Archive of Our Own ^beta

England is fucking cold. It’s not that Louis had forgotten - how could he, really, after eighteen years of braving English winters (and autumns and springs) - but it’s been three years since he’s been home during the winter, and it feels like there are knives slicing his lungs to ribbons. Thank god he’d kept all of his army fatigues, at least. He’s got his winter fatigues on, the ones they had to wear when they were stationed in the desert in the middle of December, unless they wanted to freeze to death during the night. The pants are thick and the jacket is a puffy dubon, and his wool socks are keeping his toes from freezing in his boots.

Louis pulls the jacket tight across his chest and shoves his hands into his armpits, squints down the street to check for cars before crossing. The sun is nowhere to be found and the sky is a blinding white, heavy with the promise of snow, and Louis wants to get inside before it starts. He pauses at the front step, nerves battling it out with the tremors wracking his body - he wants to be inside desperately, wants to warm his frozen fingers by the radiator and trade his hideously green pants for a pair of soft trackies, but he knows that on the other side of the door is a whole mess of people he hasn’t seen since he left, people he was never close to to begin with, and he just wants to sleep.

Steeling himself, Louis takes a deep, shuddery breath that turns his insides to ice, slips a hand out from the warmth of his armpit, and pushes the front door open.

“Lou, is that you?”

Louis takes a moment to let his face defrost before answering. It’s blissfully warm inside, enough so that he can start shedding layers immediately. He hangs his jacket on a peg by the door, steps out of his boots without untying them, and unzips his hoodie. He leaves the beanie on, though. He may not know these people very well, but that doesn’t mean they should have to deal with hat hair. Finally, with a sigh, Louis shakes out his hands and calls out, voice hoarse from exhaustion and shouting excitedly at Stan earlier, “Yeah, mum, it’s me.”

“Come into the living room, our guests are here to see you!”

He follows the sound of murmuring voices, some of them unrecognizable, and steps into the living room to find ten sets of expectant eyes on him. He ducks his head under the intense scrutiny, suddenly furious with himself for wearing his fatigues today. He stands out like a sore thumb, and everyone is watching him with a mixture of pride and awe that he doesn’t want or deserve. He was a photographer with the journalism unit, not a bloody paratrooper. Louis coughs and gives an awkward wave, eyes flitting over the vaguely familiar faces without seeing before coming to rest on his mother’s beaming smile.

“Anne, Robin, Gemma, Harry,” Jay says. “You remember Louis?”

“Of course,” the woman to Jay’s left says before pushing up out of her seat and stepping forward to give Louis a hug. “Welcome back, Louis.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, returning the hug automatically. It takes him a moment to connect the dots, but then Anne, Gemma, Harry. Right. He scans the room for the girl he remembers from school - long brown hair and a sarcastic smirk - but instead finds one with pale blue hair and a bored tilt to her mouth.

“Lou,” Jay says, cutting through the quiet of the room. “It’s only been three years, surely you remember Gemma. Doesn’t she look wonderful?”

“Yeah,” Louis rasps, uncomfortable and sleepy. “Yeah, definitely. Hey, Gemma, how’s it going?”

Gemma shrugs and doesn’t move from her perch on the sofa, tucked snugly between Louis’ twin sisters and a boy - Gemma’s brother Harry, presumably - who’s staring determinedly down at his lap. “Alright, yeah. You? Glad to be home?”

It’s awkward at best, but Louis takes a seat next to Fizzy and lets Anne and Gemma draw him into conversation. Harry doesn’t look up at first, so that all Louis can see of him is the top of his head, the inward curl of his shoulders, and the way his hands are fidgeting nervously with the frayed knees of his jeans. After a while, though, his mum calls his name, an attempt to get him involved in a conversation about university programs, and Louis watches as he smooths his hands down over his thighs - wide, long-fingered hands - then looks up. He -

Well. He’s certainly nothing like Louis remembers. When Louis had left to join the army, Harry had been a tiny little thing, smaller than him, even, with bouncy ringlets and chubby cherub cheeks. He seems to have aged a decade in the past three years, though, went from a soft, baby-faced teenager to a lean, broad-shouldered man. Louis swallows thickly, grateful for the fact that Fizzy is deep in conversation with Harry’s dad about The Only Way Is Essex, so she can’t hear his nervous gulping or notice the way he’s shifting in his seat.

Harry is gorgeous, is the thing. His hair is still dark and curly, but he’s got it quiffed so that loose curls cling to his temples and loop down over his ears, and his eyes are big and dark in the dim lighting, his mouth wide, lips an obscene shade of red. He’s still hunched over awkwardly, knees knocking together and the toes of his boots pointing inward underneath the coffee table, but Louis can still see that torso is long and trim and that his slender legs seem to go on forever.

Louis doesn’t realize he’s been staring until a sharp elbow plants itself in his side and Fizzy hisses, “Earth to Louis, is anyone in there?”

Louis fakes a yawn and blinks sleepily to cover his embarrassing staring and turns back to look at his mum. “What was that, mum?”

“Anne and I were just suggesting that Gemma should show you around town, show you what’s changed since you left. She can introduce you to some of the people she’s met at uni, help you settle back in.”

Ah. Right. Louis has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He knows exactly what his mum and Anne are doing, and he has no interest in playing along. Politeness wins out, though, so, pasting on a smile, Louis looks back over at Gemma - skipping deliberately over Harry - and says, “That would be great, yeah. It’ll be nice to have a friend in town.”

“Wonderful,” Jay claps, bouncing a little in her seat. She doesn’t seem to have caught Louis’ emphasis on the word ‘friend’, looks thrilled as she glances back and forth between Louis and Gemma hopefully. Louis sighs. Eventually, he’s going to have to tell her that he has no interest in dating Gemma - no interest in dating girls at all - but for now, he’ll let it go. “Well, dinner should be warm by now, why don’t we go eat?”

Somehow, Louis finds himself sitting beside Gemma and across from Harry at their long, narrow dinner table. He falls into conversation with Gemma easily. They had gone to school together for most of secondary school, and though they hadn’t really been friends, they had gotten along alright.

“So, what did you do in the army, Louis?”

Louis rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly. “I was just a photographer with the journalism unit, don’t let my mum make you think I was someone important. They didn’t even send me into action, I just took photos of the bases and commanders and, like, military drills and ceremonies.”

“That sounds nice,” Harry comments from across the table, and Louis jerks his head up from where he’s been buttering a dinner roll. Harry is looking at him with wide, earnest eyes that Louis can now tell are a vibrant green. There’s a bit of sauce in the corner of his mouth, but before Louis can comment on it, Harry’s tongue darts out to catch it.

Louis stares, transfixed, at the shiny red curve of his bottom lip, and murmurs, “Yeah, nice.”

“So, what was your favorite place to visit?”

Louis jerks his attention back up to Harry’s eyes and shoves the dinner roll into his mouth to distract himself from how ridiculously fit Harry is. It doesn’t work.

“Masada,” he mumbles around a mouthful of bread. Lottie throws a balled-up napkin at his head from across the table, but Harry doesn’t even blink. “We had to hike up the steps before dawn and got to the top right at sunrise. Was beautiful.”

Harry props his chin up on his palm and stares at Louis while he drags the tines of his fork absently through a pool of sauce on his plate. “I tried to get on a Birthright trip last summer, but it was already full.” He sighs and pouts his bottom lip out. Louis ducks his head and stares resolutely at the heaping pile of mashed potatoes on his plate so he won’t be tempted to stare at Harry’s mouth again. “Gems got to go a few years ago, she loved it.”

“It’s an amazing country,” Louis says to his potatoes. “You should try to get on another trip.”

He feels something press against his foot underneath the table, and when he looks up, Harry is gazing down at his own plate, watching the sauce part underneath his fork, then fill back in once it’s passed through. He shrugs and says, “I think I’d like to do a more relaxed trip, really. Not with a tour guide, you know? Someone who won’t want me to speak in English all the time. What good were all of those Hebrew school classes if I don’t ever get to use it?”

Gemma leans into Louis’ side. “He literally never stops talking about this, he’s such a kvetch. H, I doubt Louis wants to hear about how -”

“It’s alright,” Louis cuts in, resting a hand on Gemma’s wrist. He likes Harry, likes his enthusiasm and yearning for something that holds such a vital place in Louis’ heart. “I understand. Hey.” He kicks out so he can nudge Harry’s shin with his socked toes. “Come with me next time, Curly. I’ll make sure you get an authentic tour.”

Harry’s answering smile is radiant, and Louis thinks their mums might be way off base in trying to set him and Gemma up, but he wouldn’t mind getting to know Harry a bit better.

;;

Louis spends his first month back in Manchester sleeping till noon, playing footie with Stan in the park, and looking up photography and journalism programs at local universities. He even hangs out with Gemma a few times, and even though they both know that their mums are hoping for more than will ever come out of this friendship, they enjoy each others’ company, and Louis savors the glimpses of and snatched bits of conversation he gets to share with Harry on occasion, when he goes to see Gemma at her house, or runs into him at the supermarket.

Gemma kicks her feet against the stone wall that separates their back garden from their neighbors’. It’s cold and gray outside, and their families are getting together at the Styles’s for a Hanukkah meal in a few hours, so they’re trying to grab as much peace and quiet as they can before madness descends. “I think I want to go back to school.”

“Don’t you have two degrees already?” Louis passes the cigarette to Gemma and tips his head back to look up at the sky.

“Yeah, but I could make more money with a PhD.”

“Jesus,” Louis laughs. “Doctor Gemma.”

Gemma shrugs and passes the cigarette back. “It’s just marketing, it’s not like I’m going to be a real doctor.”

“What does your mum think?”

Louis takes a drag on the cigarette and tries to blow smoke rings while Gemma snorts and answers, “She still thinks you and I are going to get married and give her grandbabies.”

Louis frowns, trying to sort through that line of thinking. “So you’re saying you haven’t told her yet.”

Gemma shakes her head. “I don’t want to get married and have babies yet, I want to figure out my life first.”

“Yeah,” Louis says absently, thinking about the uni application he had put in last week, the lease he had signed yesterday, the stack of already-packed boxes piling up in his room. Thinks about his mum’s excited looks every time he’s told her he was going to see Gemma, about the way Harry’s eyes had folded up into glittery, happy little half-moons when he’d belly-laughed at the joke Louis had told him yesterday and the warm imprint of Harry’s palm on his forearm.

Gemma shuffles along the wall a bit, until there’s enough room for her to turn sideways and lie down with her head in Louis’ lap. She looks up at him, eyes shrewd, and says, “And anyway, you’d rather have babies with my brother than me.”

Louis freezes with the cigarette halfway to his mouth and stutters out, “I don’t - that’s -”

“Relax, Louis. There are no feelings lost, here, I promise.” Before Louis can figure out how to respond to that - or the fact that Gemma just casually outed him, when he’s never told anyone outside of his army unit before, she nips the cigarette out of his fingers and sticks it in her own mouth. It bobs up and down when she says, “So, have you picked a uni yet?”

With a nod, Louis takes the out Gemma is offering.

The Styles house smells like frying potatoes when Louis follows Gemma inside later that evening. He can hear the delighted shrieks of his sisters from a back room and the murmur of conversation from the kitchen. Gemma trudges upstairs to wash up and Louis follows the sound of hysterical giggles to a sitting room overlooking the back garden, where his twin sisters are in a pile on the floor. It takes him a moment to realize that there’s someone underneath them, and another to realize that that person is Harry.

The girls are perched on his back with their hands in his hair, braiding it messily while he taps away unconcernedly on his phone. Louis clears his throat and watches as three heads whip around to face him. “Having fun down there?”

Daisy and Phoebe start babbling excitedly, still clutching locks of Harry’s hair. All Louis gets out of the two of them talking over each other is something about a cat. He looks down at Harry, as if maybe he can explain what it is he’s supposed to be understanding, and finds Harry already looking up at him, eyes warm and amused. Louis’ stomach flutters, just like it does every time Harry looks at him, and really. It’s been a month and they’ve run into each other at least a handful of times since that first dinner, he’s quite ready for the butterflies to stop.

“Dinner wasn’t ready,” Harry says by way of an explanation. “The first batch of latkes fell apart, so Robin had to go pick up more potatoes, and Dusty ran off to hide.” Harry beckons Louis over, so Louis flops onto the floor in front of Harry’s head. Harry leans up onto his elbows so he can get in closer to Louis, pitches his voice low, and whispers, “He got tired of all the g-r-a-b-b-i-n-g.”

“Ah,” Louis nods somberly. “As any self-respecting cat would.”

The two of them chat for a bit, while the house fills with the scent of frying potatoes and Harry’s hair gets worked into increasing stages of tangled disarray. He weathers it gracefully, though, winces silently when one of the twins yanks too hard and sings their praises when they ask how he likes it so far.

There is no quicker way to Louis’ heart than by being nice to his favorite girls, and by the time his mum comes to fetch them all for dinner, his heart is already full to bursting. Harry is just so gentle with them, patient and sweet, even while they pull on his hair so hard that his eyes start to water, that Louis needs to get out of the room as quickly as possible to avoid more interaction with Harry. He’s afraid he won’t quite be able to hide the fact that every time he looks at Harry, he’s got cartoon hearts floating around the top of his head. Harry hails him before he can make his escape, though, and the pained expression on his face is too much for Louis.

“Can you help me get these out?” Harry tugs on one of the braids gingerly. “I’m afraid if I try and do it myself, I might end up bald.”

“Yeah, of course.” He sits down on the sofa and motions for Harry to settle on the floor between his knees so he can reach easily. “Where did these hair ties even come from?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Harry laughs, slightly watery, so Louis gentles his touch, working the bands off one loop at a time. Harry’s hair is thick and soft between his fingers as he works out the messy braids, and it’s a fluffy bird’s nest by the time Louis is done, hanging in thick locks over his eyes and the tops of his ears. Louis has to resist the urge to smooth it out himself, instead taps Harry lightly on the shoulder and waits for him to push to his feet before getting up.

When Harry turns to face him, Louis has to hide a giggle behind his palm. “You might want to...” he wiggles his fingers toward Harry’s hair. “Do something. About that.”

His eyes go wide when Harry bends at the waist and shakes his hair out, dragging his fingers through it and ruffling it before straightening back up. It doesn’t really stay in place when he pushes it off his forehead, but it looks neater than before, falls against his temples and the nape of his neck in gentle waves, and when Harry asks, “Better?” Louis just clears his throat and nods, then turns and walks out of the room without a backward glance.

Everyone is already seated at the table by the time they get to the dining room, and the only seats left are two side-by-side at the end and one between Daisy and Phoebe. Perfect. Harry butts his shoulder up against Louis’ and asks, “Where do you want to sit?”

Louis eyes the seat between the twins, already littered with bits of cheese and potato and apple sauce handprints, and, words tripping nervously off his tongue, replies, “Next to you.”

“Okay, okay okay! I know we do this every year, but I can never remember if you set the candles up from the left and light from the right, or if you set up from the right and light from the left.” Anne looks around at all of the children in the room, then to the older kids. “Anyone? Louis, you spent three years in the Holy Land, give us some tips.”

Louis fights against the blush trying to creep up his cheeks as all eyes turn to him. “Set up from the right and light from the left.”

He steps back and lets the girls squabble over the different colored candles while he takes his phone out and pretends not to watch Harry where he’s hunched over, helping one of the twins fit too-fat candles into one of the menorahs. “Careful not to break it,” he murmurs. “We need to melt it a bit. Just watch your fingers, so you don’t get burned.”

Harry lets Phoebe hold the top of the candle while he melts some of the wax off the bottom with a lighter, then helps her guide it into one of the holders on a menorah shaped like a train full of ceramic teddy bears. Louis watches on as they debate the merits of blue candles versus yellow for the shamash and tries not to let out sigh like a school kid with a crush. Once all of the girls are set up, Harry turns to Louis and offers him a quiet little smile.

“Hey, Lou, want to share with me?” He waves a pink candle at a menorah shaped like a painter’s palette. “I’ll let you light the shamash,” he wheedles.

Louis rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the fond smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You really know the way to a man’s heart, Styles.” He shuffles over to Harry’s side to help him pick out candles, plucks a few pink ones out of the box and wiggles them at Harry. “I’ve always been an all for one kind of guy.”

“Please,” Harry scoffs. “Where’s your creativity? Mix it up a little. The colors look so pretty, melted together.”

He cups a hand over the back of Louis’ and uses the other to pull all but one of the candles out of his grip. He doesn’t let go. Louis is having a hard time breathing. The house still smells like latkes and the jelly donuts Jay had made for dessert, but he’s practically cradled against Harry’s chest like this, and the clean smell of his jumper and the spicy scent of his cologne are wrapping around Louis like a blanket. Harry’s palm against the back of Louis’ hand is rough and his long fingers and broad palm dwarf Louis’, and his chest hurts a little.

“There,” Harry murmurs, only letting go of Louis’ hand once he’s finished setting up all of the candles, and Louis takes a grateful step back. He looks up just in time to see Gemma watching them from over by her own menorah, smiling knowingly at them. Louis turns away, busies himself with a box of matches, and doesn’t look back over at her the rest of the evening.

;;

Louis falls onto his bed face-down and groans dramatically into his pillow. He feels something ping off his back, but doesn’t bother lifting his head before aiming a middle finger over his shoulder.

“What’s crawled up your arse?”

Heaving a sigh, Louis turns his head to the side so he can gaze blearily across the room. His flat mate is standing in the doorway with a bag of popcorn in his hand. “Sod off,” he mumbles half-heartedly. Zayn just raises an eyebrow and shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Louis sighs again. “My mum.”

Zayn steps into the room and settles at the foot of Louis’ bed. He’s only been living with Zayn for a couple of weeks, but they’ve gotten along well - courtesy of their well-matched relaxed personalities and a few uni parties. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis grumbles, turning his face back into his pillow. “She wants me to call Gemma.”

“Again? Christ, she’s persistent.”

“She wants grandbabies,” Louis mutters into the thick cotton of his pillowcase.

“She does realize that you actually need to be interested in girls to want to marry one, right?”

Louis freezes, muscles locking up and alarms going off in his head. He’s never - he lifts his head off the pillow and looks back at Zayn, eyes wide. “What?”

“Oh.” Zayn pauses, handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “Should I not. Am I not supposed to know? I don’t mean to assume, it’s just, I overheard you chatting to that bird who asked you out after English yesterday and saw you snogging that fresher at Niall’s party last week...”

“God,” Louis mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Sorry,” Zayn rushes to say, dropping the popcorn back into the bag. “I didn’t mean to -”

“No, it’s alright, I just.” Louis struggles to sit up, leans back against the wall so he can look at Zayn. “Haven’t told my mum yet.”

Zayn’s expression turns sympathetic and he reaches a buttery hand out to touch Louis’ ankle. “Is she...”

“No, no,” Louis shakes his head emphatically. “She’s great, she’s just so set on me marrying a nice Jewish girl and giving her a bunch of nice Jewish grandbabies, I just. Didn’t want to disappoint her.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and uses the hand wrapped around Louis’ ankle to pinch him. “Well that’s stupid. You don’t need a girl to have babies. My best mate is Jewish and he’s mad for babies. He’s really fit, too, I bet you’d like him.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. Not that he doubts Zayn’s taste, but he doesn’t want to be that guy, whose friends set him up with people out of pity. Besides, even though he hasn’t seen him in a couple of weeks, he can’t get that image of Harry sprawled out on the floor with Louis’ sisters on his back, smiling fondly up at him, out of his head.

“Don’t worry about me, mate. I’ll just sign up for jdate or something, maybe. Die alone, probably.”

Zayn replies with a noncommittal hum before rolling off the bed and to his feet. “Right, well I’ve gotta go. Got art class in a few. Talk to your mum! You’ll feel better after.”

He emphasises his point by lobbing a kernel of popcorn at Louis’ head. Louis just stares at Zayn and pops the kernel into his mouth.

;;

Louis loves weekends. It’s only a month into the semester, but he’s already exhausted, mentally and physically. He hasn’t been to school in three and a half years, never anything as challenging as uni, and he’s in desperate need of a vacation. Or maybe some weed and a little tequila. Instead, he’s lounging on the sofa and watching reruns of Gavin and Stacey. Brilliant Friday night. He’s contemplating texting Harry when a banging noise sounds outside the front door, and Louis looks up as Zayn stumbles into the flat, a cluster of bulging grocery bags clasped in each hand. He stares blankly at Louis for a moment before asking, “Bro. Why aren’t you dressed? Everyone’s going to be here in like a half hour.”

Louis looks down at his bare chest and tatty joggers, then back up at Zayn in confusion. “Everyone who? What?”

“Bro, I’ve told you about this like five times. The lads are coming over? To drink and play games?” He waves a grocery-laden hand at the PlayStation sitting next to the television. “You said it was cool.”

Louis has absolutely no recollection of saying this, but he nods anyway. He can drink beer and play FIFA for a few hours. Plus, ‘the lads’ probably just means Niall, Marvin, and Tom, and he likes them. Louis is shaken out of his reverie by a jumper hitting him in the face. He really needs to talk to Zayn about his habit of throwing things at Louis’ head.

“Go get dressed, you lazy git. I’m gonna go make some guacamole.”

As it turns out, ‘the lads’ actually means Niall, Marvin, Tom, Ed, Danny, and Johnny, and they’re still waiting on one more person to arrive. Louis has his head inside the refrigerator so he can sift through the eighteen different brands of beer Zayn bought when he hears Zayn say, “Hey, Lou, get out here. My best mate is here. Remember, the one I was telling you about?”

Louis chooses a Carlsberg and wiggles his way out of the fridge so he can stand up and turn around. He remembers Zayn mentioning that his best mate is Jewish and loves babies, but he stumbles back against the fridge when he sees who’s standing behind Zayn, carding a hand through his hair nervously. He feels like he should have expected this. Manchester is a decently sized city, but he probably should have seen this coming.

“Harry,” he says weakly. Fuck.

“Hey, Lou.” Harry gives an awkward wave, shoulders hunched and booted toes pointed inward. It’s not endearing, Louis tells himself. The tightness in his chest has nothing to do with the fact that Harry’s gaze is cast toward the floor, eyelashes sweeping his cheekbones, and the swooping sensation in his belly definitely has nothing to do with the scarf tied around his head so that Harry’s hair fluffs out over the flowered fabric and curls down toward his face. His pretty, pretty face.

“You two know each other?” Zayn asks, eyebrows raised as he looks back and forth between them.

Louis raises one of his eyebrows in return and says, “Gemma is his sister.”

“I know that, you idiot, I. Oh. That’s the Gemma your mum wants you to have babies with?”

Louis doesn’t miss the way Harry flinches, fingers tightening around the sleeves of his jumper where they’re drawn over his hands like sweater paws. Jesus. Louis is reasonably sure that the desire curling in his belly is the wrong reaction to sweater paws.

He shakes that thought from his head and clears his throat. Ignoring Zayn, he looks directly at Harry and says, “Fancy a beer, H? We’ve got our own liquor store.”

He swings the refrigerator door open again and gestures at the shelves. Beer and milk are the only things in the fridge at the moment. He should probably be embarrassed at how he and Zayn have become stereotypical uni students, but Harry’s shoulders have relaxed a fraction and he’s shuffling across the kitchen toward Louis and he smells like cinnamon and apples, and Louis wants to devour him.

“What’re you drinking?” Harry grasps Louis’ wrist and turns his hand so he can read the brand. Butterflies erupt in Louis’ belly and his skin tingles where Harry’s warm fingers are touching him, and everything in him is straining toward Harry. Harry’s brow furrows as he scrutinizes the label. “Is it any good?”

“ככה ככה.” Louis shrugs minutely, not wanting to dislodge Harry’s hand where it’s still clasped loosely around his wrist. “It’s beer. Not too hops-y.”

Louis shuts his eyes briefly, mortified. Hops-y, god. He’s smoother than this, he knows he is. Harry just grins at him, though, dimples flirting and eyes sparkling in the overbright kitchen lights, and he chirps, “Sold.”

He gives Louis’ wrist a quick squeeze before dropping it so he can turn around and grab a can from the fridge. Someone calls Harry’s name from the living room a moment later, so, beer in hand, Harry squeezes Louis’ hip in thanks and skips back out of the kitchen. It takes Louis a minute to tear his eyes off the doorway Harry’s just disappeared through, and he finds Zayn smirking at him. Louis scowls and shuts the refrigerator door with a bit more force than necessary, so all of the cans rattle on their shelves.

“What,” he grouches, trudging over to the counter to grab a cup for his beer.

“Nothing,” Zayn sings, arms crossed innocently. “I thought I was gonna be shunted out of the kitchen by all the sexual tension in the room. Who knew choosing beer could double as foreplay?”

“Piss off,” Louis gripes. “He’s like twelve.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “He’s nineteen, you dick.”

Louis just shrugs and pushes past Zayn and out into the living room. Ed and Johnny are playing Mario Kart against Niall and Marvin and there are bodies sprawled everywhere, plates of crisps and guacamole littering the floor and coffee table, and a stack of unopened pizza boxes in the corner. Harry is already watching him when Louis’ eyes land on him, and he scoots in toward Niall so he can pat the small sliver of sofa cushion between his hip and the armrest. Louis swallows nervously and glances around the room to make sure it’s the only option besides the floor before bobbing his head once and stepping over Ed’s prone body to get there.

Harry nudges him in the side with his elbow as soon as he’s seated and says, “I’m next to play winner, d’you want to be my partner?”

Louis bites down on the inside of his cheek before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

They slaughter their competition and go for nearly two hours undefeated before they break for pizza and a change of game. By then, Louis is practically sitting between Harry’s legs and Harry has taken to burying his face in Louis’ shoulder every time he laughs at something someone has said, and Louis is fine. He’s totally fine and he absolutely does not have one hand curled loosely around Harry’s thigh where it’s draped across his own knees.

Louis ignores the pointed looks Zayn keeps giving him in favor of leaning into Harry’s side and scratching lightly at the inseam of Harry’s jeans. The bubbling, fizzing feeling in the pit of Louis’ stomach has nothing to do with the way Harry practically purrs and nuzzles the top of Louis’ shoulder every time Louis touches him, and Louis’ offer to let Harry share his bed for the night absolutely has nothing to do with the way a few cans of beer have made Harry a little more free with his touches. He’s like a gangly, hazy-eyed kitten desperate for Louis’ attention, and he curls into the curve of Louis’ body once they’re snuggled together underneath the duvet, presses a kiss to the side of Louis’ jaw and falls asleep spooned to Louis’ front with their fingers laced together over Harry’s belly.

Louis can feel the soft, even rise and fall of Harry’s stomach as he sleeps, the slow thump-thump of Harry’s pulse against his palm, contrasting sharply with the way his own heart is rabbiting in his chest. Harry’s bum is pressed back against his crotch and he can smell Harry’s sweet strawberry shampoo every time he inhales, and he’s fine. He’s totally, absolutely fine.

;;

After that, Harry turns up at Louis and Zayn’s flat at least once a week for movie nights and game nights, and even more often just to cook the three of them dinner. He tells Louis and Zayn that he worries for them, that eating takeout every day isn’t healthy, and Louis ignores the way Zayn pinches his hip and the way Harry smiles at him from underneath his lashes and accepts that excuse, doesn’t say a word when Harry mumbles about how tired he is and crawls into bed with him instead of walking the few blocks home.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Harry - he does, he likes him very much. He likes the way Harry smells and the way he speaks slowly, like he’s considering every word carefully before laying claim to it. He likes Harry’s childish sense of humor and the way his mouth moves around his syllables. He likes how Harry’s body is a confusing mix of soft and hard and how he has trouble controlling his own limbs sometimes, like a newborn colt, and that he always smells like something fruity and light. Most of all, he likes the way Harry looks at him, eyes twinkling and cherry red lips stretched into a beatific smile, his entire body turned to face Louis like a flower straining toward the sun. He treats Louis like he’s the most important person in the world, touches him with careful reverence, laughs at all of his jokes and listens to his stories with rapt attention.

It’s intoxicating, how starved for Louis’ attention Harry seems to be, and Louis is just as hungry for Harry’s presence, sends him not-so-subtle texts about how empty the refrigerator is, or how he’s been wanting to see the latest Bruce Willis film, but Zayn won’t go with him. Harry never points out how transparent Louis is, just shows up with a soft, easy grin and an extra jumper, ready to take on whatever Louis has in mind. Smart, kind, goofy Harry, with his oversized features and generous heart. Okay, maybe Louis more than likes Harry, but.

But his mum is still bugging him about Gemma, about dating and grandbabies and summer weddings, and guilt weighs in his gut like an anchor, dragging him back down to reality every time he finds himself thinking about a possible future with Harry. He needs to talk to his mum, probably. Soon, he promises himself. But instead of taking the plunge, he just wraps himself around Harry at night and tells himself he’ll tell her when he goes home for the twins’ birthday. Face-to-face is better anyway, and he’s got a few weeks till then, plenty of time to plan what he’ll say. Okay.

;;

Louis can feel the frost-bitten grass crunching under his feet as he makes his way across campus. He’s got art history in fifteen minutes and the door is in the front of the room, so that anyone who’s late has to face the entire classroom full of students and the professor to get to their seat. It’s bitterly cold outside, wind sneaking icy fingers underneath the hem of his jacket and down the back of his collar, and his glove-less fingers are numb as he taps out a text message to his mum. His only source of warmth is the steaming cup of tea he’s got clutched to his chest, and it’s not doing much to ward off the lingering, late-March chill.

He’s completely absorbed in trying to explain to his mum why he doesn’t want to join a dating site, gay or otherwise, when he trips over something lying across his path and sloshes tea down the front of his jacket. He starts rattling off curses in a jumbled blend of English and Hebrew as he swipes at the sodden material of his coat, oblivious to the fact that he’s tripped over someones’ leg until they clamber to their feet and reach out to take his nearly empty cup from him. Louis tightens his grip on the cup and looks up to tell the person off, but as soon as he gets a look at their face, his mind goes completely blank.

“Oh.” His grip goes slack on the cup, and Harry nips it out of his hand successfully and sets it down by his feet, then rummages through the bag sitting on the grass and straightens back up with a handful of tissues. “What were you doing on the ground?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Louis wants to slap himself. Instead, he clenches his hands into fists and lets Harry dab at his jacket with the balled up napkins while he stares at the way Harry’s curls are flipping back up over the ends of his beanie. He doesn’t realize Harry has been talking until he straightens back up and offers Louis a sheepish smile.

“What? Sorry. Er. Why were you sitting on the ground? Isn’t your arse frozen?”

“A little bit,” Harry laughs, but he shrugs and says, “I like being outside.”

Louis squints at Harry. His cheeks are flushed from the icy wind and his hair is wild where it’s peeking out from underneath his beanie, but his eyes are bright and he’s smiling easily at Louis, like they’re not standing there shivering their bits off. “You’re weird.”

Harry’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m really sorry about your tea.” He bites his lip and scuffs a toe through the frozen grass, looks up at Louis through his lashes. “Can I buy you a new one? As an apology for tripping you?”

Louis casts a quick glance at the art building and the students flocking toward the front door in a scramble to get to their respective classes, but doesn’t even think twice before saying, “Yeah, sure.” He smirks. “It’s the least you could do, after trying to kill me.”

Harry shakes his head, smiling easing into something softer, something that makes Louis’ heart rate double and his breaths ache in his chest in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. “Two teas, then. Although I feel like I should point out that you’re the one who wasn’t looking where they were going. You sort of owe me for that. You probably bruised me.”

Harry leans over to rub his shin for emphasis and Louis laughs, helplessly charmed. “Alright, alright. I’ll buy you a scone or something. You drive a hard bargain, Styles.”

He watches Harry as he grabs his bag and Louis’ cup from off the ground, then sets off in line with him toward the cafe down the street. It doesn’t even occur to him until they’re pushing into the comforting warmth of the cafe that he has no idea why Harry was sitting on the ground outside of the art building. He waits until they’re stood in line to turn to Harry and ask, “Hey, what were you doing out there, anyway? Besides, you know,” he lifts his hands to make air quotes. “Convening with nature, or whatever.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but can’t quite suppress a giggle. “What do you mean?”

“Like, why were you on campus? Sitting outside the art building?”

The look Harry gives him is so bizarre, a mixture of confusion and incredulity, and when he speaks, he sounds like he’s addressing a toddler. “Er, Louis. You do know that I go to school here, right?”

Louis just stares at him for a moment, bemused, before he realizes. “Oh my god.”

Harry cocks his head. “Did you really never think about why I was always around? Why I live so close to you and why Zayn and I talk about our pottery course so often?”

“No,” Louis snorts. “I don’t listen to your conversations about pottery, are you joking.” Harry smiles lopsidedly at him, then grips his elbow and shuffles them forward in the queue. “Are you in year two with Zayn, then?”

Harry nods. He doesn’t let go of Louis’ elbow, and Louis can feel warmth unfurling from that one point of contact, tingling up his arm and out across his chest. “Zayn took a gap year.”

“You’re studying art,” Louis says, narrow-eyed. He’d pictured Harry as more of a sociology major, or something. Though he supposes the headscarves and the whole outdoors thing work for an art major, as well. And it certainly explains why half of the jeans Harry owns are splattered with bits of paint. He considers Harry quietly for a moment, while they move forward in the queue again. “Are you any good? Can I see some of your work?”

Harry slides him a frustratingly blank sideways glance. “Maybe,” he answers cryptically.

They lapse into silence after that, content to just share body-heat until it’s their turn to order their drinks. Harry buys them each a cup of tea, then tries to protest when Louis goes to order him a sweet.

“Harry,” Louis says flatly. “I nearly flattened you, just pick a bloody scone.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, staring intently at the display case of pastries while he considers his options. The look he aims at Louis is sunny and innocent, but there’s a gravelly note to his voice when he says, “I’d like something cream-filled.”

“Shut up,” Louis mutters when the barista smirks at him, then goes to pull a profiterole out of the case.

They find a squashy loveseat by the windows in the back corner and settle in, knees drawn up so they can face each other. Louis keeps his face carefully impassive as he shucks his shoes and wiggles his toes up underneath Harry’s calf. Harry doesn’t comment, but Louis can see the corners of his mouth curve up behind the rim of his cup. He waits until he can see Harry’s cheeks bulge with tea to ask, “So, have your bits defrosted yet?”

Harry snorts so hard his eyes start to water and he has to set his tea down on the little table next to them. “Sorry?” He gasps, wiping at his eyes with the sleeves of his jumper.

Louis wiggles his toes against Harry’s leg. “You know, from sitting on the ground outside.”

“God,” Harry wheezes, rubbing at his nose. “Yeah, yeah, they’ve defrosted. Thanks for asking?”

Louis shrugs and takes a sip of his own tea. The steam clouds his vision momentarily, so that Harry is nothing more than a blurry smudge with rosy cheeks. “Just looking out for you and your bits, mate. Like any concerned friend would, I’m sure.”

“Sure,” Harry muses. He reaches for his tea again, and Louis tries not to stare at the narrow strip of skin by his hip where his jumper has ridden up, manages to look away just as Harry straightens back up, tea in hand. Harry pauses with the cup halfway to his mouth, though, brow furrowed in confusion, and says, “Were you on your way to class when we ran into each other?”

Louis just shrugs and takes a forcedly casual sip from his cup. “You’re much more interesting than Professor Michaels.” Harry bites his lip, a torn expression on his face that slides into a beaming smile when Louis adds, “Prettier to look at, too.”

Harry’s voice is thick with amusement when he presses down on Louis’ feet with his calf and says, “You’re not bad yourself, I suppose.”

Louis gasps. “You mean you’re not going to wax poetic about how my eyes are bluer than the sky on a bright summer’s day and my smile is like the sun peeking from behind the clouds?”

Harry’s face splits into a massive grin, eyes squinting nearly shut with the force of it. Louis goes stock-still, the breath rushing out of him, when Harry leans in and touches the tip of a finger to the corner of Louis’ eye.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he murmurs, the smile sliding slowly off his face.

“Thank you,” Louis says softly. The air between them is suddenly thick with tension, and Louis’ not quite sure why he’s whispering. They stare at each other, not breathing, for what feels like a lifetime, Louis’ blood thrumming nervously in his veins.

He’s just about to say - do - something, anything, is just leaning into Harry’s touch, when Harry’s phone goes off. The tension fractures and Harry visibly deflates, hesitating a moment before shifting around so he can tug his phone out of his back pocket. His cheeks are flushed pink, though whether it’s from their exchange or embarrassment, Louis can’t tell.

Louis watches curiously as Harry ducks his head, hair falling across his forehead to shield his eyes. His fingers fly across the screen, tapping out a reply to a text message. When he looks back up, there’s a sheepish smile on his face and he mutters, “Gemma.”

Louis feels like he’s just been doused in ice water. He can feel dread welling up in the back of his throat when Harry cocks his head and says, “My mum is still sad that you’ve never gone out.”

Louis cringes.

“Sorry,” Harry rushes to say, placing a hand on Louis’ knee. His palm is scorching hot through the denim, like he’s a living furnace. Louis wants to press the frigid tips of his fingers to the soft-looking skin over Harry’s hip, wants to burrow into the curve of his body and let him chase the chill away. “I don’t think she knows, and it wasn’t really my place to tell her.”

Louis jerks his head up from where he’d been staring down at the pale splay of Harry’s fingers against the black denim covering his leg. He can feel surprise beating a tattoo against his ribs, knows Harry must be able to read it on his face.

“I thought maybe... Your mum doesn’t know, does she?”

“No, I.” Louis’ voice sticks in his throat, and he has to stop and clear it before he can continue. “I actually told her. Like, a few days ago, when I went home for the girls’ birthday? She’s stopped asking about Gemma, anyway.”

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, and before Louis knows what’s happening, he’s got an armful of Harry and Harry’s face buried against the side of his neck. “I’m proud of you.”

Louis’ arms wrap around Harry automatically and he turns his face into Harry’s hair, breathes in strawberries and the lingering smell of winter. Harry is gone just as quickly as he’d crowded in, and when he settles back down onto the sofa, their legs are interlocked. It’s not a terribly comfortable position to be sitting in, but he can feel the bony jut of Harry’s right knee digging into the bottom of his thigh and Harry’s left leg is stretched out all along the side of his body, and it feels so achingly intimate that Louis doesn’t even consider moving.

;;

Louis is halfway from the bathroom to his bedroom when a knock sounds on the door. Frowning, he looks down at his bare chest and the towel slung around his hips, then back toward the door. Zayn is back home visiting his mum and sisters for the weekend, and he’d been planning a low-key evening - maybe ordering a curry from the place around the corner and having a leisurely wank. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, has no idea who it could possibly be. He considers ignoring it, but the knocks sound again and he hears a voice call through the wood, “Lou, open up, I know you’re in there!”

Ridiculously, Louis’ pulse picks up, and he shuffles over to the door immediately, pulls it open to reveal Harry standing in the corridor, a bulging paper bag cradled in his arms.

Louis only remembers that he’s clad in a just towel when Harry’s eyes go wide and he freezes, breathes a quiet, “Oh.”

“Sorry,” Louis babbles, crossing his arms over his chest awkwardly. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, Zayn’s not here, so I thought.” He cuts himself off with a grimace. “Anyway. What’s in the bag? Why are you here? Zayn’s in Bradford for the weekend.”

“I know.” Harry edges past Louis, the fabric of his shirt barely brushing the bare skin of Louis’ arm. It has goosebumps spreading across his torso anyway, and he shivers. “I figured you’d probably end up eating wotsits for dinner and falling asleep in front of the telly, so I brought over dinner.”

“Proper Jewish mother, you are,” Louis teases, following Harry into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Harry says, aiming a beaming smile at Louis over his shoulder, like that’s the best compliment someone could receive. “Now go put some clothes on, you’re distracting me.”

Louis’ eyebrow wings up, but Harry has already turned back around and is muttering to himself about oregano and garlic presses, so he just slips out of the kitchen and goes to get dressed.

By the time Louis gets back, the small room smells like tomatoes and garlic, and there are three pots on the stove. Louis shakes his head in amazement. He’d been gone ten minutes, tops, so he could towel-dry his hair and find a shirt and joggers that don’t make him look like he’d been mauled by a bear. When Harry turns around from where he’d been bent over one of the pots, his hair has fluffed out from the steam and his cheeks are bright pink from the heat. He looks adorable, bright-eyed and flushed and stripped down to a vest, and Louis has to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out and touching.

“Hey, that’s my shirt.”

Louis looks down at the over-sized Ramones shirt. He hadn’t even realized when he’d grabbed it out of his wardrobe. “Oh,” he frowns. “Do you want it back? I can -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry cuts him off. He’s got a soft little smile on his face, eyes locked on the way the shirt hangs well past Louis’ hips and sags a little at the collar. “It looks better on you.”

Louis ignores the way that makes his stomach flutter and slides across the floor so he can hoist himself up onto the countertop. He chats aimlessly to Harry as he cooks, watches intently at the way Harry moves about the kitchen with a deft sureness. He doesn’t bother with measuring tools, just drops in pinches of this and drops of that, until the kitchen is filled with the heady scent of cooking pasta sauce and baking cheese. Every once in a while, Harry seems to remember Louis is there and shuffles over so he can squeeze Louis’ knee or nudge him in the side with an elbow. It’s sickeningly domestic, and it makes Louis’ chest ache with possibilities. He watches Harry pull a tray of manicotti rolls out of the oven and add more sauce and cheese, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s gotten rather used to Harry cooking for him every few days, wouldn’t mind if it happened on a more permanent basis, but.

But it’s been a couple of weeks since their chat over tea, since he had essentially come out to Harry, and Harry has made no indication that he’s interested in Louis, has even mentioned his jdate profile a couple of times in passing.

Louis doesn’t even realize that he’s been scowling down at the floor until Harry drapes himself along his side and nuzzles into the crook of his neck. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Louis shakes himself out of his thoughts and wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders, buries his face in Harry’s hair and breathes him in. When Harry speaks again, his voice is barely more than a rumble against Louis’ collar bone. “I didn’t even ask if you were okay with manicotti.”

“Of course I’m okay with manicotti. I love everything you cook for me, love.” He can feel Harry beaming into the side of his neck, can feel Harry’s grip tighten where one of his hands is wrapped around his hip, and has to fight the urge to wrap himself around Harry like a monkey and never let go. He takes a moment to collect himself, then infuses his voice with as much of his usual verve as he can and asks, “Is dinner ready yet? I’m starving.”

“Starving,” Harry agrees, pressing a giggle into Louis’ skin, then pinching his hip. “Withering away.”

“Hey, pal,” Louis grumps, shoving half-heartedly at Harry’s shoulders. “You come to my house, cook me pasta, then call me fat?”

“No,” Harry laughs, holding Louis tighter so he can’t wiggle away and biting softly at his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. “Not fat, never fat! You’re fit, you’re so fit, you’re the fittest -”

“Well now you’re just lying, buttering me up so I’ll share my bed with you,” Louis declares, squirming desperately against Harry’s octopus arms. “Unhand me, you monster!”

“No, Louis, no,” Harry gasps, giggling helplessly. His grip has gone slack, weakened by his laughter, and Louis manages to inch away, so that Harry’s only got him by the arms now. “No, come back, I’m not lying, I promise! I’m sorry,” he wheezes, “I love you, you’re perfect, I didn’t mean it!”

Louis’ heart slams into his throat at Harry’s breathless exclamations. He knows Harry doesn’t mean it, not in the way Louis would like him to, but just hearing it phrased that way -

“Okay,” he shouts, going limp so that Harry can drag him close again. He’s given up, wants to move the evening along so that he can lock that last sentence away, forget it ever left Harry’s mouth. “You win, now feed me!”

Harry heaves a sigh, still letting out sporadic, hiccupping giggles, and lets go of Louis so that he can hop off the counter and grab some plates and forks. Louis busies himself setting the table while Harry pulls the manicotti from the oven and dresses a salad.

“Now, Lou, I don’t actually expect you to eat salad -”

“Rabbit food,” Louis mutters, glaring at the bowl of greens. Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

“It’s for me, you child.” He plucks a leaf out of the bowl with his fingers and stuffs it in his mouth, grins at Louis so that the frayed edges of the lettuce stick out from between his teeth.

“Dork,” Louis says, unable to keep the affection out of his voice. “Now who’s the child?”

They eat in comfortable silence, feet interlocked under the table, stolen glances and smiles hidden behind forks and wine glasses. Louis tries not to think about how in tune they are, how he knows to top off Harry’s wine glass before he even reaches for the bottle, and Harry knows when to serve him a second and third helping of manicotti; how Harry automatically goes to wash the dishes while Louis dries them and puts them away; how they move as a seamless unit to the living room, the rest of the bottle of wine cradled in the crook of Harry’s elbow, so that Louis can set up FIFA and attach the controllers.

“You know I have the new Mario Kart, right? And Zayn found one of the really old Donkey Kongs last week, it’s sick.” Louis twists around to look at Harry where he’s already sprawled out on the sofa.

Harry offers him a wry grin. “You know how much I love football. FIFA is the only time I’m actually any good at it.”

He looks so unapologetic about his response, so ridiculous with a glass of wine in one hand and his boots propped up on the coffee table, lips stained red from wine and tomato sauce and lanky body all stretched out, that Louis can only stare at him for a moment. Harry’s expression slides into something darker, eyes half-lidded and tongue flitting out to wet his lips, and Louis clears his throat and makes himself look away.

“Right,” he calls out, but it comes out high and a bit croaky. “Right. I’m still going to kick your bony arse.”

Harry is sat right in the center of the sofa, so that Louis has to sit close enough that their knees knock together and Harry keeps jabbing him with his elbow while he wrangles the controller. Halfway through the first round, Louis falls behind, and, as Harry manages to steal the ball and carry it down toward the goal, he lets out a spectacular stream of curses in Hebrew. He can see Harry’s fingers falter on the buttons out of the corner of his eye, watches in shock as Harry’s players let the ball go, and he manages to steal it back and score a goal.

When he turns to glance at Harry, his cheeks are flushed, bottom lip drawn into his mouth, and his hands are white-knuckled around the controller. Louis nudges Harry’s knee with his own and asks, “You alright, mate?”

Harry gives a jerky nod, eyes flitting nervously from the TV to Louis, then down to his controller and back to the TV. Louis eyes him doubtfully, but Harry doesn’t offer anything up, so he turns back to the game.

Every time he starts to lag, he slips back into a rambling stream of Hebrew curse words, and it’s not until he manages to steal the ball back for the fourth time that he makes the connection. Harry keeps wiggling around on the cushion, lifting his legs to the table, then setting his feet flat on the floor, then crossing them, keeps clearing his throat, fingers spasming on the buttons so that his players go wild and fumble the football or send it in the opposite direction.

Concentration focused entirely on testing his theory, Louis lets Harry steal the ball, then, sliding a sideways glance at Harry, lets out a loud, “זין.”

Harry’s eyes go wide and he freezes completely, and Louis has to bite back a laugh. Fuck. How has he never noticed this before? Delighted, Louis digs his elbow into Harry’s side and says, “Sorry about my foul language, I picked up bad habits in the army. Filthy-minded Israeli teenagers, you know.”

Harry shakes his head, curls flopping wildly against his temples, and says, voice tight, “No, it’s. You’re fine. Good, you’re good.”

Louis turns his head away to hide a smug grin. Okay, Harry has a thing for people - for Louis speaking Hebrew. Good to know.

Louis should probably feel bad about beating Harry four to one, but it’s a little difficult to find the energy when he’s got Harry curled into his chest, fingers tapping out an absent beat against his collarbone and knees locked together underneath the blankets. He presses a whispered, “לילה טוב,” into Harry’s hair, smiles when Harry’s fingers slip against his skin and his breathing goes a bit erratic. Louis slides a hand up into Harry’s hair so he can twirl locks of it around his fingers and calm Harry down. He’s still smiling when he falls asleep.

;;

Louis flops face-down onto Harry’s bed with a groan and immediately regrets his decision. He’s burrowed into Harry’s bedclothes now, is completely surrounded by Harry’s smell, and it’s making him light-headed. He can feel the weight of Harry’s gaze from where he’s sitting at his desk and mumbles out an indistinct, “Quit staring at my bum.”

There’s a creak from Harry’s desk chair and the patter of feet on carpet, and then something heavy is draping itself across Louis’ back and pinning him to the mattress. He wheezes out an ‘oy vey’ and reaches back to pat Harry on the side.

“You know, you don’t look like much, Styles, but you feel like a load of bricks.”

Harry wiggles around for a moment, deliberately smushing Louis into the duvet, before rolling off of Louis and onto his back. Louis turns his head to study his profile. Harry is staring at some fixed point on the opposite wall, chin tipped back so that shadows pool in the hollow of his jaw and his eyelashes dust the crests of his cheekbones. He’s so beautiful that Louis has to take a moment to catch his breath, reaches out without thinking and places a hand on Harry’s chest. He can feel the steady thump-thump of Harry’s heart against his palm, a soothing rhythm that has his own heart rate slowing to match, his breaths evening out.

They lay there in easy silence for a few minutes before Harry turns his head on the mattress to look at Louis. “What’s wrong?”

Louis stares intently at the way Harry’s shirt is bunching around his fingers and gives a half-hearted shrug. He feels a little bit sick at the idea of broaching the topic, but he’s been home for more than three months now and his mum finally knows and Harry clearly isn’t interested, so. “Talk to me about jdate.”

“I’m not sure I want to do this.”

Louis chews on his lip while he stares doubtfully at his computer screen. Zayn drops his chin onto Louis’ shoulder so he can watch the way he’s dragging the cursor across the screen in aimless circles. His voice rumbles up Louis’ back and shoulder where they’re pressed together when he says, “You know signing up doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

Uncertainty has his finger hovering over the touchpad where he’s lined the cursor up over the link to join. Before he can chicken out, though, Zayn snakes a hand underneath his arm and clicks on the button for him.

“You twat,” Louis gasps, slapping Zayn’s hand away, but Zayn just loops his other arm around Louis’ waist and starts to type one-handed.

“Username: louist91. Birthdate...” He trails off while he types, and Louis slumps forward in defeat, watches Zayn enter some basics about him. Man seeking a man, occasional smoker, never at synagogue, wants babies.

Louis wrinkles his nose and puts a hand on Zayn’s wrist. “Maybe we shouldn’t put that I smoke. What if it scares people off?”

“Bro, I think it’s better to scare people off before you meet than after you go on a few dates.”

“Right,” Louis mumbles, then realizes what he’s just said and rushes to add, “not that I plan on using my profile.”

“Of course not,” Zayn drones. Louis can hear the amusement in his voice. He chooses not to comment on it.

They spend half an hour building Louis’ profile, choosing films and television shows and hobbies, then an hour trying to decide on a few photos to upload. Most of Louis’ photos are painfully embarrassing, from when he was either a tiny, waif-like teenager, completely shitfaced, or covered in dirt and sand and wearing his hideous army beret. It takes a full hour of intense digging through a handful of different facebook accounts to find enough decent ones to upload, and another half hour for Louis to go through and ask people to take some of the other photos down.

By the time they’re done, his profile looks kind of amazing, and Louis almost agrees when Zayn says, “Your profile looks sick, bro. It’d be a waste not to use it now.”

“Zayn, I don’t know if this is such a good idea-”

“Hey,” Zayn soothes, rubbing a hand over Louis’ side. “Let’s just look, yeah? We don’t have to actually click on anyone. At the very least, we can make fun of peoples’ weird profiles.”

Louis sucks in a nervous, shuddery breath and holds it until his his lungs ache, then lets it out slowly. “Okay,” he finally concedes. “Let’s just have a look.”

He watches apprehensively as Zayn clicks on ‘see matches’. He’s not expecting much, not in a city the size of Manchester, but his breath whooshes out of him when the matches load. It takes a moment, but then Zayn bursts out laughing and buries his face in the back of Louis’ shoulder. Louis scowls.

“It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Zayn wheezes. “This is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you for months and you wouldn’t listen to me, and now you have evidence. Even an algorithm can tell you two are perfect for each other -”

“Shove off,” Louis snaps, slamming the laptop shut a little harder than necessary.

“Dude.” Zayn eases away from Louis. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Louis grumbles.

“Right,” Zayn drawls. “Because you’ve spent the past three months almost constantly in his presence and I can see how you two act around each other and look at each other -”

“He’s not interested, alright?” When Louis turns around, Zayn is staring at him with his mouth hanging open. “It’s rude to stare,” Louis deadpans.

“Not interested - are we talking about the same Harry? Harry Styles. Curly hair, about yeah-high, legs like a fawn, absolutely mad about you?”

“I’ve been dropping hints for months, he’s not interested. Can we change the subject? I’m gonna go have a smoke.”

Louis pushes back from the table and slumps off toward their little balcony. There’s a pack of cigarettes on the table beside the door, and he stops to tap one out and light it before slipping out into the still-frigid April air. Louis hunkers down against the railing as he sucks greedily at the cigarette. He’s been trying to cut back, but he just needs a distraction right now.

The thing is, the website had kind of been a joke, he’s not interested in dating someone off the internet. Sure, he wouldn’t mind a date here and there, but he already knows who he wants those dates to be with. Because over the past few months, while he should have been falling for Gemma, according to his mum’s previous wishes, he’d somehow gone and accidentally fallen for her brother.

With an enormous, despondent sigh, Louis crushes his half-smoked cigarette out on the railing and flicks it into the empty planter they’ve been using as a bin before dropping his head into his hands. He’s fine, he’s totally fine. He’ll figure something out. Right.

;;

“Zayn, I don’t think -” Louis cuts off when a pair of jeans hits him in the face. Okay, they really need to talk about Zayn throwing things at him. “Stop it, you bloody -” Louis yanks the denim away from his face and sucks in a breath. “How do you even know this bloke?”

Zayn shrugs and turns back to sift through Louis’ shirts. “He’s a friend.”

“A friend,” Louis parrots, staring at the back of Zayn’s neck as if he can will Zayn to tell him more by sheer force of mind. “God, you’re such a yenta.”

Zayn starts to sway back and forth as he pushes shirts and jumpers around in the wardrobe, then starts singing, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch!” He drapes a jumper over his head like a babushka and throws a wink at Louis over his shoulder. “I’d make a good yenta.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Louis mumbles.

He strips out of his vest and trackies so that he can pull the jeans on, but is stopped by Zayn saying, “Hey, pants, too!”

Louis turns slowly to look up at Zayn, jeans halfway up his legs. “These are clean, mum, I put them on like an hour ago.”

“Yeah, but they’re ugly.”

Louis looks down at his blue briefs, baffled. Why does it matter what his pants look like? He’s going to be wearing jeans. He startles when something smacks him in the shoulder and turns to glare at Zayn. “Really?”

“Put those on, they’re sexy.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Just because I haven’t had a date in three months -” he ignores Zayn’s mumbled ‘twenty-one years’ - “doesn’t mean I’m going to shag someone I’ve only just met.”

Zayn just shrugs casually and says, “You never know. Put them on, trust me.”

“You are so weird.”

Louis slips into the boxer briefs Zayn had tossed him anyway. At least they make his bum look nice.

Despite himself, Louis can feel nerves wiggling around in his belly as he walks up to the restaurant. It’s not particularly fancy, just a little bistro he and Harry like to go to sometimes when Harry doesn’t feel like cooking, but where the red brick usually looks warm and inviting, it suddenly looks imposing, and the ivy that grows along the cracks in the bricks looks like brittle tendrils of spiderweb creeping up the soot-darkened mortar. Louis shudders as he approaches it and glares at a pigeon cooing dolefully from its perch on top of the restaurant sign.

He pulls the door open with a clammy hand and tells the host that he’s meeting someone, follows along on jittery feet as he’s lead to the back of the restaurant, where -

“Harry?” A hopeful thrill trips down Louis’ spine before fizzling out. This makes no sense. Louis looks back and forth between the bored-looking host and Harry, who’s pushed to his feet and is smiling nervously at Louis. Brow furrowed in confusion, Louis asks the host, “Are you sure - my name is Louis Tomlinson? I’m meeting a date, I don’t -”

When he glances back over at Harry, his eyes are wide, corners of his mouth turned down into a frown. Louis’ stomach bottoms out. “Zayn didn’t tell you, did he.”

It isn’t a question. Louis shakes his head no and makes a mental note to murder Zayn when he gets home. “Did he tell you?”

“Yes,” Harry whispers. He looks on the verge of tears, hands clutching at his own elbows where his arms are crossed over his middle, and Louis can’t stand the thought that Harry might be upset because of him. He just doesn’t understand.

“Can I go now,” the host intones. Louis had completely forgotten about him.

Before Louis can respond, Harry throws a few bills down on the table and skirts around it, babbling, “Yes, you can go, thank you. Sorry about this, I’m just going to -”

He swipes at his nose and pointedly doesn’t make eye contact with Louis as he makes to follow the host back to the front of the restaurant. Panic flares up in Louis’ throat, and he reaches out for Harry without thinking, wraps a hand around his wrist and blurts out, desperate and slightly hysterical, “Don’t go.”

Harry stops but won’t meet Louis’ eyes, instead stares hard at the ground while he says, “Louis, I need you to let go of me so I can go murder my friend for embarrassing me.”

“Wait just a second, I’m trying to understand.” He squeezes Harry’s wrist subconsciously, thumb stroking along the inside of his arm, where he can feel Harry’s pulse fluttering. “You knew I was coming tonight.” Harry nods. “And you agreed. To go on a date with me.”

Louis watches as Harry visibly braces himself, squares his shoulders and lifts his head to he can look Louis in the eyes and say, “Yes, Louis, I knew. I thought - Zayn told me you wanted to, as well, I didn’t think.” He pauses, swallows thickly. “I’m sorry, I hope you weren’t too disappointed. I, um. You look really nice. I’ll see you around, okay?”

Louis is too shocked to resist when Harry pulls his arm out of his grasp. Harry knew. He knew and he agreed. He wanted to go on a date with him. Harry is - Harry is already more than halfway toward the exit.

“Harry, wait!” Louis shouts out, ignoring the shocked stares of people around them. He trots after Harry, weaving through tables and around frozen waiters, and catches up to Harry by the door. He’s not even out of breath, but his heart is pounding in his chest, blood pumping thunderously through his veins from a combination of adrenaline and terror and blinding, desperate hope. “You wanted to go out with me.”

The look Harry gives him is a mix of exasperated and baffled. “Yes, Louis, of course I did.”

Confusion swirls madly in his head, jumbling his thoughts and emotions into one suffocating mess. Louis pulls Harry out the front door and into the chilly April night, where he can draw in breaths of fresh air and let the sounds of traffic wash over him like white noise. The street is busy around them, but Louis just leans back against the warm brick and waits for Harry to do the same. He doesn’t see or hear anything that isn’t Harry, with his wide green eyes, almost black in the dim street lamps, and his halo of curls, yellow light edging them in gold.

“Did you really not know? Where have you been the past four months, Louis?”

“Where have you been the past four months? I’ve been tossing hints, and you never -”

Harry’s eyes go even wider, in shock this time, and he says, voice high with disbelief, “I cook for you all the time. I go shopping with you and sleep in your bed with you and cuddle with you when we watch films, I held your hand when I made you watch Titanic for the first time -”

“You talk about jdate all the time!” Louis interrupts, trying to find his sense of equilibrium when Harry’s just thrown him completely off-kilter.

“That was a hint, you idiot. I haven’t accepted a date since you got back. I kept hoping you’d realize -” Harry cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut, and stares at Louis. He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed pink and eyes a little wild, but he doesn’t speak again. Louis can’t think straight, is trying to recall the past four months, see what he’s missed.

“This whole time?” Louis demands, something hopeful tickling at the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach. Harry gives a short, jerky nod, and Louis mutters a string of curses in Hebrew that have Harry’s eyelids fluttering and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Louis lets out a short, barking laugh, shakes his head in disbelief. “You are so odd,” he mutters, then fists his hands in the collar of Harry’s shirt, bounces up onto his toes, and drags Harry into a kiss.

Harry’s lips part and his arms wrap around Louis’ waist automatically, hauling him closer so that his feet nearly leave the ground, and Louis can feel the rumbling noise of approval Harry makes against his chest. Harry tastes like the restaurant’s cheap house wine and bread and butter, and Louis is smiling into the kiss so hard that his cheeks are starting to ache. He has to pull back when Harry starts to laugh, but loops his arms around Harry’s neck, is strongly considering never letting him go again.

Louis buries his face in Harry’s neck and murmurs, “Can we still go kill Zayn?”

“Yes,” Harry nods, tightening his grip on Louis’ waist and digging his fingers into his sides. “Absolutely. So much pain. But first.”

When he doesn’t continue, Louis tips his head back in question. Harry’s lips are red, swollen and shiny, and his eyes are bright, cheeks dimpled as he smiles softly down at Louis. Louis tugs gently on Harry’s hair, hears the way his breathing stutters. “נו?”

Harry clears his throat and swipes a palm up Louis’ back, searing hot through the fabric of Louis’ shirt. “First, we’ve got about four months to make up for. Now kiss me, you fool.”

Louis chokes out a laugh, happiness bubbling up in his chest, and does just that.

fin