take their seats, and Harry waits.
"What?" Niall asks after he sees Harry looking at him like he's the devil or an all-knowing god or Leonardo DiCaprio. Potentially a mixture of the three.
"How do you know his name?"
"Oh!" Niall's laughing again. "I was here on Saturday with Josh. He gave me a chair, nice guy.”
Harry thinks it over for a little bit, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and decides he needs someone to drag to the beach with him this weekend.
* * *
“No.”
For an initial response, Harry is already going down the wrong track.
“What do you mean, no?”
“Harry, I hate the beach. I burn, sand winds up in places sand shouldn’t be, and I feel sticky for the rest of the day. It’s just not a good time,” Ed says. He turns one of the knobs on his guitar to tune it, then strums out a little melody once he’s satisfied. “Ask Gemma or something. She’s home from college, right? Value your time with your ever-fleeting sister.”
Harry frowns. “I would, but she went into the city for the weekend to visit a friend from school. Apparently she’s staying at his apartment in the Upper West Side. So, she’s out.”
“Are they a thing?” Ed asks lightly, scrawling something down in his little leather bound notebook that Harry never sees him without.
“God knows,” Harry sighs.
“Okay, so Gemma is not an option. And Niall won’t go?”
“He’s got family in town. They flew in from Ireland and are apparently enamored with the idea of touring the entirety of Manhattan even though they come over every single year.”
Ed snorts. “None of your friends from school?”
“They’re not close enough to me. I met you through Gemma, and Niall is the best I’ve got. Like, I love all of them, but honestly, there’s only so many people you can gush to about how hot a guy is without feeling a little bit of embarrassment.”
Ed shrugs at that. Asshole. “True, I guess. There’s really no one else you can ask?” he mutters dubiously, looking around his dark basement where light only filters in from the window at the very top of the wall. Harry can practically feel him caving.
Harry makes himself look just the tiniest bit more distressed, hoping Ed won’t see through his bullshit like he – along with everyone else – usually does. “Not a soul.”
Ed narrows his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go. But you’re driving because the fucking gas in my truck is costing me a fortune. Old piece of shit.”
Harry grins at his relent. “Of course.”
“And you’re bringing an umbrella. Also, buying me tacos.”
“Consider them done,” Harry agrees.
“Now help me write this song, asshole.”
Harry smiles at his sarcastic yet secretly endearing tone and fiddles with his six-string sitting next to him on Ed’s faded old couch, soft and worn, holding memories of every time he and Ed have sat down here, doing whatever their stupid heads told them was smart.
* * *
Ed has been complaining that he is already tomato-colored for the past forty-five minutes (they’ve been at the beach for a half hour) but once Harry shuts him up with three pork Asian-fusion tacos from the MOGO booth further down the boardwalk, he eats happily as Harry figures out how to go ask for some chairs. He paces in the sand as his feet burn and his lone taco sits abandoned. Ed eyes it, of course he does.
“Harry, if you don’t ask for the goddamn chairs, I will. I’m getting sand up my ass,” he groans.
Harry narrows his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
“Then buck up, dick. You’re being ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Harry counters, and admittedly, it’s not his best, but by far not his worst.
“Go, Harold,” Ed mutters.
Harry paces for a moment more before tracking down the beach, letting himself stray a little off course so that his toes touch the cool water of the ocean and so he can watch the little kids who are splashing in the crash of the waves. Once he’s parallel with the stack of chairs, he stumbles through the sand and over to the plastic chaises.
Atop one is Louis. He’s hot. Like, really hot. His skin is bronze from laying out in the sun every day, his hair falls across his forehead, and aviators sit on his nose. He’s wearing a navy bathing suit that says Asbury Park Beach on the bottom, and Harry can’t stop staring. Fuck everything. Why did he come here.
“Can I help you, bro?” Louis asks him.
Harry nearly jumps at the sound of his voice, but responds, “Um yeah, could I have two chairs please?”
“Sure,” Louis says, sighing as he stands from where he was very obviously comfortable. His shirt is on the back of his chair. Louis is not wearing a shirt. Harry might die. “Where to?”
“I’ll just lead, then.” Harry, the gentleman his mother raised him to be, takes one of the chaises from Louis and leads them down the beach to where Ed is still sitting, eating Harry’s taco with a pleased look on his face. Harry rolls his eyes but sets down a chair for him anyway, watching as Louis sets the other one up and looks at Harry expectantly.
“Anything else?” Louis asks, sounding rather bored.
Harry grins and says, “Well, maybe a third chair if you’re willing to join us.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ed wince and choke on a laugh, but Louis just puts on a coy face and says, “Sorry, pal, but that’s not part of the job.”
“Darn,” Harry says. “Do I owe you anything? A tip?”
Louis sighs. “Sadly, no. I’m not supposed to ‘expect’ tips, but I take what I can get. Minimum wage barely suffices a poor, yearning college kid like myself.”
Harry barks out a laugh and hands him the three dollars from his pocket. He winks, and Louis just shakes his head before walking away.
“So,” Harry says as he sits down, “that went well!”
“Are you kidding,” Ed murmurs, monotone. “Is that a joke.”
“Can you at least make your voice sound a little bit inquiring?” Harry asks, knowing that Ed is making fun of him only for his personal, selfish enjoyment reasons.
“No,” he replies dryly. “You are ridiculous, H.”
“Don’t abuse me,” Harry says. “I’m fragile.”
Ed scowls at him. “Now that you’ve, y’know, talked to him, can we leave?”
Harry scowls right back.
* * *
Harry is trying to be outgoing. He is certainly not going to give up after one failed attempt. During his break on Monday, he strolls down to the pile of chaises and gently taps Louis’ shoulder. He’s met by Louis’ hand tilting down his aviators and eyes looking up at him expectantly.
“Yes?” Louis asks.
“I was wondering your name, um. Because I come to the beach a lot and since you work here I figured–”
Harry considers himself a genius. Just because he already knows Louis’ name doesn’t mean that he can’t find out for himself. Besides, if he had accidentally said Louis’ name in a definite future interaction, he wouldn’t want to scare him or anything. Because he already knew his name, that is.
“It’s Louis.”
“Oh. I’m Harry,” Harry says with a smile.
“I know. You have a name tag. It was my sister who gave you the sticker.”
“Really?” Harry asks, smiling wider.
“Yep.”
“Would you tell her I said thank you?” Harry pleads.
“Sure thing, kid. Need anything else?”
“I’m okay, thanks. How bout you? Do you want an icy?”
Louis looks like he’s genuinely considering it, and that is a touchdown and a half in Harry’s book. His face is hopeful. “Do I have to get up?” Louis asks carefully.
“No, not if you don’t want to,” Harry says cheerily. “Any flavors?”
“Surprise me,” Louis says, warmer than before.
Harry tries his hardest. When he makes it back to Niall, he’s sitting on the chair screaming Miley Cyrus at the top of his lungs, but it looks like Harry hasn’t missed much.
“What are you doing here?” Niall asks him. “I figured you’d be galavanting off into the sunset by now. Or making out. At least something interesting.”
“I’m making him an icy.”
“Ooh! What flavor? I think you can really read into a person based on their Ralph’s flavor.” The sad part about his statement is that he’s entirely serious when he says it.
“Myth,” Harry brushes off. “Besides, he said to surprise him. I figured that root beer and soft serve vanilla is a good start. Everyone likes that.”
“Root beer float. Classic combo. Wise decision.”
“I try my hardest, Niall.”
Harry fills up a medium cup – he plays it safe; not too small, not too big – and treks back down to the beach where Louis is still lying, arms behind his head so his hands are like a pillow, ankles crossed, and body blissfully, blissfully golden.
“I brought you an icy,” Harry announces once he gets there.
“As you said you would,” Louis responds, sitting up and making some eye contact. “What flavor?”
Harry holds out the cup to him. “Root beer float?”
“Awesome,” Louis says. “Thanks, Harry.”
“You’re welcome!” He’s too chirpy and he knows it, but Louis is mostly smiling and Harry likes it when people smile. Louis eats and doesn’t talk, and by the time a person who needs a chair approaches him again, they haven’t spoken another word and Harry’s break is over.
* * *
“I can’t do this.”
“Do what? Bro, we’ve been working this job for more than a month and it’s the same thing over and over again. What’s changed?”
Harry actually facepalms. “Not that, Niall.”
“What can’t you do, then?”
“I can’t Louis,” Harry whines, forlorn as he makes a watermelon/blue raspberry swirl.
“Sure you can!” Niall says happily. “Just talk to him.”
“I can’t just talk to him.”
“Who says?”
“Niall.”
“Harry. I talk to girls all the time. Man the fuck up.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Girls are different. They fall to their knees at any hot guy in a snapback and has a little charm.”
“Well I wouldn’t say they fall to their knees that easily, but...” Niall raises his eyebrows and Harry facepalms again. “Also, are you saying I’m hot? And have charm? I love you!”
Harry loves Niall too. He really does. But Operation Have a Summer Romance (Hopefully With Hot Beach Guy (Louis)) is so far a flop, and he is not assisting in changing Harry’s poor fate. “I need my guitar. Can I bring my guitar to work?” Harry asks, specifically ignoring Niall.
“Why not? I’ll bring mine. It could be our own little Ralph’s jingle!”
“Niall, no.”
“Why not? Wait. Have you been writing with Ed lately? Are you getting all sad ballad-y on me again? Now is not the time. It’s summer! We’re about to be seniors. I turn eighteen in two months. This is the damn life. Liam looks at his countdown every other hour. Write happy shit! Whenever I write with Ed we wind up singing about weed and beer.”
“That’s all you ever think about,” Harry argues halfheartedly.
“Untrue. I think about boobs and Ralph’s Italian Ice a lot,” Niall mutters with a fake frown.
Harry sighs.
“Don’t get all moody on me, Harry. All four of those things are very important to me.”
Harry cracks a smile because, well. Niall.
“Do I have permission to play happy love songs?”
“Sure, buddy.”
Work is slow that day.
* * *
The next day is just as slow, but at around four p.m. – the end of Harry’s shift – a miracle occurs. Aka Louis comes up to the booth with two little girls at his side and a smile on his face. There are no sunglasses covering his shiny blue eyes, and his hair is messy from the wind mussing it all day. Harry nearly salivates. Nearly.
“Hey, Louis,” Harry manages to get out when Louis is probably an appropriate distance away. Harry is trying not to get ahead of himself. “What can I do for you?”
“Girls,” Louis murmurs gently, addressing his sisters. “Tell Harry what you’d like.”
“Can I have the cherry please? Small?” the one on the right says.
Harry nods. “And you, sweetie?”
“The blue one!”
“What do you say?” Louis asks.
“Please!” the girl chirps.
Harry smiles too big but makes their cups, thanking whatever god there is that Niall is in the bathroom. When he turns back around with them in head, he looks at Louis again – with a full reason this time, too. New level of self-control.
“Anything for you?”
“I’m good,” Louis responds. “Thanks though, man.” He slaps down some cash and takes the receipt from Harry’s outstretched palm. “I’ll see you around.”
He starts to turn away with his girls eating happily at his side, but Harry calls out, “Wait!”
Louis turns, eyebrows raised.
“Um. There’s that bonfire here tonight. Are you coming?”
Harry is impressed by even his own forwardness.
Louis just shrugs, wears a smirk. “We’ll see.”
Harry figures that is better than nothing.
* * *
Niall is gone from his side about fifteen minutes after they get to the bonfire, so Harry condemns himself to the sand and listens to the music some guys are playing on makeshift drums and an out of tune guitar. The water doesn’t quite lap at his feet, but the tide is low so he doesn’t have to worry about getting wet. The sounds are peaceful – happy chatter, low, warm music, laughter, and the sea. He watches the angry blue of the Atlantic launch itself at the jetties over and over again, a never-ending effort to overtake them, despite drifting further away each time. Harry admires its persistence.
He doesn’t mind sitting alone at this point, mostly because he knows that he’ll be able to mingle whenever he likes. Some are strangers, some are friends. He has nothing to worry about.
Well, until Louis comes and sits down next to him.
“You came,” Harry says lightly.
“Sure did... Curly,” Louis mutters, tugging at a piece of Harry’s hair and furrowing his eyebrows. “You’re curly.”
So. He’s drunk. Harry supposes he can deal, but.
“You’re also pretty cute. Can we go by the fire? I’m cold. And I need a new beer.”
“I think you’ve had enough,” Harry chuckles. He’s pretty proud of himself for playing it this cool after you’re also pretty cute, because the inside of his head that currently isn’t creating mostly coherent thoughts is he thinks i’m cute he thinks i’m cute he thinks i’m cute! “Besides, are you even old enough? We’re in a public setting, y’know.”
“Public setting my ass. I’m nineteen and I’ll do whatever the hell I want. Now. Fire.”
Louis stands and looks down at Harry expectantly. Harry shakes his head (because what.) but gets up and brushes the sand off of his butt and hands. Louis leads the way.
He glows nicely in the firelight, Harry thinks. It makes his hair extra glossy and skin more golden than usual. Harry wants to touch him, but that’s probably creepy to say let alone to think, so he fiddles with the bracelets littering his wrists and tries to get his ears to stop eavesdropping on the other people around him. Louis heaves a sigh as he stares at the huge bonfire, and Harry just watches and watches because while Harry may be cute, Louis is stunning.
Either way, Harry just has no self control.
He grows hot in his jeans and t-shirt that’s too big. The sleeves are rolled up and his necklaces are dangling right in front of his chest. Harry feels all right. He feels mostly confident. He tells himself that he’s going to try to act like the sea. Persistent.
Louis pushes his fringe out of his eyes and wiggles his bare toes in the sand. Harry wonders where his shoes are, but he figures that asking isn’t really the best conversation starter. He also wants to know how Louis got here if he’s so drunk, but hopes to hell that he didn’t drive. Dangerous stuff.
Harry still can’t stop staring. Louis’ arms are tan and thick, and it’s also probably weird that Harry wants to feel his biceps, so. His tank top is dark and his shorts are denim. He’s literally the definition of hot, and it makes Harry uneasy.
Louis looks at him, cocks his head. “You’re cute.”
Harry opens his mouth and makes to say something, but it doesn’t really work out.
“It’s hot,” Louis mutters. “Can we go under the boardwalk?”
Okay. He never got his beer, but okay.
Louis grabs Harry by the wrist and leads them around the fire and through the people to a nice spot under those panels of wood. The sand is cool and feels damp even though it’s not. One of those weird sand tendencies. Louis looks at Harry again, and if he keeps this up, Harry is going to be a sad, confused heap by the end of the night.
“You’re cute,” Louis says for the third time. His eyebrows are furrowed. “I keep thinking that every time you have your little name tag on and give me Italian Ice. You’re cute and we should make out. Can we make out?”
“Well, I mean, I guess–”
This is it. Harry is a heap. But Louis is leaning all close, giggling with his mouth right next to Harry’s. Their noses touch, and their lips, and Harry is a heap that Louis is kissing. He’s gentle, for being rather inebriated. His hands are cupping Harry’s face, running through his hair. Their thighs are pressed together, and Louis is kind of awkwardly bent over Harry to kiss him and keep them close enough. Just as gently as Louis, Harry reaches for Louis’ waist from where his hands were dumbly fumbling in the sand, and Harry supposes that Louis catches his drift or whatever, because he crawls into Harry’s lap and kisses him so thoroughly that they fall back into the sand.
Harry’s a moral dude. He believes in love and fate and really thinks that friendship is a basis for a good relationship. But, like. He’s been watching Louis on the beach since he got his job, been trying to flirt with him since he managed to grow half a pair of balls, and well. Now Harry’s kissing Louis and he’s not really going to turn up such a lovely opportunity. He’s not sure when (or if at all) this is going to happen again, so he’s not exactly going to take it for granted. Although, he will continue to lobby for a date of some sort. Persistence. Like the ocean, right?
But for now, he’s going to concentrate on kissing – Louis’ hands on his shoulders and his chest and in his hair; his lips on Harry’s lips, and on his jaw and his neck and his collarbones. He’s focused, Louis is. He’ll take things one place at a time, focus on his weak spot below his ear and then his left collarbone, and only when Harry’s fingers actually twitch in some kind of desperate beg to be kissed does Louis come back.
He laughs first, though. Like how he did by the sea, and by the fire. “You’re so fun.”
Harry’s too flustered for his own good. It’s pretty awful, actually. “I’m glad?” Kill him. He’s barely managing to be a coherent heap so you might as well just kill him.
Louis is tussled and golden, even in the blue light of beneath the boardwalk.
“Glad?” he mutters, like he has to think about the word for a second. He places his hands firmly on Harry’s shoulders and runs his fingers through Harry’s sandy hair. “Well. You should be. I don’t just dish out compliments.” He pauses again and wriggles his fingers through the sand. “Now kiss me some more.”
(They kiss some more.)
* * *
Harry is still very much excited about Saturday when Monday rolls around. Some may call it giddy, but he’s not one to get ahead of himself.
The night had gone smoothly. More kisses. A boner that (unfortunately) had to be taken care of on his own time.
“Are you sure you’ll make it home all right? You have a ride?”
“Yes, yes, Harry. Zayn’s here. He’s not drunk. Has a car, y’know.”
“You’re really sure?”
“Yes! I’ll go find him now. I’m a little drunk, not incapable.”
There were no more kisses, but Harry had gone home with a smile so big that it made even his mother suspicious.
So, maybe giddy is accurate, but Harry refuses to succumb to it.
He brings his guitar with him to work, so he and Niall give the old radio a break and instead take turns playing happy tunes on the fresh strings he just put on. His smile is weirdly unfaltering, but his sunny mood rivals even Niall’s all morning. Harry not-so-secretly anticipates his break a little after noon because he has plans. Important plans, that is, seeing as the first day of encountering post-making out is extremely crucial to making a relationship progress further, especially when one of the people in said relationship was drunk during aforementioned making out.
Therefore, Harry comes with strategy. That being, bring Louis a water bottle during his first break, and then to proceed onto astoundingly suavely asking Louis out to lunch. Perfect.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t really work out that, but Harry – not being able to tell the future – goes in with high hopes, his same big grin, and a nice, cold bottle of Poland Springs.
“Hey, Louis!” Harry says when he gets a reasonable distance away.
“Harry,” Louis notes. His tone is almost indecipherable – not quite excited, but not truly disappointed either. Harry wouldn’t call it monotone, either. Strange.
“How was the rest of you weekend? I brought you some water.”
Louis blinks a couple of times, looking stricken, almost like Harry’s two sentences were too much for him to take in. “Oh,” he lets out. “Well. Thanks, man. My weekend was all right. Just hung around on Saturday, enjoyed the weather, a day off. Y’know.”
Harry knows. “Yeah, I know. It was a little humid though. I made friends with the pool.”
Louis nods. “That’s good.”
Harry takes this lull in conversation as the perfect time to strike. He sits down on the edge of Louis’ chair in order to make direct, balanced eye contact. “So I was wondering, would you wanna get lunch with me some time? Maybe if our breaks match up, or on a day off or something.”
Louis sighs. Bad sign. Harry, a hopeful animal, stays positive.
“Harry, listen.” (Worse sign.) “So like. I know we hooked up kinda on Saturday, but that was it. So um. No, yeah. No lunch.”
Harry’s big old smile fails him, and his expression falters. The fact that Louis looks completely nonplussed as he puts Harry down puts a little twinge in Harry’s stomach, but there’s nothing he can do. His empty fist clenches and unclenches, and he forces a straight face on. Gently, he puts the water on Louis’ chair, murmurs a soft (and not as cheery as he’d like), “Okay. See you around.”
He knows that Louis doesn’t look at him again. By the time he gets back to the booth, Niall is doing his own half-assed version of Avicii’s Wake Me Up, but he’s mostly just saying “wake me up when it’s all over” over and over again because he likes the notes. He obviously spots Harry’s not-smile.
“Yo, why aren’t you smiling?”
“Niall,” Harry starts. “I have to break it to you. I’ve been rejected.”
Evidently, Niall had not taken this scenario into consideration. “Oh,” he says. “Well. Try again tomorrow.”
“What?” Harry mutters. He sits in his chair in the booth. “He already said no once, why would I let myself get rejected twice in one week?”
“Dude. You will probably get rejected a million times this week.” Harry scowls. “But I know a trick. I know how these things work. Go back tomorrow. Bring him another water bottle, ask him to lunch again, and, y’know, befriend him a little. Be a persistent motherfucker. Make him get to know you. Trust me, I know the ropes. Let him see the Harry that all the girls were in love with in the 7th grade.”
Harry barks a laugh. “They thought I was straight. Plus I was a prepubescent and short. I hope Louis won’t see me like that.”
Niall frowns. “You know what I mean.”
Harry does. Persistent motherfucker. He can do that. Like the ocean.
(First he spends the rest of his shift playing sad music on his guitar even though Niall slaps him upside the head.)
* * *
Day Two is a little easier to handle than Day One because he goes in with a more neutral attitude and is more aware of the fact that he is more than likely going to get rejected.
“Louis,” he greets, heavy on the suave, as usual. “I’ve brought you some water again.” Harry takes a deep breath and thinks: charming. He can do charming. Maybe.
Louis sits up from where he was laying, bronze skin getting endlessly tanner in the summer’s relentless sun. “Glad you’re so concerned with my hydration.”
“Well, laying out in the sun all day like that, water would do you good.” Harry laughs awkwardly. This is not charming.
“I guess.” He reaches out a hand to accept the bottle from Harry’s outstretched arms. He uncaps it and chugs the whole thing in one go. Afterwards, he lets out a very refreshed noise and lays back down. “I feel rejuvenated, Harry. Thanks.”
“Anytime, bro. So, what do you say to some lunch?”
Plan Charming: failed.
“Ah, no. Seriously, Harry. I’m sorry if I led you on that much, but like, no.”
Harry just nods and lets the disappointment that he told himself wouldn’t happen sink in. He turns on his heel and says no more.
When he gets back to the booth he starts playing some sad songs on his guitar, and Niall physically wrenches it from his grip. It looks like he’s going to beat it against the ground.
“Hey,” Harry whines, making his sounds go for too long and his frown get too wide.
“None of that sad shit, asshole. I told you that you’re going to be rejected. Just go back tomorrow, talk to him for real, bring him two water bottles I don’t fucking know. Just stop moping and help the lovely ladies in line.”
Harry scowls but manages to put on his biggest smile when he says, “Welcome to Ralph’s! What can I get you two?”
And so it is.
** *
Day Three is significantly more successful.
“I am all about health, Lou.”
“So you have two water bottles?” he asks, sitting up and lowering his sunglasses to see Harry cradling not one, but two water bottles covered in condensation from all the humidity.
“Um. Yes.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” He makes grabby hands and takes them from Harry, drinking one straight away and plopping the other one in the sand for another time.
“I appreciate your appreciation?” Harry lets out. (Not suave.)
“I appreciate that,” Louis says seriously. But then they’re both laughing and it’s the loosest Harry has felt with Louis since Louis’ hands were on his ass, so this is improvement.
Harry tries out bold and gestures to the end of Louis’ chaise. “Do you mind if I sit?”
Louis swallows. “Oh. Um, no. You can sit. Tell me a story or something. This job is boring.”
Harry sits gently and tries not to make the chair shift with his weight. “My job is pretty boring too, to be honest. But stories? Uh. My buddy Ed and I are working on a song together, and we got really high and wound up writing a song about pizza? I dunno, man. That’s not much of a story.”
Louis laughs anyway and Harry is surprised. “You’re into music? Do you play anything?”
Harry looks at the sand, the water, and then back at Louis. “Um, I play a bit of guitar, but I like the vocal chords a lot, too. Good stuff.”
Louis nods and raises his eyebrows. “Are you in a band?”
Harry smiles to himself basically because Louis is taking interest in him and that is the best bit progress he’s made in several weeks. “Not officially? My buddy Niall who works at Ralph’s with me, Ed, who I mentioned before, and our friend Josh, we all get together sometimes and like to pretend we sound good, but I wouldn’t really call it a band. Just a lot of guitars, too many voices, and a set of drums. We’re bass-less. Occasionally we fuck around on the keys because synth is rad, but we’re not nearly as put together as we could be.”
“That’s sick,” Louis says. He sounds genuine? Niall is going to be amazed when he finds out the good news. “There was like, one band in my grade when I was in high school. They were shit.”
“Oh,” Harry says. “Hopefully we’re not too shit.”
“I would vouch, but I don’t know any better.”
Harry flounders at the lull that has just appeared in conversation. Floundering leads to panic, so he just kind of, “So how do you feel about lunch?”
Louis rolls his eyes.
“Still no, big boy.”
He tried. Maybe tomorrow.
* * *
So the days carry on, and Harry can only be positive because things could be much worse. Louis is – well. Louis varies, is the thing. Some days he’ll light up when Harry brings him the water. He’ll talk with him and even laugh a little. Harry might even call them friends. Some days.
But other days, he’ll just take the water and shut down. He’ll sneer when Harry asks him to lunch, he won’t laugh a note, and Harry doesn’t call them friends at all.
Louis is unpredictable, that’s what he is.
Either way, Harry likes him a lot a lot a lot. He’s continually persistent, and Louis asks him once (on a bad day) why he hasn’t given up yet. Harry just says, “You’re good. I like you.”
Louis just raises his eyebrows, chugs the water bottle, and waits for Harry to leave.
It’s two weeks and twenty-eight more water bottles later that Louis finally breaks.
“Do you wanna get lunch today?” Harry asks, tone almost joking because he’s expecting the usual no and today is a good day so maybe Louis will laugh too.
“Okay,” Louis says.
Wait. What.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Louis says again. He pauses and purses his lips. “I mean, you obviously really want to get lunch with me, and like, you’re paying for tacos. So why not?”
Harry leans a little more forward from where he’s sitting on the edge of Louis’ chaise. His voice is low. “You’re not kidding right?”
“No, I’m not kidding. Come on, kid, I’ve got twenty minutes.”
Harry’s grin is far too big for his face when he stands and waits for Louis in order to lead the way to MOGO.
“Is Drummer Dude here today?” Louis asks, flip-flops in one hand and his other arm brushing Harry’s.
“He’s always here,” Harry laughs. Drummer Dude is just some guy who comes to the AP boardwalk to play the drums everyday. He’s actually pretty good, too. Harry’s sure he makes good money. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I just like him. Dedicated, Drummer Dude.”
Harry nods in agreement as they reach the stairs from where the beach meets the boardwalk. “He’s got a passion. Also, he rakes in the cash,” Louis adds, and then they’re both laughing.
The rest of the walk to the booth is quiet, but peacefully so. The ocean is crashing against the shore and the sounds of summer and people ring out. Harry will never grow tired of the beach.
There’s a bit of a line at the booth, but the workers behind the counter are happy go lucky, shaking and dancing as they blast Michael Jackson and prepare tacos.
“Bless the Asian Fusion,” Harry sighs. “What do you want?”
“Beef and Pork all the way.” Louis shrugs. “I like meat.”
Harry holds back his laugh at an innuendo that not everyone would find, so he just says, “Tofu is my favorite.”
“You’re weak, Harry,” Louis tells him seriously. “Weak.”
“I like meat too!” Harry protests, pouting.
“Well.” Louis is smirking. Harry hates him. Obviously, Louis had found the innuendo in his own words. “I’m glad.”
They place their orders, Harry pays, and they manage to snag a bench somehow. During the busiest hours of the boardwalk, you never know when you’ll be standing. The breeze ruffles their hair, and Harry has to offer Louis a few napkins as they eat their tacos and the messy toppings fall all over the place.
The food is gone in minutes, and then they’re just sitting. Harry realizes he has no idea what to say, but is thankful when he doesn’t have to think anything up.
“How old are you, Harry? I know you’re in high school.”
“I’m seventeen, I’ll be a senior this year. College and all that,” Harry says, playing with his bracelets and fingers.
“Oh,” Louis says. “I’m already up in Syracuse. Sophomore this year.”
“That’s not so far,” Harry mentions. Conversationally, of course. Not to hint at anything. At all. Whatsoever.
“Five hours by car, just over one by plane,” Louis tells him robotically. “It’s cold as fuck but amazing, so I can’t complain.”
“What are you studying?” Harry asks.
Louis heaves a sigh. “I have no idea. I was undecided all last year, and I dabbled in a few things that I thought would be cool, but I just can’t pick.”
“What draws you in?” Harry knows he wants to go into psychology and human studies because he’s a people person. People fascinate him, and he’s an empath at heart. He’s known since the career fair during freshman year that everyone complained about. Even he complained about it.
“I don’t know. I hated learning when I was a kid, but now I’m nineteen and I find everything fascinating. Which sucks, right? Because if I had my head screwed on straight when I was like, twelve, I’d have a focus. But right now I just want to know everything, which is pain. I just can’t decide. Well, aside from math. I hate math.”
Harry laughs too loudly. “Same. Calc is going to ruin my life.”
Louis nods seriously. “Probably.”
Harry takes the silence that follows as a sign to change the subject. Who talks about school in the middle of summer anyway? “Are you gonna be in New Jersey the whole summer?”
Louis sighs again. “Unfortunately. I might go into the city a couple times because there are some good people playing Terminal 5 and Central Park, but I’ll be stuck here until first semester in August.”
“It’s not so bad, is it?”
Louis smiles. “Nah. There are good things.”
Harry’s stomach does an embarrassing little girl flip flop thing, and he folds his fingers together to control himself. “You have a good amount of friends from high school?”
“Plenty,” Louis scoffs. “Are you saying that I seem like a loser?”
Harry gapes. “No! It’s just – my sister, she–”
Louis bursts out laughing and pats Harry gently on the head, like a small cat. “Harry, Harry I was kidding. I know you didn’t mean it like that.”
“Jerk. That’s what you are. A jerk,” Harry declares.
Louis cocks an eyebrow. “That’s the best you can do?”
“A big meanie ugly jerk?”
Louis cocks his other eyebrow. He looks entirely unimpressed. “Ugly?”
Harry blushes. “Okay, so. Not ugly.”
“You need work, Harry. Much work.”
“Teach me, then,” he prompts.
Louis proceeds to show Harry a George Carlin video from the 70’s called the “Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television” and then list every single insult he can come up with at the top of his head. He claims to be training Harry for “future instances where you need a better rebuttal.” Harry enjoys every single minute of it, and also suggests he go into English or Law because the word rebuttal in conversation is not normal. Louis punches him in the arm and calls him an “uncalled for and unwarranted ass wipe”.
After twenty minutes is up, they throw out their taco remnants, walk down the boardwalk, and hover around Ralph’s. Louis claps him on the shoulder and smiles almost-genuinely. “Thanks for lunch, kid. I had a good time.” He waves and walks off. Okay, so not exactly what Harry was going for, but hey, it’s a good afternoon, and he can’t believe that any of it happens.
* * *
The turn of events Harry has labeled “Lunch 1/Many” needs to be relabeled “Lunch 1/1”, because when Harry goes to visit Louis on his break the following day, he brings an icy water bottle and a big smile. Louis accepts the water, but does not reciprocate the smile. Apparently Harry isn’t feeling too bright, because he decides to ask Louis to lunch despite his evident pissy attitude.
“Lunch? We can get crepes this time.”
Louis narrows his eyes. “One time thing, Harry.”
“Oh,” Harry mumbles, and his smile falls along with his heart. It gets buried in the sand, probably. The hot, nasty sand that has too many feet on it per day.
“Thanks for the water,” Louis says as he lifts it up halfheartedly.
“Yeah,” Harry responds, and then he flees back to Ralph’s and doesn’t even have the heart to whine to Niall. It’s in the sand, after all. Instead, he plays sad guitar when there are no costumers and doesn’t have any of Niall’s suggestions for happy songs. Today is not a happy song day.
It carries on for a few days, and Harry gets excited whenever the ocean is flat because all of the persistence is gone, and he likes to match. He figures, why bother when Louis is obviously uninterested? Sure, he was a determined kid for a few weeks, but if Louis won’t give him the time of day, Harry should probably do the same. He plays a lot of sad guitar.
Niall issues an intervention a week and a half later. “Dude, you really have to stop with the sad guitar.”
“My guitar loves me, Niall,” Harry says, holding it close to his chest.
Niall snatches it out of his hands. “Yes, but I also love you, and your guitar loves me.” He plays a fancy couple of notes as if it proves his point. (It does.) “Either play something happy, or we’re going back to the radio.”
Harry glares very hard, and he squints a lot. Squinting makes him look more intimidating. (It doesn’t.) “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Niall singsongs, he hovers his finger over the on button of their boombox.
“But I’m sad, so the sad music speaks to me.”
Niall slaps his head and then pets his hair as a counteract. “Do we need to get you drunk, sweetie?” he asks in a creepy, motherly voice.
Harry nods slowly and sadly.
“Will do, then.”
* * *
They are in Ed’s basement and are completely shit faced off of a couple of shots each and a case of low priced, cat piss beer. Ideal Thursday night in the summer, naturally. Liam and Niall are laughing at something that’s probably not funny, Ed is staring at the mustache someone drew on his wall, and Harry is thinking about tomorrow.
“Niall,” he slurs. “I’m upset.”
“I swear to god, Harry. If you say one thing about Louis, I will end you.”
Harry frowns. Loudly. Can one frown loudly? He’s doing it, either way. “I wasn’t, but thank you for the reminder. I was gonna say that we have work tomorrow. I don’t wanna go to work tomorrow. We have to be there at ten. I don’t want to be there at ten. I want to stay right here, on this couch. I love this couch.”
He hears Liam whisper, “Is he okay?”
“No,” Ed says. “Definitely no.”
“Maybe we should get him a blanket,” Liam suggests.
Ed throws one at him. It works, because Harry passes out with his face stuck to the pleathery cushion and his mind foggy with cheap vodka and cheaper beer.
* * *
Niall slaps him in the face on Monday. It hurts like a bitch, but the redness fades after he holds a cup of Italian Ice up to it for ten minutes.
“Be a man, Styles,” he says, and then proceeds to make a soft serve for himself. He eats it with a glare that stays transfixed on Harry’s head, so he straightens his shoulders and tries to work in the manliest manner he can conjure up. It lasts for almost the entire day, which is good by his standards.
It’s the very end of the day when Niall is already gone, and there’s just one last group of girls asking for mini cups of the sugar free icies. He makes them with a charming smile and a sigh of relief when they’re finally gone. He plops himself down in his chair and fiddles with his guitar before he can heave himself to his bike to ride home, plucking strings and closing his eyes.
A knock on the counter brings him out of his reverie, so he mutters, “Sorry, the stand’s closed until five.”
“Oh, uh. I’ll go then.”
Harry’s eyes snap open and he sets his guitar down gently to stand. “Louis?” he says.
“That’s me,” Louis murmurs, voice soft and almost timid. “I don’t have to stay if you really don’t serve again until five.”
Harry flushes a little, rubs the back of his neck. “It’s okay. We don’t turn off the machines in between shifts, so you can order. What can I get you?”
Louis leans forward onto the surface of the counter, eyes sparkly and fringe wonderfully windswept from the day on the beach. “Rootbeer float, please.” His tone is calm but he’s smirking, and Harry is totally squirming and freaking out on the inside. He’s not showing it – not after a day of being manly. Niall would not approve of squeaking mid-Louis-interaction.
“Sure,” Harry says. His voice stays surprisingly even. Perhaps he has more skill than he gives himself credit for. He makes it with a steady hand and asks, “What color spoon?” because that’s important.
“Blue,” Louis responds.
Bless him.
Harry places the cup on the counter and types the information into the cash register. Louis hands him a credit card to pay, and when Harry gives him the receipt to sign, their fingers brush, and Harry’s a little sad because the feeling in his chest is definitely not overwhelmingly masculine. Louis slides the receipt back to him and takes his cup. “Thanks, Harry,” he says.
“Yeah,” he responds. “Yeah, of course. Have a good evening, Lou.”
“You, too.”
Harry collapses in his chair after Louis has gone down the boardwalk, signed receipt fisted in his hand and cheeks red. “Jesus,” he mutters. He unfolds the paper after a few moments to collect himself, preparing to stick it onto the pointy thing that Niall named Walt because w’s are pointy and so is the pointy thing. Harry never had the heart to mention that some people make their w’s rounded rather than angular, but. He rubs out the creases on his thighs and sees that there’s far more than just a signature on the bottom line.
Meet me under the boardwalk tonight? 7. - Louis Tomlinson
Harry notes how nice his loopy Ls are before he even registers the message – and then, well. He probably stops breathing for a minute, and then proceeds to sit down because this is way too much. Louis wants to meet up with him. That’s interesting. Does he even go? What if it’s a ploy?
He texts Niall. Perhaps he will be a philosophical god once again.
To Niall: niall louis left me a note on the bottom of a receipt to meet him under the boardwalk do i go
Niall responds in about thirty seconds.
To Harry: ofc u go dumbass!!!! y wouldnt u?
Harry rolls his eyes.
To Niall: what if its a ploy???
To Harry: a ploy to what??? fuck u??? go harry.
Harry sighs. Of course he’s going to go. What was he even thinking? He puts his guitar in its case, slings it over his shoulder, and closes up shop. His bike ride home is thought-laden and quick. He doesn’t understand why now, suddenly, after like, two weeks, Louis wants to see him again. He’d obviously been disinterested with Harry before, and they haven’t really interacted since, so what could have sparked a change?
Had he pined as hard as Harry?
Probably not. No one pines as hard as Harry.
Harry showers once he’s home, puts on some jeans and a baggy shirt, and stares at himself in the mirror for several minutes before giving up and going down stairs to eat a banana. Gemma is on the couch watching reruns of Drake and Josh, and she turns around and eyes him up and down.
“What’s up with you?” she asks.
“What do you mean what’s up with me?” Harry looks down at his converse and at his outfit.
“Not your clothes, dumbass. You’re like, antsy or whatever.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “How can you tell? I’m eating a banana. That’s perfectly normal.”
“You’re just off. Accept that I can tell and come have a chat with sister Gemma.”
Harry sighs and throws out the peel of his banana before sitting next to his sister on the sofa. “So there’s this guy, right?” Gemma makes a face and Harry smacks her leg.
“I’m kidding, Harry.”
“Don’t be mean! I’m genuinely stressed.”
“Okay, okay. Carry on.”
“So, there’s this guy and he works at the AP beach. You might’ve seen him. He’s on the North side, and he’s gorgeous: tan, blue eyes, great body. Anyway, so I went to the beach once with Ed (you were in New York) and I got his name, and well, like, a lot of stuff happened but basically we made out at a bonfire under the boardwalk and then I tried to ask him to lunch a bunch of times, but he kept saying no. And when he finally said yes it was really great? But then he freaked out when I asked him again the next day so I stopped seeing him, right? And now, it’s been like two weeks since I’ve spoken to him and he comes to Ralph’s right when I’m closing and orders a rootbeer float icy which, mind you, is the flavor I brought to him once. Coincidence? Probably.”
“You can dream,” Gemma interjects. Harry loves his sister.
“But, anyway, he leaves me a note on the receipt that says to meet him under the boardwalk at seven, and well, I’m freaking out?”
“God, you’re such a girl.” Harry hates his sister.
“I’m allowed to freak out!” Harry whines. He flops backwards onto the cushions.
“I know you are. But seriously, he obviously has interest in you. You should be happy!”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely! Now, watch some Drake and Josh with me, ease up, eat a Chobani. And then, later, you can bike back to the boardwalk and do your weird mating ritual under the boardwalk.”
“Okay,” Harry says.
Okay.
* * *
Harry leaves the house at exactly 6:45 because it takes ten minutes to get there and he likes to allot himself some leeway time incase one of the lights lasts longer than normal or something that’s entirely improbable happens. He arrives at Asbury Park at 6:54 and paces after he locks up his bike, but manages to take a few deep breaths before going onto the boardwalk and climbing down the stairs to the beach. He scopes out the area and finds the place where he and Louis made out that one time, and sure enough, he’s there first.
He debates leaving and coming back to seem like he’s not overly anxious, but instead resigns himself to the sand and watches the heavy waves hurl themselves against the beach. Louis arrives a little bit after seven, and when Harry sees him his breath catches a little bit because of how gorgeous he is. He’s still in his AP bathing suit and a red tank top with the Vans: Off the Wall! symbol on it. His hair is just barely pushed out of his eyes, and his sunglasses are perched atop his head.
“Harry,” Louis says lightly. “You came.”
Harry nods. “Yeah, I, uh. I was surprised you even asked me to come in the first place.”
Louis takes a seat next to him, toes digging into the hole Harry made with his feet as soon as his butt hit the sand. Perhaps he has the same nervous habit as Harry. His bare feet bump into Harry’s Converse, and he says, “I wanted to apologized about that, actually. How much of an asshole I was, to be clear.”
Harry is not sure how to approach a response. “Oh, um–” he starts, beautifully eloquent (as normal). “It’s all right, I guess.”
Louis draws circles in the sand with the tip of his finger. “Not really. I fucked you around a little, didn’t I?”
Harry huffs a breath. “Well, yeah, but–”
“Don’t say it’s okay,” Louis interrupts.
Harry keeps his face almost uncomfortably stoney. “It’s not okay,” he growls.
Louis studies him for a few seconds longer before letting out a burst of laughter that he can’t keep in. “Oh god, don’t talk like that.”
Harry laughs with him before he can help himself. “Note to self...”
Louis looks down at their brushing pinkies and links their hands together, eyes searching to make sure that this is okay. Harry’s heart is hummingbird fast and his fingers want to jump like pondskaters, but Louis’ palm curled around his is comforting, calming.
Harry clears his throat. “So, you’re pretty good at pretending not to care, then?”
Louis chuckles. “Correct. But I was also pretty good at pretending that I didn’t want to kiss you that entire time we were out to lunch. Or every time you sat on the end of my chair, for that matter.”
Harry’s cheeks flush on their own account, and he hates them. His fingers are probably sweaty against Louis’ and he just smiles down at the sand. He looks at the ocean, its rhythm steady and spirited. “Oh,” he lets out. “Nothing’s stopping you now...”
Harry is not funny. He is cheesy as fuck. Ed tells him like, three times a week.
But Louis laughs at him, at least, using his free hand to turn their heads in and pressing their lips together. It’s a quick little kiss, but makes the sky as dark as the night they were last here. It sends the warmth of the fire into Harry’s chest and the breeze ruffling his hair. When he opens his eyes, the sea is in Louis’ clear eyes, and something that feels like trust ties knots on his heartstrings – makes them a lovelier tune, an ocean’s melody.
“That was good,” Harry lets out.
“I’m glad I’m up to par,” Louis says, free hand staying on Harry’s thigh. “Listen, so, I wanted to say that I’m sorry for pushing you away so... so aggressively. Because I do like you Harry, and you certainly deserve a chance that I didn’t even consider giving you. Which, um. Obviously, I am now. The fact that I’m in school though, that just scares me, y’know? So I don’t know about relationships and, well.”
Harry’s face falls from its post-kiss grin, and he watches Louis bite his lip as he watches Harry’s expression. See, Harry might be a people-pleaser, but he’s not a pushover. He feels something; and when he trusts his gut, he doesn’t let a feeling like this one get away. “So you’re not going to let me go out to lunch with you again?”
“Well, no,” Louis says. “We could do that.”
Harry’s cheeks are still burning with the intense amount of awkward this conversation bares, but he can’t just let it go. He’s not going to let this slip between his fingertips only to get turned to ash in the bonfire from a night short-lived. “I’m not even saying that long distance is a thing that’s gonna happen. Couldn’t we just try, like, before? Before you go? We have a whole month, and well. That’s a lot of time, isn’t it?”
Louis sighs. “You’re right. I’m just a nervous wreck who needs his priorities in line.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Harry mumbles. “I just like you and I’m trying to be persistent. Niall gave me that advice once.” Like the ocean. Always like the ocean. He looks into seaside eyes and finds summer.
“Well, Harry,” Louis begins, voice slow. Harry’s cautious with his excitement. “I’d say you’re worth a try. I might not be easy, per se, but I like you too, okay?”
Harry nods, a silly little smirk spilling onto his lips. “Enough to kiss me again?”
“Only because you said that nothing’s stopping me...”
Harry guffaws loud and embarrassing, but Louis pushes him back into the sand and sits in his lap. It’s like the first time, but so much better. Louis’ hands find his shoulders, and Harry’s hair gets sandy but Louis everywhere; his hands slope down his arms and his chest, their hips align, and somehow they move more fluidly together than Harry ever has.
Making out is good.
“Making out is good,” Harry says against Louis’ lips. “We should do it more often.”
Louis laughs at him, soft like the light around them from the setting sun. “I concur.” He kisses Harry again – a little dirty, but not rushed. Harry feels present with him, for once, not worried that he’s going to suddenly scowl at Harry like he’s a little kid or ignore him at the drop of a hat. “But first, can I take you on a date?”
Harry’s eyes light up as Louis moves a little bit backward to see Harry’s whole face. “Really?”
“Entirely true statement, I promise, babe.”
Harry hangs his head, but Louis kisses his temple. As masculine as ever, he giggles and blushes as he looks up again. “You can absolutely take me on a date.”
“Good. I have two tickets to Cage the Elephant at the Stone Pony tomorrow; does that sound okay?”
“That sounds amazing. I’m really happy that we’re... trying.”
“It’s go time, H.”
“We can get drunk and frisky at the Summer Stage?”
“And you already manage to know me so well.”
Operation Have a Summer Romance (Hopefully With Hot Beach Guy (Louis)): Success.