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Louis’ life is going great.
He’s finally unpacked the last box at his new flat, he got a bonus at work, and today—
Today he is driving home in his first brand new car.
Not just any car; a 2017 Audi S3, fully loaded. It’s coloured a brilliant blue, with little metallic flecks in the paint. He drives it home with a smile on his face, allowing himself to learn the way the steering wheel feels in his hands and the exact pressure needed to work the pedals. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and more.
Louis isn’t exactly into cars, but he can appreciate them. As a teen he learned to drive in the family car, then mostly used it to help shuttle his sisters back and forth to school and dance lessons and sporting events. When he left for uni he bought himself a second hand hatchback that he drove until it fell apart. From there it was a nice used car, reliable if not pretty to look at, and it was good enough.
Still, he yearns to be the first person to sit in a driver’s seat, to adjust the mirrors for the first time and be the only one with a key. He wants to watch the number on the odometer climb with miles he’s driven. It will make up for seeing his classmates receive brand new cars for getting their licenses only to wreck them a few months later. Not that he begrudges his mother that; he wouldn’t have given his teenage self a new car even if they had been in a position to afford it.
Well, he can afford it now, and he’s matured enough not to be careless with his new baby. Whether that’s from age or seeing exactly how long he’ll be paying for it, he’s not sure.
When Louis pulls onto his street, he finally doesn’t feel out of place. It’s a nicer neighbourhood, and his beat-up Ford Focus stood out amongst the newer vehicles his neighbours all seemed to drive. Parked between a Range Rover and a Prius, the old car looked even worse the wear than it already was. Now he pulls into his assigned parking space, right along the kerb next to his block of flats, and for the first time feels like he belongs there.
After he locks his car from the fob, still a novelty having never owned a car with one before, he practically skips into his building. It doesn’t feel as if there is anything in the world that can dampen his good mood.
>>>>
He was wrong.
It’s Saturday morning, and he doesn’t have a thing to do today besides catch up on sleep and perhaps do some laundry, but there’s a shiny new car calling his name from outside and he finds himself inventing errands he needs to run. He throws on a pair of jeans and a Henley, coaxes his hair into a semblance of style, and grabs his keys from the hook by the front door. It feels a bit ridiculous, but he’s excited to get back in his car, to let the leather interior curve around his body and the radio learn his favourite channels. He’s smiling so widely just thinking about it, so when he steps out the front door and catches sight of his new car, he stops short.
It’s covered, absolutely covered, in bird poo.
Louis gapes in horror at his car, taking a reluctant step forward to better inspect the damage. There are large splats on nearly every inch of the surface, filthy snow caps against the Ara Blue. Curious, he looks up and down the street, wondering if some sort of bird convention happened overnight and expecting to see similar carnage on the other vehicles. Instead, he’s shocked to find that no one’s car is anywhere near as bad as his. There are a few splotches on the Range Rover—a normal amount for parking out in the open overnight—but Louis’ Audi looks like someone had placed a target over it and every pigeon in the city took it as an invitation.
A commotion above him draws his attention skyward; one of the flats with a balcony is situated right over his parking space, and on it seems to be an entire flock of birds. They’re squabbling with each other, fighting over scraps of some sort, some taking flight only for others to land. There must be dozens of them, all perched on the railing with their fully loaded backsides hovering ominously above Louis’ car.
And, currently, Louis as well.
He steps out from under the balcony, noticing for the first time that this stretch of pavement is far more covered in bird poo than any of the surrounding ones.
“Hey, Louis.” A woman’s voice draws his attention from the pigeons, and he turns to find one of his neighbours getting into her car. “What are you doing?”
He smiles at her, rubbing the back of his neck where the muscles were starting to ache from looking up for so long. “Hi, Tabby.” He nods upwards at the balcony. “What’s all this then?”
Tabby adjusts her glasses and looks up, smiling at the birds. “Oh, that’s just Harry,” she says, her voice soft and fond. “I’m surprised you haven’t met him yet.”
“Yeah,” Louis agrees, frowning. “Yeah, I’ll have to fix that.”
“Well, tell him I said hello,” Tabby says. She gives him a little wave and climbs into her relatively poo-free car, leaving Louis even more perplexed than he already was. He amends his list of errands to include a trip to the car wash and, once he gets home, a visit to this Harry fellow.
Louis returns home with some groceries, a new haircut, and a freshly washed car. The Audi looks brand new again, no trace of the grotesque Jackson Pollock finish it sported this morning. Louis is quite happy with the car wash, if not the £9 it cost him. Once is fine; however, as the birds are still there when he climbs out of the driver’s seat, he has a feeling it won’t be the last car wash he gets this week.
Gritting his teeth in determination, Louis stalks into the building. He makes a quick stop by his flat to drop off his groceries, and then it’s straight upstairs to the source of the trouble.
Given the location of the balcony, Louis has no trouble figuring out which flat is Harry’s. It’s a level up from Louis’, though on the opposite side of the building. Louis can just make out the sound of someone singing from the other side of the door. He plants his feet, squares his shoulders, and delivers three sharp knocks to the door.
The singing stops, and a moment later the door is swinging open to reveal a man in a bathrobe. His short brown hair is still dripping, obviously fresh from the shower, and a drop traces down his cheekbone in a path Louis’ eyes can’t resist following.
“Hello,” the man greets, his voice deep and chipper. “Can I help you with something?”
Now that he’s stood in front of the man, Louis falters. He’d expected this person to be a grumpy old man, someone Louis would have no trouble being stern with. He hadn’t been expecting someone so… so fit.
“Are you Harry?” Louis demands, finally finding his voice. Fit or not, he won’t allow Harry to ruin the finish on his brand new car.
“Yes,” Harry says, blinking at the harsh tone in Louis’ voice. “Is there a problem? I’ve paid my rent.”
Louis rolls his eyes, convinced the man is playing dumb. “It’s not about your rent, it’s about the bloody birds on your balcony!”
Harry frowns, turning to look over his shoulder at the patio door leading out to the balcony. Through the glass, Louis can see the creatures flapping about. They’re even louder up here, cooing or crowing or whatever it is pigeons do. “What’s wrong with them?” Harry asks, seeming to be genuinely confused.
“They’re defiling my car!” Louis wails, feeling only a little bit silly. “I don’t know what you’re doing to attract them, but could you please stop it?”
“It’s only just started bothering you today?” Harry asks, one eyebrow raised defiantly. The kindness in his voice is replaced with a harder edge. “I’ve been feeding them for a year now.”
Louis splutters at that. “Feeding them? They’re pests! Why on earth would you feed them?” He shakes his head. “Not the point. The point is, I just moved in and I just bought a new car and I don’t fancy paying for a wash every day!”
“Then don’t wash it,” Harry challenges, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement causes the bathrobe to slip, revealing a smooth chest and the dark lines of what appear to be bird tattoos. Of fucking course.
“I have to wash it,” Louis grinds out. “Their poo can eat through the clear coat if it isn’t removed.”
Harry shrugs, looking entirely unbothered. “Then park somewhere else.”
“There’s assigned parking and you know it!” Louis shouts back, furious. He hadn’t expected this conversation to go this way, not in a hundred years. He’d expected to talk to someone reasonable, sympathetic, someone willing to work with him. “Get rid of the birds or I’m going to start billing you for cleaning my car.”
The threat makes Harry snort. “Good luck with that,” he says, then slams the door shut in Louis’ face.
“Wanker!” Louis yells at the closed door, earning a scandalised look from the older lady letting herself into the flat across the hall. Louis mumbles an apology and, with one last kick to Harry’s door, retreats back to his own flat downstairs.
>>>>
It’s no surprise at all when Louis steps outside the next morning and sees his car, defiled once more by the surprisingly deft aim of what seems to be every pigeon in England (some of which, he thinks, should cut back on the berries). With a sigh, lets himself into the car and makes the drive over to the car wash. After the first incident, he read too many horror stories about the acidity in bird poo eating through wax and the clear coat and ruining the paint underneath. This is the first new car Louis has ever owned, and he doesn’t plan on buying another one anytime soon, and he’ll be damned if he lets some birds mess it up. He knows it will eventually get dents and dings, scratches and cracks in the windscreen, but not today and not because of bird shit, for crying out loud.
He returns home in his lovely clean car, feeling lighter as though the man at the wash had scrubbed him clean as well. He nearly skips up the stairs to his computer, gleefully typing up an invoice for the services he had done. He splurged on the most expensive wash and an extra coat of wax, and added in the cost of his petrol to and from the car wash just for good measure. Once the invoice is printed he takes it upstairs and unceremoniously shoves it under Harry’s door. He doesn’t know if Harry’s home, and doesn’t really care, but the thought of his stupid face when he sees the bill is enough to bring a smile to Louis’.
He spends the rest of his lazy Sunday watching Netflix and dozing on the couch. He doesn’t think too much of it when he dreams of flying cars and giant, people-sized pigeons cowering on the pavement below.
>>>>
Louis is up early the next morning, already anticipating a trip to the car wash before he heads to the office. It’s his first day at work with his new car, and he refuses to show up with it looking like it’s been through a particularly ghastly paintball fight. He blearily fixes his travel mug of tea and shoves his feet into his loafers before stepping out into the hallway, stopping in his tracks at the soft crunch beneath his feet.
There, on the carpeting in front of his door, is a perfectly folded (if slightly squashed) paper crane.
Intrigued, Louis scoops up the little sculpture, cradling it in the palm of his hand. Apart from being stepped on, it’s very neatly made, with no creases in the paper that weren’t meant to be there. He catches sight of some black ink, deep within the folds, and can’t resist opening up the crane to find the message hidden inside its wings.
His jaw nearly drops once the words are revealed and he finds his own invoice staring back at him. Harry had taken the paper Louis left him and had given it right back, in the form of a bird of all things. “That cheeky bastard,” Louis grumbles, wadding up what used to be a crane and chucking it back into his flat before pulling the door closed. He stalks to his car, fuming, and the fresh coat of bird poo is just the shit icing on the shit cake.
“If he thinks I’m going to let this go without a fight, he’s mental!” Louis says, starting the car and setting off on the now familiar drive to the car wash. If Harry wants to play, fine; Louis Tomlinson has never backed down from a fight, and he certainly isn’t about to be bested by some jerk with a bird fetish.
It’s a long day at work, made longer by the fact that Louis got up early to make sure his car was in pristine condition (it was) to show off to his colleagues. It’s worth it for the claps on the back and appreciative whistles he gets from his colleagues when they leave the office at the end of the day, and he gives them a cheeky little press of the horn as he pulls out of the carpark.
The birds are still gathered on the balcony when Louis arrives home, so it’s with a grimace that he locks his car and heads inside, knowing the fate that will await him come morning. He prints out a new bill for Harry, the number in red at the bottom growing larger with each successive car wash, and runs up the stairs to shove it under the door. It occurs to him, as he tromps back downstairs to his flat, that he’s being a little silly. There are more parking spaces, and surely he could explain the situation to his landlord and get a different one. Hell, he could just get a cover for his car, but then what is the point of having a beautiful car in the first place if he is just going to hide it? No, he and Harry are going to settle this, man to man, and Louis is going to win. He’s sure of it.
That is, until there’s yet another paper crane waiting for him in the morning.
Louis kicks it away in frustration, not even bothering to unfold it. He knows exactly what it’s made from. It’s infuriating, being mocked in such a childish way, and Louis isn’t going to stand for it. One of them will have to break eventually. It’s that thought that gives him peace as he climbs into his car, currently more white than blue, for what is quickly becoming his new morning routine.
>>>>
It goes on like this for two weeks. Each evening Louis leaves Harry a bill, and each morning it returns to him in the form of an origami crane. Everyone at the car wash learns Louis’ name, and the owner even offers him a discount for how frequently he’s there (which does not carry over to steadily growing amount that Harry owes him). Nothing changes, though, and neither man shows any sign of backing down. Harry even cheerfully waves down at Louis from his balcony one evening, looking like a king surveying his poo-covered kingdom. Louis less than cheerfully flips him off.
Finally Louis has had enough. He’s learned from Tabby that Harry works early mornings at a bakery and figures that Harry must leave the crane before he goes to work each morning. He sets an alarm for the crack of dawn, makes a pot of tea, and waits.
There’s very little movement so early in the day, so Louis is on high alert when he hears someone shuffling their feet out in the hall. He’s at the door in a minute, briefly checking the peephole for his target and then flinging open the door to catch Harry in the act.
Harry blinks at him blearily, half stooped over from where he just deposited a freshly folded paper crane on the floor. He looks tired and soft, with brushstroke bruises under his eyes and his hair tied back in some sort of floral scarf. He straightens up and clears his throat, though it does little to remove the early morning gravel from his voice. “Morning, Louis.”
“Morning,” Louis replies stiffly, crossing his arms in a way he hopes shows he means business. “Do you mind telling me what you’re hoping to achieve with this?” he demands, nudging the bird with his foot.
Harry looks down at his handiwork, one dark brow arched. “Well,” he says, looking back up at Louis with a wry smile on his face, “I didn’t want the paper to go to waste.”
Never before this moment has Louis actually understood it when people said they were seeing red, but he does now, gripping the door tightly in one hand until he fears the wood might splinter. “You’re impossible!” he shouts, at a loss for anything better to say, and slams the door in Harry’s smug face. He probably will get some complaints from his neighbours, but he can’t help it; something about Harry is so infuriating that Louis loses all control around him. If this goes on much longer, he thinks he might find out if a human can be folded into a crane.
That’s the last time Louis leaves a bill, even though the car washes remain a daily occurrence. He refuses to give Harry ammunition for his little show of resistance. If Harry doesn’t want to pay, fine; that doesn’t mean he’s won. Louis will find some way to make his life a living hell right back.
Except… even without the bills, the cranes keep coming. They come made from all sorts of paper: a bit of wrapping from the bakery Harry works at; a receipt from the shop Harry gets his bird feed from; a grocery list; even a tiny silver one made from a chewing gum wrapper. Each day it’s like a new peek into Harry’s life, from the Pizza Hut advert to the bit of wrapping paper covered in bananas. Some days when Louis unfolds the cranes, there are pigeon facts written in long, straight lines across the paper. Such gems as:
Did you know that pigeon poo was a highly prized fertiliser in 16th century Europe?
Pigeons mate for life and their young are called squabs.
Pigeons are one of the most intelligent birds in the world and one of only six species (and the only non-mammal) able to recognise their reflections in a mirror.
And so on. Louis actually finds himself looking forward to the facts each day. They don’t make the poo on his car any easier to deal with, and they certainly don’t endear Harry to him at all, but they do make him a touch less homicidal toward the birds.
One day, Louis unfolds his morning crane, almost eager to read whatever pigeon fact Harry’s chosen to share with him. His eyes skim the sharp angles of Harry’s handwriting, baffled not to find a factoid but a letter instead.
I’m sorry, the letter begins, I never meant for things to go this far. I wanted to offer to trade you parking spots. I would have done the day you came up to speak to me, but you were so angry that it made me angry too. Anyway, my spot is further away, just round the block, but unless Mr Connelly drinks too much then there should be less poo on your car. Anyway, it’s yours if you want it. —H.
Louis blinks at the creased paper, reading it one more time. It never even occurred to him that Harry might have a parking spot as well, and that there was such a simple solution. Harry was right; Louis had immediately gotten into his face that first day, not even bothering to let Harry explain himself or try to fix things calmly and rationally. If he had, though, his interactions with Harry might have been reduced to the occasional friendly wave as they passed in the hall. There would have been no paper cranes, no pigeon facts, and Louis finds himself reluctantly admitting that he’s sorry there won’t be more once they settle this.
Clutching the letter, Louis takes the stairs up to Harry’s flat, this time with no anger seeping from his feet in the form of heavy footfalls. He calmly makes his way down the hall and stops in front of Harry’s door, knocking politely like he should have that first day.
Harry opens the door after a moment, looking rather surprised to see Louis standing there. His hair is tied back in a forest green scarf today, a few brown curls that refuse to be constrained peeking around the edges. He hasn’t been home long, judging by the spots of flour on his black jeans and the dried smear of icing on his arm, and he smells faintly of fresh bread and vanilla. “I take it you got my letter?” Harry asks, gesturing to the paper in Louis’ hand.
“I did,” Louis says, waving it a bit helplessly. “And as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve enjoyed getting your notes each morning and I hate that this is the last one, so.” He takes a deep breath. “So I’ve come to tell you that I will gladly trade parking spots with you, but only if you allow me to take you to dinner. I think I’d like to get to know you better, if that’s all right with you.”
Harry’s green eyes go round and wide, the look on his face broadcasting that Louis asking him out was the very last thing he expected. He recovers quickly, a grin overtaking his lips as he leans against the door frame. “Not in a car covered in bird poo, it isn’t,” Harry scoffs, a teasing gleam in his eyes, and Louis can’t help but laugh. “Besides,” Harry adds, “I should really be the one taking you to dinner. That has to be good for at least a couple car washes.”
“It’s definitely a start,” Louis agrees, a smile creeping onto his face as well.
Just then, there’s a commotion coming from the other side of Harry’s flat, and Louis can just see the cluster of impatient pigeons waiting outside the balcony door.
Harry glances over his shoulder and chuckles, turning back to Louis with a fond roll of his eyes. Without warning he takes hold of Louis' hand, giving him a tug into the flat. “Come on,” he says gently, “it’s time to feed them. You can help.”
They go out for dinner the next night, and it’s like a fresh beginning. Louis even brings Harry a fact-a-day calendar all about birds as an apology for being such a dick, and Harry’s eyes light up as he flips through the first couple of pages. To Louis’ surprise, each day one ends up in front of his door as a perfectly folded paper crane so that they can enjoy the calendar together.
Louis’ Audi still gets bird poo on it in his new spot, but far less than before, and now he helps Harry take his car to the wash when it gets too filthy. Afterwards, they go buy more bird feed and head home to feed the pigeons. They’ll do it again next week, and the next. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.