Archive of Our Own ^beta

"My first love would have saved the people

My first would have parted seas

My first love would have sailed to China

And back again for me"

- My First Love by Paper Aeroplanes

“Fucking, inconsiderate, hipsters,” Louis spits, staring at where Harry fucking Styles is sat on the other side of the library with his band of indie-freaks.

Zayn seems unconcerned, pen continuing to scratch away, spilling his thoughts onto the pages. So Louis proceeds to elbow him in the stomach. “Oi, Malik, stop being a decent student and listen to me.”

“I’d rather finish writing the essay that’s due today, actually,” he mutters, still not looking up from the page.

“Exactly!” Louis yells, causing the librarian and several nearby students to shush him. Something they’re not telling Harry fucking Styles to do. “There are people in here trying to further their education and actually achieve something in life that doesn't come from their parent’s money,” he continues, whisper-shouting and still getting filthy looks, “and there they are, nattering away like the selfish pricks they are.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Despicable.”

“Exactly,” Louis agrees, pleased that Zayn is finally joining in.

“Who would do a thing like that?” he asks, sarcastically.

“Harry fucking Styles, that’s who,” Louis says, with finality, as if he’s just proven his point without fail.

Zayn smirks. “There we go.”

Louis pauses, confused. “What?”

Zayn shrugs, finally looking up from his work. “Was just wonder how long it’d be before you pinpointed him.”

Louis absolutely does not blush. “Yeah, well, he is the root of the problem.”

Zayn laughs. “Obviously. It’s always Harry Styles this and Harry Styles that.”

Louis gasps, affronted. “I wouldn't dirty my mouth with his stupid, hipster name,” he huffs in response.

“Of course not,” Zayn mutters.

“How did his parents manage to give him a name just as ridiculous as him? It’s fascinating,” Louis continues. “It’s like, when he was growing in a test tube, because I’m sure doing it normally was too mainstream for their liking, his parents knew how annoying he’d be and gave him that name to warn others, right, like an alarm saying ‘watch out, pretentious twat about’,” Louis smiles smugly as he finishes his little speech, expecting heaps of applause.

Zayn stares at him incredulously, unimpressed by his analysis. “Haven’t you got work to be doing instead of ranting on about whatever the fuck it is you’re ranting about?”

“Indeed I do Zaynie,” he says, gesturing to the untouched pile of worksheets in front of him, “but Harry ‘I’m a twat’ Styles over there is disrupting my work ethic with his non-stop droning.”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“You’re right,” Louis agrees, choosing to ignore Zayn’s groan of complaint, “I’m not doing my proper duty as your best friend. Letting him disrupt your work. How disrespectful. I should give ‘im a piece of my mind.”

Zayn smirks. “I know you wanna give him a piece of your something.”

“Like fist to face,” Louis concedes.

“Like cock to mouth, but sure that too,” he corrects, turning to get another book out if his bag.

Louis chokes on thin air, resulting in another scowl from the librarian. “I’m sorry, what?” he rasps.

“Nothing, it’s just interesting that you went from complaining about the lot of ‘em to just complaining about him,” he points out beaming.

“I’m just being- being practical”, Louis stutters out, pretending to read about Macbeth’s descent into madness, “If we get rid of him then the rest’ll follow,” he says dismissively.

“Really?” he asks, incredulously.

“Yeah,” Louis insists, “like with animals. Take out the leader of the pack and then they’ll all be weaker without him.”

Zayn leers at him, rather creepily if you ask Louis, as if waiting for him to do something. “Go on then.”

Louis frowns, confused. “What?”

“Take out the ‘leader of the pack’,” he explains, still grinning like a lunatic, “Do us all a favour.”

“I will,” he insists, picking up his highlighter – borrowed from Zayn – and setting about actually working, subtly signalling the end of the conversation.

Or so he would have hoped, but Zayn yanks it out of his hand and shoves Louis out of his chair, laughing. “We’ve not got all day,” he tells him.

Louis gets up from the chewing-gum embedded carpet with as much dignity as he can muster, but shows no sign of actually going. So Zayn proceeds to throw a rubber at him.

He sends Zayn one of his trademark glares, and bends down to pick up the pink, flower shaped, piece of stationary, assuming that it belongs to one of Zayn’s sisters. “I hope you realise that I’m keeping this, Malik; maybe it’ll help erase the problems in my life,” he sighs dramatically, before finally making his way across the room.

Halfway there he realises that he has no idea what to say and wants to turn back, but knows Zayn would mock him relentlessly if he did. So he simply ducks behind a bookcase. Y’know, to scope out the enemy and plan his attack. The fact he can hear Zayn cackling doesn’t deter him in the slightest.

Feeling like a proper spy, he finds a gap between the books to look at the cluster-fuck of twats on the other side. He doesn’t know who most of them are. Correction: he doesn’t care who most of them are. They’re all exactly the same; brainless zombie’s that wear plaid and drink the most revolting drinks known to man. Grimshaw is easy to pick out in the crowd, but only because he looks about ten years too old to be in year 12. That, and he’s loud and obnoxious and selfish, and his signature quiff sticks out above the crowd like a sharks fin.

Louis knows that Grimshaw ought to be the real problem, what with his pretentious personality and strange knack for knowing about useless shit and getting other people to care about it. All of that should account to him being the perfect hipster-leader, but without Harry Styles there would be half as many people in his stupid indie movement. Harry Styles is rich and hot – and very aware of that –and gullible and an outrageous flirt, and he’s the only reason any of these people even know what vinyl is. If Harry Styles were interested in satanic rituals rather than Instagram filters, this school would be very, very, different.

And of course once Louis starts thinking about Harry Styles his gaze moves to him, taking in his ripped jeans, scuffed ankle boots and the multi-coloured scarf that’s wrapped around his head. Fucking typical. His blue flannel shirt, more undone than done-up, exposes the birds tattooed onto his chest. It was big news when Harry had turned up to school ‘all inked up’, people asking where he got it considering as he wasn’t legally old enough. Louis’ not entirely convinced that they’re real, but either way they look completely ridiculous. It’s all rather weird, if you ask him. Harry Styles is fucking weird.

Which is why Louis won’t let him win.

“Oi, Styles,” he yells, stumbling a bit as he rounds the bookcase.

Harry’s head snaps up and the minute he spots Louis his eyes seem to brighten tenfold, his smirk digging a dimple deep into his left cheek. He looks genuinely happy to see Louis, which is really fucking annoying. He seems happy all the time. People who are happy all the time cannot be trusted. Especially when it 8:30 on a Monday morning and they’re beaming like they’ve won the lottery. It’s suspicious.

“Hey, Lou,” he breathes.

And no, Harry doesn’t get to call him ‘Lou’ only his friends get to call him ‘Lou’ and Harry is not his friend. “It’s Lou-is,” he corrects.

Harry looks taken aback at his sharp tone. Good, Louis thinks. “Right,” he mumbles, blushing lightly, “sorry.”

“What do you want Tomlinson?” Nick drones, annoyingly. Not that there’s any other way he can speak. “I can feel my IQ dropping the longer you’re stood there.” The group of people around them titter as if it’s the best insult they’ve ever heard and, please, Louis can do better than that in his sleep.

“Fuck off Grimshaw,” he spits, just as Harry whispers, “Shut up, Nick,” elbowing the offender in his side. He turns back to Louis, undeterred, his self-satisfied smile back in place. “Hi.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him, dubious of his chipper mood. “Yeah, hey, right.” He clears his throat before beginning, “It’s just that me and Zayn, and everyone else in here, are trying to work and you guys are being pretty fucking loud.” There. Case and point. Louis’d make an excellent lawyer. Exhibit A.

“Oh,” Harry mutters, crestfallen. And Louis doesn’t know or care what he’s disappointed about but at least he’s stopped fucking smiling.

“Yeah.” Louis continues, encouraged by Harry’s change in attitude, “This is a library, not one of your stupid… vinyl… tasting clubs, alright?” Louis mentally face-palms because, seriously, what the hell was that?

Nick snorts, “You can’t ‘taste’ vinyl-”

Louis scoffs. “Like I care.”

Nick glares at him with full force now, and Louis glares back. He loves a good challenge, especially one he knows he’ll win. Nick, however, doesn’t seem to sense his impending loss. “You don’t own the school, Tomlinson. Get your head out of your arse.” An ugly smirk crawls across his face. “And then maybe I’ll be nice enough to put something else-”

“It’s ok, we’ll go,” Harry interrupts. It’s a bloody good thing he does, too, because Louis was about to punch Nick in his smug face, and although he’d be doing the whole school a favour, he doesn’t think that’d stop him getting suspended. “We’ll go to the canteen or something,” Harry continues, and right, he was talking, that’s why Louis wasn’t braining anybody. “Sorry for disrupting your work.”

“Right. Good,” Louis says, slightly shocked how easy it was to get them to leave, “Riddance,” and, ok, he clearly isn’t thinking anymore, “Good riddance, that is.”

He watches them pack up their bags – all satchels of varying quality with different sets of meaningless badges pinned to them – and really, could they be any more cliché? But despite his constant anger and simmering dislike for the people around him, he can’t help but feel smug about getting them to leave. He wonders if Zayn’s been watching this. He turns around to make his way back to their table, because really, he doesn’t have to stay and watch them leave, it’ll only make him like them less. Louis takes a bow as he approaches the table waiting for Zayn’s adoring applause, but he simply rolls his eyes at him in response. Typical. Louis never gets the appreciation he deserves.

Just then, someone taps him on the shoulder, and if it’s someone thanking him for his services he will gladly accept their praise. But he’s not in the mood for signing autographs. Naturally he’s disappointed when he’s confronted with messy hair and too-fucking-large green eyes.

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says, happily, and God, is he still here? Louis opens his mouth to correct the nickname issue again but Harry beats him to it, “Louis. Right, sorry. Um, I was just gonna say that, if you’re having issues with the English homework, I’d be more than happy to help you,” he looks bashful and Louis briefly wonders how many dwarves he has in his spectrum of emotions.

“Are you saying I can’t do it on my own?” Louis asks, slightly offended at the assumption.

Harry’s eyes widen in shock. “No, I was. Just offering. Just in case, you know,” he stutters, clearly worried that he’s genuinely hurt Louis’ feelings. He averts his gaze to his pigeon-toed feet. “Nevermind. I’ll see you later, Louis, yeah?” he asks hopefully, and geez, what is with this kid?

“Whatever,” Louis says dismissively, plonking himself back into his seat and re-borrowing the highlighter from Zayn.

“Hi Zayn,” he says, as if desperate for Zayn to help his situation.

“Hey Harry,” he replies, an apology in his tone.

“Ok. Bye,” Harry stand there for a few seconds, awkwardly, before finally turning to leave.

Louis’ eye line follows the hunched figure until he sees the library door close behind him. “There, sorted,” he declares triumphantly.

But Zayn looks unamused. “You didn’t have to be quite that harsh.”

“It wasn’t harsh, it was honest,” Louis explains, “I hate them. They hate me. It is what creates balance in our lives.”

Zayn snorts. “I don’t think Harry hates you,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Of course he does,” Louis insists, “I’m too mainstream for him.”

“From what I could see, it seemed like he couldn’t get enough of you.”

Louis laughs at the absolutely preposterous idea. “Maybe he has a thing for being insulted,” he suggests.

“Whatever you say,” Zayn says, mockingly, finally turning back to his work.

♡♡♡

Louis hates English. Actually that’s not true. He hated the people in class who wouldn’t try and he hated the drivel they studied in middle school and fucking English language is the bane of his life, but now it’s alright. He got two B’s at GCSE and that must mean he’s not too bad, right? Right. And he loves reading and he loves debating about characters and most importantly, he loves plays. Drama might be Louis’ favourite thing in the entire world, and he thinks he knows his fair share about Shakespeare and Chekov, so when they study plays in English, he feels like a genius.

The only real problem with English now is that it’s the only lesson Louis doesn’t share with any or his friends. Stan does Drama too, which is brilliant, Niall’s in Computing, meaning they don’t get much done but it’s fun, he’s got P.E. with Liam, which isn’t ideal but it’s better than nothing, and he shares and spends many free periods with Zayn. But in English he has no one. That’s not to say Louis hates his classmates, he just doesn’t really know any of them. Except for Cher, who always smells like weed – not that that’s a problem, Louis’ been partial to a joint every now and then but she never seems to take a breath of fresh air – Eleanor who has a rather embarrassing crush on him and appears to completely overlook his sexuality, and of course Louis’ favourite: Harry Styles.

Even though he’d like to, it’s difficult to ignore the boy when there’s only ten other kids in their class, they’re made to sit alphabetically, and Harry never shuts up. It’s as if he thinks he’s some kinds of genius God sent down to their crumby school, not only learn new things himself but to help everyone else along the way. Louis doesn’t need his help, thank you very much, no matter how often he offers it.

It could be worse, Louis supposes. At least there are none of Harry’s weird followers in the class with him. Come to think of it, he has no evidence of any of them actually going to any lessons. Weird.

Louis normally tries to avoid getting to class until the very last minute so that Harry won’t try talking to him. Today, however, he finds himself stood outside the classroom before the previous lesson has even finished. Why? He honestly has no idea. But he’s too lazy to walk back to the library or to the common room, so there he stands.

The current class starts filing out of the room. They’re year eights, so as a sixth former it’s Louis’ duty to lean against the wall and look menacing. Not that he’s the scariest person. Some of the year eight boys are taller than him so it’s pretty embarrassing that he’s even trying. If only Zayn were here.

“Hello again,” the slow drawl of Harry Styles’ voice calls from somewhere to his left, and Louis nearly jumps out of his skin, accidentally banging his elbow against the door frame. Harry snickers.

“Don’t do that,” Louis snaps, pain tingling up and down his arm.

Harry smiles. “Don’t do what, say hi?”

Louis would probably punch him if it weren’t for the persisting sting. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

“Maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings,” he muses, chuckling.

Louis glares at him. “Y’know it’s not nice to laugh at someone in pain.”

Immediately the smile that was on Harry’s face drops, replaced with a look of concern. “Oh, are you hurt. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise. Do you want me to get you some water, or take you to the nurse or something?”

Louis snorts. “I banged my funny bone; I don’t think it’ll need to be amputated. Calm down.”

Harry nods. “Right, yes, sorry, yes.”

Once the last middle schooler has pasted by them, Louis wastes no time in sweeping up his things and striding into the classroom. Louis quite likes this room. Whereas most of the others are bare, the walls here are adorned with poetry and quotes from various Shakespeare plays, and Louis loves it. He finds it encouraging and welcoming, and everything a classroom should be. Inspiring.

He makes his way to his assigned seat, knowing that Harry’s following on behind him, and unceremoniously slumps into his chair.

Louis wouldn’t call the silence that follows awkward, just pleasantly uncomfortable, knowing that Harry’s probably feeling it more than Louis himself is.

Harry doesn’t speak again until half of the class has turned up, “So did you get your work done, then?”

Louis scoffs. “Yeah. No thanks to you and the rest of your tribe.”

“Right. I’m sorry.”

“I swear Zayn was about to commit homicide,” Louis says nonchalantly, “You should thank me for stopping him.”

He simply hums in response. And, thankfully, the lesson starts before Harry can say anything else.

“I want you to get into pairs,” their English teacher, Miss Flack, announces after an hour and a half of discussing the themes of Macbeth, “You can choose who but please choose someone you can work efficiently with. I’ll give each pair a different debate topic, which you will work on over the week. We’ll then have the debates next week where the rest of the class will vote for which side wins. You will get a joint grade depending on how both of you do. I want you to give plausible arguments for both sides, I want it to be a difficult decision to pick the winner. You won’t get top marks by destroying the opposition. Any Questions?”

“Can’t we just prepare separately?” a kid who may-or-may-not-Louis’-not-sure be called Aiden asks, voicing Louis’ thoughts exactly.

She smiles, patronisingly. “You could, but then you’d have to trust them to do work that counts towards half your grade. Any sensible questions?” Silence. “Ok, get into partners.”

And isn’t that just perfect. Don’t get him wrong, Louis loves a good debate, it’s the perfect opportunity to argue with someone and prove that they’re wrong, but Louis doesn’t like working with people. Especially when there are none of his friends in this class.

“Um, Louis?” a small, deep voice from his left asks. Just when the kid had learned to shut up.

“What?” he snaps, turning to Harry.

“I was wondering if you’d maybe want to work with me.”

Louis frowns. “And why on earth would I want to do that?”

Harry seems to have been expecting that question. “Well, for one thing, Eleanor’s on her way over here and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to work with her much either.”

Louis turns around to see that Eleanor is in fact walking towards them, smiling sweetly and batting her eyelashes when she sees that Louis is looking at her. He quickly goes over the pros and cons of working with her in his head and finds that Harry is probably the better option. Just. He’s just as annoying but at least he’s smart and won’t try and feel him up if they’re left alone too long. He hopes. “Fine,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth, “You play dirty, Styles.”

“Hi, Louis,” Eleanor calls cheerily as he reaches them.

“Hey, El,” Louis hopes he sounds at least a little big genuine.

He must do because she beams at the nickname. “So, d’you wanna be partners?”

“’M afraid I’ve already picked bandana-man over here,” he says, somewhat reluctantly.

She, very rightly, seems surprised at this turn of events. “Oh. Ok.” she looks disappointed and Louis can’t help but feel a little bit guilty. But then again she’s also about to leave without having tried to grope him, so it’s not all bad. Louis’ a horrible person. “Good luck, I know you’ll do great.”

Louis salutes her as she turns to walk away, realising seconds later that that was a pretty stupid thing to do. When he turns back to Harry the kid is smiling so wide his face must be hurting from the strain. It’s rather disconcerting and definitely creepy. “Stop smiling like that, I’ve only picked you because you’re the lesser of two evils.”

Harry seems to take that in his stride. “Well, I’ve just found out that I’m not your least favourite person, so let me get excited.”

“You’re really fucking weird,” Harry shrugs at that and Louis wants to hit him, “Anyway, as long as Grimshaw exists the least favourite position is filled.”

Harry’s face falls at that, and Louis’d be glad if he didn’t already know what he was about to say. “I’m sorry about what he said this morning. It was rude and unacceptable. You could tell a teacher that he verbally assaulted you, if you’d like, I’d back you up-”

“Stop trying to be noble, Styles, I wasn't verbal assault. Just shut up before I move you further up my ‘hated-list’.”

Miss Flack finally reaches them, smiling sweetly like she always does. “Louis and Harry,” she mutters, taking note of their paring. “Right,” she continues, “your question is: ‘Was Macbeth and Lady Macbeth’s relationship unhealthy and emotionally abusive?’ so one side yes and the other no.”

Harry looks like excitement personified. “Ohh, that’s a good one, thanks Miss Flack.” She bows her head in thanks - the angle also completely coincidentally showing off her cleavage and Louis feels momentarily bad for Harry having to deal with her creepy flirting all the time - before moving on to the next pair.

Louis stares at Harry incredulously until he turns to face him. “You are insufferable.”

Harry shrugs. “Do you wanna come over to mine to work on our arguments?”

Which, ok, straight to the point it seems. “We have all of tomorrow’s lesson. Hold your horses.”

Harry nods, solemnly, like Louis’ words are gospel. “Then will you come over to mine to work?”

“Technically speaking,” Louis starts, “this is definitely an assignment we could do completely separately. I trust you to do work.”

Harry looks delighted at Louis saying he trusts him, seeming to take it in stride to get his way. “Sure, but I wanna look at both sides. It’s a really interesting topic. Besides, I wanna know what you think. You really have a wonderful mind.”

Which might be the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to him. So that’s what he tells him. “That might be the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to me, but, sure,” he concedes, “If after tomorrow we still need to work, then we will. Ok?”

Harry beams. “Yeah.”

Louis hopes they get the work done as quickly as possible.

♡♡♡

“So I heard you and Harry are partners,” is how Zayn greets him when they meet for lunch the next day, and Louis’ about to protest before he continues, “in English. Nothing else. Of course.”

He hands Louis’ the tuna and sweetcorn sandwich and starts eating the soup he got for himself.

Louis growls at him through a mouthful of bread and tuna. “Very funny.”

“Although,” Zayn says, tone cheeky, “I’m pretty sure one of you’d love to be partners in other things, too. But, which one?”

Louis ignores that comment in order to ask “How did you even know that? I haven’t told you, and it’s not exactly gossip worthy.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Harry told me.”

“Styles?”

“No, Potter,” Zayn deadpans, waving his plastic spoon like a magic wand. “Of course Styles, you moron.”

Louis scowls. “Since when do you talk to Styles?”

“He’s in my Media Studies class,” Zayn informs him.

“That doesn’t mean you have to befriend him.”

“We work together on projects a lot,” he says, as if he hasn’t just admitted his complete betrayal. “He’s a nice guy. Makes a really good partner, you should bear that in mind.”

Louis throws a stray piece of sweetcorn at him. “I hate you.”

Zayn picks in up and eats it, grinning like a loon. “I’ll be the best man, right?”

♡♡♡

“Your house is fucking massive,” is the first thing Louis says on entering the Styles’ household.

They didn’t end up doing any work, really.  Harry wasn’t in school the next lesson so they have literally nothing prepared for their debate. Louis thinks he was doing it intentionally. Like he wants Louis to fail and is willing to risk his own grade just to watch him suffer. Brilliant. He should have worked with Eleanor after all. She may have spent the time trying to kiss him but. At least they’d’ve got the work done.

So here he stands in the Styles’ front hall. Well, not front hall, it’s more like a fucking foyer with the size of it. The size of Louis’ whole house in just one room, he’s sure. Ridiculous. It’s not like he was expecting anything less, he knew Harry was loaded but seeing it for real is something else. A maid answered the door, for crying out loud.

“Er, yeah, I guess it is,” Harry says, bashfully, and it takes a while to remember what he said in the first place.

“Right, so. Anyway, onward, and such.” Harry just stares at him like he’s gone insane. “You’re the one who lives here, lead the way.”

Harry jumps into action, grabbing Louis by the wrist – which he doesn’t appreciate in the slightest – and leading him up the winding staircase. They pass so many doors, he loses count. The house is like a maze, and Louis’ worried Harry’ll leave him to find his own way out.

Finally, they come to a dead end. Or, rather, the end of the corridor and the final door. It’s light purple, which is strange. None of the others doors were painted anything other than the no-doubt-expensive off-white. Louis would assume this door would belong to a little girl, based on the unexpected colour. But he also has no doubt that this is the entrance to Harry’s domain. He doesn’t really know what to expect when they get to the other side.

Harry seems to be as apprehensive as Louis feels, biting his lip and hesitating with his hand poised on the door handle.

“I haven’t got all day, Styles,” he snaps, only somewhat unnecessarily.

Harry blushes. “Right, sorry.” And then the door opens and- and Louis is surprised, to say the least.

It’s not as large as he’d have expected, considering the size of the rest of the estate. And it’s probably the most casual and lived-in looking room in the house. But what it lacks in extravagance it more than makes up for in cosiness. A long thin desk takes up most of the room, running along the edge, white but chipped and tattered in a way that feels real. Old and well used and not a hipster-vintage knock-off. A double bed is pressed up against the wall opposite the door, cover in white linen and pastel coloured pillows, with a bright purple bedside table beside it. He doesn’t have a wardrobe, just metal rails, the kind you’d see backstage at the theatre. The walls are lilac and covered in posters and photos, tickets and no doubt other memories. And there are flowers everywhere. On the bedside table and his desk, there’s even a basket of them hanging in the corner. Rogue petals in pots on the window sill. And where real flowers can’t be found, pictures and drawings of them can. Collages on the walls. It’s strange and unexpected but rather lovely.

“Not bad, Styles,” he says, fingers skimming the edge of the desk as he walks. Harry is sat nervously in the light pink desk chair. “I’d expect it of a teenage girl, but each to their own.” Which, Louis realises, is not the sort of thing he tells Harry about his indie interests but. He’s never been very consistent.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice hoarse, “You can call me Harry, you know.”

Louis scoffs. “I know I can. Doesn’t mean I will.”

He collapses onto Harry’s bed, the boy in question following him swiftly. Perching himself perhaps a little closer than is strictly necessary. They lie there for a while, and Louis finds in oddly relaxing. Harry’s bed is luxurious and his room smells like flowers. Sweet and calming. And the boy himself isn’t too bad when he shuts up. In fact, Louis’ always slept better when someone’s with him. Normally Zayn, or one of his sisters, but Harry wouldn’t be the worst compromise. The warmth of him warming Louis to his core, in the way only another person’s company can. He could very well fall asleep right there and then, if it weren’t for Harry disrupting the peaceful silence.

“As much as I’d love to take a nap with you, we’ve got work to do,” he says blushing. Perhaps at the little confession he made. Or joke, rather. Louis certainly doesn’t think he meant it.

“Right. Spoil sport,” he says, with no real fire behind it. He walks to the desk and sets about emptying his backpack onto the wood in front of him, Harry watching him patiently.

His fingertips find some loose petals underneath the nearest bouquet, unbelievably soft to the touch.

“What’s with all the flowers?” he asks, wistfully.

Suddenly Harry’s by his side, moving around the flowers in the bunch without achieving much. “Oh, I like them.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I gathered as much, I was hoping for something a bit more specific.”

Harry pauses, and Louis can practically see the cogs whirring in his head. He seems excited, as if he’s been waiting for someone to ask him this question but no one ever had. Which is quite a sad thought, really. Something he obviously loves so much and no one cares enough to find out about it. Not that Louis cares, per se. he’s just a very nosy person.

“I like the meanings of flowers,” Harry starts, fingers still playing with the stems, “I like the way they smell. And the ways they go together and, well, don’t. I like making flower arrangements,” he says, handing Louis the bunch he was working on for Louis to assess, “and then taking pictures of those arrangements.” He indicates the many colourful photos on the walls. “I like pressing flowers, I have a whole bunch of them. I like finding ways to preserve them. These beautiful, fleeting things, that people often don’t appreciate enough. I like making them last so I can appreciate them for longer.”

Which is quite a nice concept. And Louis would love to write it down in poem form, is it weren’t so sickeningly cheesy. “That’s the most vomit inducing thing I’ve ever heard,” he tells Harry and for once he doesn’t flinch at Louis’ tone. “Are you being serious?”

Harry nods, picking up the fallen flower petals and adding them to the corresponding pots on the windowsill. “Completely serious. I want to be a florist someday.”

“A florist,” he deadpans.

Harry smiles. “Someone who sells flowers-”

“I know what it means,” Louis snaps, “it’s just a strange career ambition.”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe, but it’s what I wanna do. Each to their own, right?” he asks, mocking Louis’ words from earlier. Or maybe not mocking. Maybe just hoping Louis will reassure him rather than tear him down for once. Maybe Louis can indulge him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “each to their own.”

They get to work. And Louis decides that working with Harry may actually be a good thing. He’s intelligent and willing and not too annoying when he’s just focused on work. And, as Louis suspected, he’s a very good person to argue with.

“She manipulates him in order to get him to commit murder, how is that a healthy relationship?” Louis asks, bewildered. They’ve somehow found themselves lying on the floor, books and loose pieces of paper spread out between them. Their practice debate is going well, and Louis is positive they’ll get a good grade for this. He’s also positive he’ll win.

Harry huffs. “He kills freely. They’re both as insane as the other and they need each other. Look how distraught Macbeth is when she dies. He’s long since gone completely mad and her death is what it takes to make him sombre.” This is the closest Louis’ seen Harry to angry. Brow furrowed and voice gruff, gesticulating wildly. It’s really quite hilarious. Endearing, almost.

“I’ll agree he loves her, but I feel like it’s a bit Stockholm syndrome-y. That maybe long ago their love was purer but as time went on she cared less and he, through desperation, cared more. Clinging on to her. And she took advantage of that.”

Harry frowns, and Louis has to hold back a laugh at the boy’s appalled expression. “Of course she cares about him. They’re each other’s equals, all they have really, and that’s something built on mutual trust and respect, past tragedies and love.”

“We only see her alone a handful of times, in all of those instances she’s either plotting or completely crazy,” he points out, “When she’s seen with Macbeth she’s manipulating him or shaming him. And when she’s with anyone else she’s playing the weak-wife card, as if she isn’t the mastermind behind the whole thing. She’s not a sane woman, and no sane relationship could come from that.”

Silence falls over them for the first time since they started the discussion.

Harry sighs. “Ok. You win. Love is a lie.”

Louis laughs, bold and brash. “Oh, shove off. If we were talking about love I can assure you I’d be completely different. I’m a right sap, me,” he tells him, beaming and threading his fingers through the white rug he’s lying on. Knowing Harry, it’s probably real sheep skin or something, but Louis will save being ethical ‘til later. It’s really quite comfortable.

Harry beams and shuffles closer to him, until he’s hovering over Louis. A hand either side of Louis’ head. Things have changed dramatically. Louis can’t breathe. “Are you?” he asks, intrigued.

He feels hot all over. Probably from the fact a boy is essentially lying on him. Pinning him down. It’s... interesting to say the least. “Sure,” he says, noncommittally as he crawls out from under Harry. “So I suppose we’re done for the day,” he says as he starts to pack up his stuff, Harry watching him intently. “Or completely I guess, we’re gonna kill it. You’re quite clever.”

Suddenly Harry’s right in front of where he’s knelt, only a breath’s width away. “You’re completely brilliant,” he whispers in awe, and. Ok. Louis should probably leave, like now, before his body gets any ideas. He’s a teenage boy and he hasn’t even kissed anyone in months. Harry has the most incredible lips he’s even seen. Louis can’t really be blamed.

“Right, I should, um, go,” he mutters as he turn to the door.

Harry follows him up. “I’ll walk you out.”

Louis opens his mouth to protest before he remembers how ridiculously large Harry’s house is. “Yeah, it’s probably best you do. Your house is a maze, mate. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Minotaur lurking the halls.”

Harry cackles at that, throwing his head back and clutching his stomach. Louis likes making people laugh, but that was in no way funny enough for this reaction. It looks like Harry’s possessed. Louis’ a little scared.

Luckily Harry doesn’t try to harvest his soul and simply leads him to the front door, chatting about Greek mythology. He is a really strange boy.

Louis tries to make a swift exit once Harry opens the door, but he feels a hand around his wrist, stopping him where he is. Harry looks bashful, blushing lightly and biting his lip. He looks like he needs reassurance, God knows for what, but they had a perfectly decent evening so Louis will give him this. When he starts to move his arm, Harry looks wounded, probably assume that Louis was trying to pull himself out of his grip. The look on the boy’s face when Louis clasps their hands together is priceless. He looks like it’s his birthday and Christmas combined, and, yeah, maybe Zayn’s right. Maybe Harry does like him. Louis doesn’t hate the thought as much as he would have four hours ago. He still hates it a little though, of course.

Louis’ little gesture seems to give Harry enough confidence to say what’s on his mind. “Do you wanna see the new Spider-Man film with me?” The words are said so rushed that he has a hard time working them out but once he does he blanches.

He thinks Harry’s asking him on a date. A date. And maybe the hand holding thing was the wrong thing to do if it lead to Harry thinking that Louis likes him back. He should say no, he’s gonna say no. But he really wants to see the film. He normally doesn’t get to see movies until they come out on DVD and Zayn buys them, but this is a chance to actually see a film in the cinema for once. And if Harry’s thinks it’s a date then he’ll definitely be willing to pay for it. Louis could cope with Harry for a few hours if it means a free film. Sure.

“Sure,” he says with a shrug and Harry looks about two seconds away from jumping for joy. Hopefully he’ll wait ‘til Louis leaves to squeal like a teenage girl. Actually, hopefully he wouldn’t do it at all, but if he must.

Harry seems incapable of words, probably focusing all his energy on not passing out. Which is. Strange. Louis’ never had anyone like him this much, and whereas it’s a little excessive, it’s definitely very flattering. Louis’ had crushes in the past and he can understand how amazing it feels whenever they so much as acknowledge your existence. And as they say, charity starts at home. He’ll let Harry have this. For a little while.

He tells Harry that they’ll talk about it at school and wishes him a good night. Harry leans forward to plant a lingering kiss on his cheek. Louis can feel himself flush under his ministrations and rushes home before he can think too much about it.

♡♡♡

Harry’s wearing a flower crown. A Goddamn flower crown.

He’s standing outside their cinema of choice wearing all black. Black boots, black jeans, black t-shirt. All black. Except, of course, for the delicate blue flowers nestled in his curls. He looks up from his phone just as Louis reaches him and not even a second later, warm arms are circling his waist. Louis’ never been hugged like this before. Without an inch of space separating them. Harry’s warm hands are pressing into the small of Louis’ back, pulling him even closer. Not that that’s even really possible. Harry’s curls tickle his chin and Louis’ essentially got a bunch of flowers in his face, but it’s not unpleasant.

Harry’s hands are placed too low for it to be a platonic hug, and too high for it to be sexual. It’s very intimate. Something you’d expect of lovers and not two teenage boys who only kinda-but-not-really like each other. It’s definitely intense and unexpected, but not unwelcome really. Louis’ always been a notorious cuddler, and there’s only so much that Zayn’ll allow. So Louis hugs back, and smells the flowers and the apple shampoo that Harry uses and lets all the stress of coursework leave his body in a sigh.

This isn’t what he’d planned to do tonight, but it’s not the worst turn of events. A hug’s a hug regardless of who gives it. It doesn’t mean anything. And Harry’s a really good hugger. Louis can’t be blamed.

When they pull back all Louis can think to say is, “What- are those forget-me-nots?”

Harry blushes, and it’s not quite as annoying as it used to be. “No. They’re violets. And they’re my favourite,” he informs him.

Louis raises an eyebrow, sceptically. “If they’re violets then why are they blue?”

He chuckles. “They don’t just come in one colour. You don’t get just red roses, do you?”

“Yeah, well. Sun flowers,” is what Louis’ brain supplies as an argument.

Harry smirks. “Forget what society’s told you, they come in red too.”

“My life is a lie,” he deadpans and Harry lets out a loud laugh, head thrown back as, Louis assumes, is his normal way of laughing. Odd.

Harry leads him into the cinema by the hand and Louis is reminded that he thinks they’re on a date. Which isn’t what’s going on. They’re two kinda-not-really-friends seeing a film together. Obviously. Although, their hug doesn’t really support that fact.

Before Louis has the chance to pull his hand from Harry’s grip, the boy’s willingly letting him go, telling him he’ll be back in a minute and making his way to the box office to pick up their tickets.

Louis’ not really prepared for the evening. He doesn’t really know what’s gonna happen and that unnerves him a bit. Ever since they did their debate in class – and both got A*’s and Louis won, thank you very much – Harry hasn’t shut up about their not-a-date. He went over every little detail several times, only shutting up when Louis quite literally ran away from him, Zayn rolling his eyes and following on behind, mumbling apologies on Louis' behalf. Louis’d only just got out of having dinner with Harry as well as the film. Harry’s very insistent.

He returns with two popcorns and two cokes, which, Louis assumes, isn’t what you’d normally expect on a date. Sharing is caring as far as Louis' past dates are concerned. Good thing it’s not a date, then. He wonders if Harry even likes Spider-Man or just knows that he’s Louis’ favourite superhero. Anyway.

It’s a strange evening, to say the least. The film’s beyond good, as he expected – Andrew Garfield has always been Louis’ celebrity crush – and actually seeing a film in the cinema for once is truly lovely. And he may or may not cry a bit at the end, but no one has to know. And for once, Harry doesn’t try to touch him. No hand holding or arm around his shoulders or thighs pressed together. And it makes Louis wonder if this boy is finally getting the hint. It’s totally not a date.

They leave the cinema – only after the credits because Louis’ not an idiot and now he really, really wants to see X-Men, maybe he should try harder not to get fired from ‘Toys R Us’ so he can try to save up for it – in fairly awkward silence. Louis kinda just wants to run away yelling a thank you over his shoulder, but he’s not that much of a dick. Sometimes.

“I had a really good time, tonight,” Harry tells him in earnest.

Louis tuts. “Yeah, me too. Thanks.” He hopes beyond hope that this is where they part ways.

Harry, on the other hand, has other plans. He reaches out to hold his hand, sliding his palm down Louis’ arm before clutching his fingers. Harry's nails are painted, which. Is definitely a first. He hasn't seen that on a boy before, let alone Harry. It should be unexpected or strange, but based on the state of the boy's bedroom it really isn't. They're the same blue as the flowers in his curls, pristine and obviously done for the sake of their outing. Louis doesn't comment on it. Harry's thumb starts slowly caressing the back of his hand. Which. Louis knew he shouldn’t have hugged back before. It’s made the wrong impression. But he’s not very good at understanding people or what they want. Harry might want more than Louis knows how to give. More than Louis wants to give. He thinks. Maybe. He doesn’t want this. Right? He’s very confused right now.

Harry’s looking at him with concerned etched into the lines of his forehead, and Louis wonders just how insane he must look right now, arguing with himself in his mind. He squeezes Harry’s hand to reassure him he’s alright. Because he doesn’t want the kid to worry unnecessarily.

Harry tentatively presses a kiss to his cheek, obviously afraid that Louis will flip out or reject him or something. Which is kinda what he should do but. He can give Harry that. As a thank you. And well, Louis thinks, in for a penny in for a pound. So he kisses him in return. Just. Just the corner of his mouth, where lips merge into skin, because he doesn’t want Harry to get any wrong ideas. But yeah. He has really nice lips, just like Louis thought. Soft and plump and. And currently smiling like a lunatic.

“Bye, Lou,” Harry whispers in awe. Louis doesn't correct him.

He fears that might have been a bad idea too.

♡♡♡

Harry seems to think they’re dating. Which is wrong. Obviously. But Louis doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. Which is strange, because since when does Louis ever hesitate before telling Harry exactly what he’s thinking. He doesn’t think he hates the kid anymore. If he’s being honest he doesn’t know what he thinks of him at all.

At first it was annoying. Well, it’s still annoying now, but it’s bearably so.

Harry texts Louis first thing in the morning and last thing at night, wishing him sweet dreams or a brilliant day always signed with three kisses. He doesn’t remember giving Harry his number, but he’s pretty sure Zayn’s to blame.

Harry sits with them at lunch - rather than his usual indie crowd - and fits himself against Louis until their sides are practically fused together. Which isn’t very practical when people are trying to eat. He even starts buying Louis’ food instead of Zayn, and he’s not too sure how he feels about that. He talks with Zayn as if they’re the best of friends and whispers to Louis about the new flowers he’s bought and what they mean. Which is. Somewhat interesting. And he can be funny too. So Louis lets him stay.

Harry always leaves him with a kiss. Just on the corner of his mouth like it’s a thing between them. Soft as anything as if he’s pressing secrets into Louis’ skin. And maybe he is. Louis wouldn’t know either way. But it isn’t exactly terrible. Gentle and sweet and, really, everything Louis’ every wanted with someone. He’ll take what he can get. So Louis lets him stay.

He snuggles with him in English. That’s the only word Louis can think of to describe it. Putting all his weight on Louis’ side and resting his head on his shoulder when he’s not writing things down. Nuzzling under his jawline and sending a shiver down Louis’ spine. It’s nice. So Louis lets him stay.

Miss Flack broke her sacred alphabetical-order-seating-plan in order to separate them. Louis felt oddly indignant about her doing so. It’s not like they weren’t doing their work. And it’s not like they were disrupting anyone else. And it’s not like Louis cares. Miss Flack has a weird cougar crush on Harry, and the whole class knows it. She’s probably just jealous.

All in all, Louis can conclude that Harry thinks they’re dating. And Zayn think it’s hilarious.

“This is hilarious,” he tells him for what must be the tenth time.

They’re in the library during their shared free-period, Zayn sketching in his notebook. That morning Harry had given him a single red rosebud and told him they mean pure and lovely and that’s apparently exactly what Louis is. Needless to say, he’s been glaring at it distrustingly ever since.

“It’s not funny,” Louis reminds him, “it’s embarrassing.”

“The Tommo is embarrassed. Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not me, you tit. The flower boy.”

Zayn frowns, looking up from his sketch. “Why would it embarrassing for him?”

“He’s the one making overly romantic gestures and thinking we’re dating.” Louis scoffs at the very thought.

“Aren’t you though?” Zayn asks, eyebrow raised.

Louis blushes. “No, of course not.”

Zayn pauses, seems to deliberate something in his head before he puts his pencil down and puts all attention on Louis. “Look, I know I’ve been teasing you a lot, but you don’t have to be so stubborn about this.”

“I’m not being stubborn.” At least he thinks he’s not. “I’m being honest.” He pushes himself to his feet and heads to a random aisle, looking for more privacy for their conversation.

Zayn follows without question. “Wait, you seriously don’t like him?”

Louis shakes his head, perhaps a little too furiously, brow furrowed. “No. I don’t. I’ve only just stopped outright hating him.”

Zayn’s obviously shocked by his answer, but it’s not exactly like it’s news. “Oh.”

“Why are you acting like you didn’t already know this?” he asks, stroking the spines of the books as he passes.

“Because I didn’t.” Which is. Definitely not what he expected Zayn to say.

Louis glares at him. “I always say how much I hate him.”

Zayn sigh, sliding down the bookcase until he’s slumped on the floor. “But I thought you were just being a prat and pretending you didn’t for whatever random reason you had.” He sits next to Zayn carefully then proceeds to punch him in the arm for his foolishness. Completely foolish. “If you don’t like him,” Zayn starts, brow furrowed, “then why do you let him hang off of you like he does?”

Louis shrugs, not really knowing the answer himself. Sometimes Harry’s not so bad and sometimes he’s annoying as fuck, so Louis can’t really pinpoint an opinion on him, let alone any reasoning for what’s going on. But it’s nice. All the PDA. But he can’t exactly tell Zayn that so. “I take pity on him,” he decides, because it’s the only answer that’ll stop his head from spinning. “It doesn’t cause me too much stress just to let him think things are swell and dandy.”

Zayn, like the caring, good-natured person he is, frowns about as deep as the Atlantic Ocean. “Louis,” he sighs, “you shouldn’t do that, I wouldn’t’ve- If I’d known you were leading him on then I would have said something, that- that’s not fair on him, Lou.” Louis is a dick. “He really likes you, and you know that.” He’s a horrible human being and Zayn’s like the angel on his shoulder. “Either give him a God damned chance or just be honest to him so he won’t get hurt.” Why can Louis do nothing right? “Don’t lead him on. You wouldn’t want anyone to do that to you, right? He doesn’t deserve that.” Louis is the villain of the story, isn’t he?

He tries to not let Zayn know he’s right. “Since when are you the love guru?”

Zayn smirks, getting to his feet. He knows anyway. “Hey, I always give great advice. I assure you, if you actually listened to me your life would be so much better.” He pulls Louis up too. “Now do your sodding work, you moron.”

♡♡♡

It’s break time and Louis has literally no idea what lessons he has next. Zayn is nowhere to be found so he can’t ask him. He’s also forgotten his locker key so he can’t get half of his books, not that he knows which books he needs to get because he has no idea what lessons he has next.

He's sitting in the sixth form common room in his and Zayn’s usual spot: away from the vending machines and table footy because that’s where the bulk of the school idiots hang around. No. Louis sits in the corner – on what he believes to be the only good sofa – and usually that’s fine, when Zayn’s with him. Now, he looks like a loner. Sat by himself doing fuck all on his phone and he can feel his cheeks heating in embarrassment. Where the fuck is Zayn?

When he feels the shabby sofa dip under someone else’s weight he turns, preparing to hit Zayn around the head for keeping him waiting. He’s met with Harry’s beaming smile and shining, cartoon eyes.

“Hiiii,” Harry chirps, as he shuffles closer still to Louis.

He narrows his eyes at him. “Yeah, hey.”

“How are you?” he sighs. Actually sighs, like he’s some Disney princess or something.

“Fine,” Louis says, tone clipped. This is all very strange and very suspicious and he wonders what Harry thinks he’s doing. This isn’t part of their routine. Louis’ never even seen him in the common room before. Harry smiles at him, oblivious to what Louis’ thinking, as usual. ”Good.”

And when Harry leans in with the obvious intention of kissing him – like proper kissing him – he knows he’s got a problem. Don’t lead him on, His conscience tells him. His conscience sounds a hell of a lot like Zayn. He turns his head so Harry’s lips end up getting his cheek instead of their intended destination. He laughs awkwardly and asks, “Don’t you and your friends have to go sit under a tree, listen to some Mumford & Sons wannabe whilst Instagraming pics of your packed lunches?”

Harry looks like he’s been punched in the face and, seriously, it’s not fair that he should make Louis feel guilty for this. Louis has no reason to feel bad about this, Harry just needs to take the hint and leave.

“Oh,” he murmurs, eloquent as always it seems, and Louis only just restrains from rolling his eyes. That probably wouldn’t help much. “I, um,” Harry continues, shakily, holding up a pen drive, “I just want to give you this.”

Louis raises his eyes at that. This shit isn’t Secret Santa, so what does this kid think he’s doing? “And what is that, exactly, your porn stash?”

Harry blushes. Not just a little tint to his cheeks, full on red from his hairline to where his inked skin disappears behind his half-way-buttoned-shirt. “No,” he mumbles, and he really needs to stop talking like that, like now please. “It’s just some songs I thought you’d like?”

He says it like it’s a question, and if it were a question Louis’ answer would be no. “You made me a mix tape? Could you be anymore cliché?”

Harry clears his throat, hand rubbing awkwardly at the nape of his neck. “It’s a playlist,” he mutters, “No vinyl or gramophones or whatever else you think I like. It’s just some songs that- That make me think of you.”

Louis eyes the offending piece of metal and plastic sceptically, because, seriously, who uses pen drives anymore, let alone for playlists. He slowly reaches out to pluck the pen drive from Harry’s long fingers - nails a light pink and chipping slightly - and makes a show of sliding it into his pocket. Don’t lead him on.

The look on Harry’s face could only be described as self-satisfied. But not the smug, egotistical way for once. He looks genuinely pleased with himself, happy that Louis has accepted a gift he made him. Louis can't stop looking at the boy's fingers. He's been doing that a lot more since their... rendezvous. Painting them pretty colours and embracing the confidence it seems to give him.

“What's up with the nail varnish?” Louis asks before he can stop himself, worrying he might have offended the boy in a way he doesn't want to.

Harry blushes. The same colour as his nails. “I just. I just like it. It's nice. It makes me feel creative and- S'just nice. Is that... all right?” He's asking if it's all right with Louis. If Louis will allow him to do something he likes. He knows Harry has good reason to be tentative around him, but, fuck, it physically pains Louis to seem him like this. Incredibly insecure and sad looking. Like the time Fizzy came home crying when her classmates didn't like her dressing like a tom-boy. Louis told her to be herself no matter what and that their opinions didn't matter. And, fuck, Louis doesn't know what to do anymore.

“Of course it is,” he says, no louder than a whisper, “each to their own, right?” And Louis feels like such a hypocrite, knocking Harry down for the indie stuff but reassuring him about the- the girly stuff. It doesn't make sense and the contradiction makes his head hurt. That's been happening a lot around Harry. Don’t lead him on.

To his credit, Harry doesn't call him out on his inconsistency, just smiles brightly, as usual, absent-mindedly stroking his coloured nails. Louis smiles back at him, if a little awkwardly, and proceeds to pulls his earphones out of his bag.

He settles back in his seat, pressing play on his ‘Tuesday’ playlist. He expects Harry to take this as his queue to leave, not that Louis’ sure that’s the message he’s even trying to send. But Harry simply slides closer to him until their thighs touch lightly. Louis should complain or jolt away, but he’s in a surprisingly good mood considering today’s irritating circumstances.

He’s halfway through Panic! At The Disco’s ‘Mona Lisa’ when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He quickly pauses the song, pulls out an ear bud, and turns towards the perpetrator. Harry Styles again. He raises an eyebrow at Harry in a silent question of what the fuck do you want? It seems like he gets the message.

“Watcha listening to?” he asks, smiling sweetly.

It’s a simply enough question. Certainly not the worst Harry has asked him. Louis goes to tell him before hesitating. Because odds are Harry will hate it, won’t he? He’ll laugh and taunt him because of his inferior taste, won’t he? That’s what they do, isn’t it? Louis’ not exactly keen to be the one being mocked.

“Panic! At The Disco. Have you heard of them or?..” Louis says, surprisingly shy.

Harry lights up, “Oh, I love them!” which is a surprising enough statement on its own but, “could I listen with you?” is probably the last thing Louis expected him to say.

He nods minutely, going to hand Harry the ear bud in his hand before switching them so it’ll be easier. Louis iPod lies across their legs, the shortness of the earphones leading to Harry and Louis’ heads being a lot closer than is ideal. They don’t say anything, simply in their own little worlds, humming along to the music. Which isn’t what’s really strange. Harry seems to know and like most of the songs. Making soft pleased hums whenever the next one starts playing. Don’t lead him on. So maybe Harry doesn’t just listen to banjos and washboards on vintage gramophones. Maybe he likes other things too. Maybe Louis should actually listen to the playlist Harry made him. He is extremely aware of the pen drive sitting in his pocket.

Don’t lead him on. Give him a God damned chance.

Time passes like that. Harry takes some book out of his bag and starts reading it as the notes wash over him, his mouth tilting softly upwards at the corners. Louis simply looks out the window, thinking. This wasn’t exactly the worst way to spend a break time. Give him a God damned chance. He’s still gonna kill Zayn though.

Suddenly a loud ringing interrupts Louis’ homicidal thoughts and the common room begins to clear out, teenagers groaning like a hoard of zombies. Harry smiles at him while Louis wraps his headphones around his iPod, as if expecting him to do something.

“Don’t suppose you know the rest of my timetable for the day?” Louis asks, just to break the somewhat uncomfortable silence.

Harry’s whole face flushes red, and he ducks his head, focusing all his attention on his feet as they scuff the carpet. “Double Drama then computing,” he admits, in a small voice.

Louis mouth falls open in shock. “How do you- never mind, I don’t want to know.”

He turns to leave but Harry’s head snaps up, looking at him hopefully. Give him a God damned chance. Louis pauses for all of two seconds before he’s pressing a chaste kiss on the corner of Harry’s plump lips, feeling rather than seeing Harry breakout into a smile. Louis hurries off to Drama before he can start worrying about the squirming in his stomach.

♡♡♡

Louis stares at his cheap, old phone for ten minutes before he plucks up the courage to call Harry. He’s been feeling weird ever since their encounter. It’s like, over that one conversation, Louis’ opinion on him changed. Which is just so cliché but. But it’s the first time he’s thought of Harry as something other than a hipster or a spoilt brat. He’d already proven that he isn’t spoilt. Just someone who happened to be born into wealth and knows that and doesn’t take advantage of that fact. And he likes other music. Mainstream music, or whatever. And he isn’t embarrassed about it and never actually criticises anyone for their own tastes and is overall just a lovely human being. Unlike Louis. So very much unlike Louis that’s he’s wondering if maybe opposites really do attract. He's a weird hippie-hipster-hybrid and completely one of a kind and should be treasured. Harry Styles is, as Zayn had put it, a nice guy. And Louis had never realised that. And he feels like a right dickhead. He feels ashamed and confused and, above all that, like the worst human being in the world.

Harry Styles is like a kitten. A kitten he punched in the face. Louis’ shit at metaphors.

But Harry’s affectionate and looking to be accepted and easily hurt. He likes people and tattoos and fashion and pastel colours and music and flowers, especially violets, and he paints his nails prettily and tries to be himself at all times. He also tries to please people too much, letting them walk all over him. Like Louis had. Louis is a horrible human being.

And he made Louis a playlist. Of songs that reminded him of Louis. And above all the sentimental implications, it was actually alright. It was all very sad and acoustic and indie and spoke of love and loss, everything he’d have expected Harry to like, but he, surprisingly, didn’t hate it. And for some reason, his conscience decided that he had to tell Harry that. And he’s nervous beyond belief.

The phone rings three times before Harry answers and there’s a slight pause before Harry’s husky, ”Hello?”

“Hey, Harry,” he sighs, defeated.

“Oh. Lou. Hi.” He pauses, and Louis’ nerves increase tenfold. ”That’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my first name.” and Louis feels incredibly ashamed to admit that it’s true.

The silence settles over them, and it’s even more unnerving when Louis can’t see what Harry’s doing.

“Can I help you with something?” Harry asks, monotonously.

“Oh.” Louis breaths.

“Not that I’m trying to get rid of you or anything,” he insists, tone panicked, “God, no, it’s just. You’ve never called me before. And you hardly even talk to me unless you have to or you have something mean to say and. Hi.” He finishes, defeated.

And Louis blurts the only thing running through his mind. “I actually liked your playlist. Like I genuinely liked it even though it was incredibly indie.” He hopes he’s not coming across as too rude.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, voice light and hopeful, “I hoped you would.”

Louis relaxes into his duvet, surprised at how easy it is to talk to Harry when he isn’t busy insulting him. “Yeah. Not a banjo in sight. Or sound, rather.”

Harry chuckles on the other end of the line. Louis feels encouraged

“I, um,” he starts, hoping to keep the conversation going for longer, “especially the last two songs by, erm-”

“By Paper Aeroplanes,” Harry fills in for him, “they’re one of my favourite.”

“Found it very enlightening,” he mutters, more to himself then to Harry.

“I could give you more of their songs if you’d like.”

And. They weren’t terrible. Louis could definitely bring himself to listen to some more. “Sure.”

Harry hesitates. He can practical hear Harry fish-mouthing, obviously steeling himself up to say something. Last time this happened, Louis got a kind of boyfriend out of it. He hopes he gets a second chance to earn that title. ”They’re here this weekend,” Harry finally gets out, ”Not here as in my house, obviously, here as in they have a gig in town,” He amends, laughing awkwardly.

“Oh?” Louis inquires, fairly sure he knows where this is going.

“Yeah.” He pauses again. Louis can hear him take a deep breath. ”Would you like to go with me?”

Louis cringes, going over the average price of gig tickets in his head. “I dunno, how much-”

“I’ll pay for it.” Harry insists.

Louis tenses. “I don’t need charity,” he growls.

“No,” Harry whispers, sounding horrified at the very notion. ”Of course not. But if I’m asking you out, then I’ll pay for the date, yeah? All conventional, like.”

Louis whistles, low and mock-impressed. “Date? Boy, you never give up, do you?”

“Do you want me to?” Harry asks, suddenly very solemn.

And if Louis’ ever gonna admit it, he supposes now is as good a time as any. “No.”

He can practically hear Harry’s answering smile. ”Then, no. I won’t.” They sit in comfortable silence, just listening to the other breath, and Louis suddenly feels like his in a teenage rom-com. Their little bubble is broken when he hears a muffles voice on Harry’s side of the line. ”I’ve gotta go, dinner’s ready.”

He puts on his very best posh accent – just an impression of Harry really. “Caviar and champagne?”

Harry cackles just how Louis has become accustomed to. ”Only the finest.”

Looks like he’s giving him a God damned chance. Zayn’ll be so proud of him.

♡♡♡

Louis is beyond nervous. And not like in a good way before an opening night of the school play or something. In the proper I know I’m gonna fuck up but I don’t wanna fuck up way. Like when you’re doing your exams or have a job interview or something. Long story shot: he’s really nervous. Zayn thinks he’s pathetic. His reassuring words of wisdom are don’t fuck up. Louis needs better friends.

He hasn’t spoken to Harry since the phone call, seeing as they didn’t have any English lessons for the rest of the week and he had to spend lunch doing some Law work, apparently. At least that’s what he texted Louis. And that’s the only way they’ve been communicating. Texting. Harry texted him the details of the gig, and even what sort of thing to wear, with his three signature kisses. Louis can’t help but read them as if Harry’s angry with him. As if these are passive aggressive messages and Louis can’t work out the meaning behind them.

And it makes him nervous, because he doesn’t know how Harry feels right now. He’s only just admitted that he cares how Harry feels and he hasn’t really had the opportunity to enjoy that. Enjoy kinda being with someone. He can’t fuck this up. Again.

Harry’s wearing a two flannel shirts. Not one, but two.

He’s standing outside the venue wearing red plaid, over purple, and his signature jeans and boots. He looks good. Stupid, but good at the same time. Louis wants to nibble on his collarbones. He wants to find out once and for all whether his tattoos are real. He should really teach the kid to do his shirt up properly, if only to save his sanity. Or maybe not. Either way. There’s no flower crown this time, which is good, considering what Louis’ got planned.

“I, um, brought you flowers,” he calls to Harry as he approaches him, brandishing the flowers in front of him like a sword. They’re nothing special, a bouquet of three violets - purple, white and blue - he got cheap because they’ve started wilting, but he doesn’t think Harry’ll mind. He’ll probably praise their beauty ‘til the last second. “I know you’ve got lots, like, all the time but it’s what you’re supposed to do for a, y’know, date.”

They’re stood opposite each other now, and Harry’s looking at him fondly. Louis feels underdressed but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. How could he ever have hated this boy? “A date?” Harry asks, voice soft and deep as usual.

Louis nods. “Yeah, a date.”

Harry takes the flowers from him with slightly shaking fingers - nails green and matching his eyes exactly - and it makes Louis feel calmer knowing he’s not the only one who’s nervous. “They’re beautiful, Lou,” he whispers in awe, “thank you.”

“They’re violets!” He says, rather stupidly seeing as Harry definitely knows that already. “Um, you said they were you favourite so I thought they’d be the safest choice. And I didn't know what colour you'd like best, so I got one of each of the kinds they had.” And, yep. He’s definitely blushing now.

Harry smiles sweetly at his rambling. “The purple ones mean modesty,” his says, fingers caressing the lilac petals and moving to each flower in turn. “Blue; faithfulness. White; let's take a chance on happiness.” And Louis is definitely blushing now. “I love them,” Harry says, sincerely. “Thank you.”

Harry smells the flowers, practically burying his face between the petals. He pulls back and beams at the alternative arts venue – as he insists it’s called – beside them, white letters on a black board spelling out who’s performing tonight. Then Harry kisses him, hard and amazing. Not just on the corner, not just a quick peck, but what Louis can only describe as a smooch.

“Thank you,” he whispers against Louis’ lips.

Louis hums. “What’re you thanking me for? It’s only been, like, a minute of the date. I haven’t even had a chance to woo you.”

Harry shrugs. “I'm a simple boy, me. It doesn't take much to make me happy.”

Louis smirks. “Just violets and Paper Aeroplanes?”

“Yep, just violets and Paper Aeroplanes,” Harry agrees. He kisses Louis on the cheek. “And you.”

Louis can’t help the smile that takes over his face. Why has he been such an idiot? “Oh, I'm not much, am I?”

Harry shoves his shoulder playfully. “Shut up, I’m trying to be sweet.”

“You should stick to bad jokes,” he tells Harry, pulling him into a hug, “you're better at that.”

The venue’s surprisingly fancy. Louis’d expected it to be a pub with a bunch of instruments shoved into the corner and several bands playing twenty minute slots while being ignored by the intoxicated people. But there’s a real stage spanning the width of the room and an open bar and people waiting to hear a band they like so, really, it’s quite nice.

Louis buys them drinks using his trusty fake ID, because he doesn’t think he could make it through the evening sober and honestly, he wants to know what Harry’s like when he’s drunk. Probably even more bubbly and touchy-feely than usual.

The place is surprisingly packed. Well, surprisingly from Louis’ perspective, according to Harry he was seriously concerned he wouldn’t even be able to get tickets so last minute. This is somewhat of a big deal then. At least for Harry it is, and that’s all that really matters. The boy is literally buzzing, sipping happily at his second glass of rosé – because of course Harry drinks fucking rosé at a concert – and repeatedly asking Louis what song he’s most excited for. And considering as he’s only heard two songs and knows neither of their names, the question always goes unanswered. The sound of excited chatter floats through the air with the music from the warm-up band filling in the spaces. He feels a little rude talking over their set, but they’re the sort of band even Harry hasn’t heard of, so he doesn’t really care.

Louis feels like he’s being too affectionate. He’s always been tactile, and Harry is too but. But he feels like he doesn’t have the right to, after being so cruel to Harry. After being such a stubborn prick. He feels like such an idiot. Because this thing with Harry could be brilliant, actually. It could be everything his sappy little heart has wanted, and everything his first and only boyfriend hadn’t given him. And Louis wonders why on earth Harry has stuck around for so long. Why he’s put up with Louis’ sarcasm and bitterness. Why he clung to Louis when he was nothing but horrible. Louis’ simultaneously concerned about Harry’s supposed taste in men and very thankful for it.

Also. Harry’s rather beautiful. Like, really fucking beautiful. Wild curls, lips stained red with wine and eyes the colour of Louis’ favourite jumper (now that he thinks about it, there may be nothing he wants more than for Harry to wear the aforementioned jumper). He’s just so pretty, is the thing. He’s probably the closest thing to a real-life Disney princess, and currently Louis feels a little bit more like Hans than he does Kristoff. He also thinks he’s seen Frozen a few too many times.

Harry is sexy and hot and cute and gorgeous and lovely, and he doesn’t know how he manages to be all of them. To be everything at once. Or how he can switch so seamlessly between the giggling man-child and what can only be described as a temptress. Harry is perfect. Louis always knew that – who doesn’t? – But now he can truly appreciate it. He feels like he’s allowed to. He feels like, with the way Harry’s looking at him, he wants him to. He also feels like he and Harry should probably talk. About- well, about all the shit that’s been going on and about what’s going on between them. And Louis needs to apologise otherwise he’s pretty sure he’ll spontaneously combust, he can already feel this nagging in the back of his mind whenever Harry gives him any sort of undeserved affection. Which is. All the time, really. Because Harry is a very touchy feely drunk. And Louis can’t breathe.

Just about the time when Harry starts actually hanging off of him, letting Louis weave the weary violets into his curls for safe keeping, there’s a big woop from the crowd when the main event – Paper Aeroplanes – walk on. A slight girl and scruffy guy both with acoustic guitars slung over their shoulders, flanked by a guy with a double bass and a girl with a violin. Louis can feels his eyes rolling of their own according. He can also feel Harry jumping excitedly beside him. He supposes that’s what important.

The songs are all sweet and technically great but Louis can’t really bring himself to listen properly. Harry seems enraptured by the notes washing over him, and Louis is enraptured by the furrow of Harry’s brow as he concentrates on the music. Enthralled by his deep, husky voice as he sings along and Louis needs to make sure this boy sings more often because it might officially be Louis’ favourite sound.

Then Harry’s turning to face him, beaming. “This is one of the songs on the playlist I made you,” he whispers, voice slightly hoarse from singing.

And Louis finally starts paying attention to something that isn’t Harry – only because Harry basically just asked him to – and he realises it is. This is a song Louis has heard before. Ten points to him.

And then he completely forgets about his points system because Harry’s wrapping his warm arms around Louis’ waist and nuzzling his face into Louis’ neck, pressing a soft kiss there. Things have certainly escalated quickly. But Harry doesn’t start to ravish him in the middle of the crowd. He does, however, softly sing the words of the song into the juncture between Louis’ neck and shoulder, sending a shiver down Louis’ spine.

The skies on fire

You look so good

Skies on fire

This rush of blood

My heart beats higher

‘Cause architects and artists

Build towers to admire

But you control the floodgates

And I’m on fire

They’re swaying a little to the music, even though it’s not really optimum for slow dancing. It’s feels like such a cliché moment. Louis loves cliché. Louis could have been enjoying moments like this for weeks now but he spent it being a douche to the sweetest boy he knows. His boy. He hopes beyond hope that Harry is his boy. They should really talk about this.

It’s one the strangest concerts he’s ever been to. It’s all very quiet and slow, unlike when he saw The Script or when he took Lottie to see Katy Perry. And it’s so unlike the pub gigs his been to, to see friends and things. It’s like everyone’s in on a joke that Louis doesn’t get, or like their one, big, happy, indie family. Louis feels very left out. But Harry. Harry seems to be having the time of his life, singing along with the rest of the crowd and swaying along to the music. They kiss in time with the chord progressions, fitting together like the overlapping melodies. The softness of the songs keep them from getting too heated, and Louis doesn’t remember ever enjoying just kissing before. Sweet lips and tentative caresses and gentle music and a warm boy in his arms. Everything is perfect.

“This is the best night of my life,” Harry whispers against his lips as the audience applaud the song that’s just ended.

Louis’ just glad he gets to be a part of it.

♡♡♡

The first thing Louis registers when he wakes up is that his head feels like it’s having its own personal earthquake. The second thing he registers is that he isn’t alone. This isn’t exactly a strange occurrence. He’ll frequently wake-up to one of his sisters curled up beside him and a face-full of blonde hair, but this morning he’s spitting out soft curls that smell like apples instead. Which. Right, Harry’s here. Harry’s broad, warm, distinctly naked, back pressed to Louis’ equally naked chest, curled up as if trying to make himself smaller to fit in Louis’ arms. He’s never been the big spoon before. It’s nice. Louis props himself up on his elbow, keeping his other arm securely wrapped around Harry’s waist, making sure he doesn’t accidently knock the sleeping boy of his tiny bed. Harry’s curls are a mess and there are petals squished into his hair and Louis’ pillow. He’s very pretty usually, but in sleep he is phenomenal. Sleep-soft skin and a serene smile pulling at his delicate lips. The only way he could be anymore breath-taking is if his moss-green eyes were visible too.

Harry’s here. Harry who pretty much lives in a fucking mansion with everything he’s ever needed is here in Louis’ tiny bedroom in their shabby home. And he feels suddenly, horribly self-conscious.  He bolts upright, somehow managing not to rouse Harry from his sleep.

Harry’s gonna take one look at his surroundings and turn his nose up at it. Except, why would he, Harry’s a sweetheart. Except, why wouldn’t he? Even Louis can’t stand the sight of it. Well, at least when he’s hung-over with the prospect of Harry’s ridicule, he can’t.

Then he realises the real issue should be why the hell is Harry fucking Styles in his bed, so he freaks out about that a little to. He doesn’t remember them getting home, and they’re both semi-naked, but he’s sure he wasn’t that drunk. They went to an alternative arts venue, for crying out loud, not a rave. And he trusts himself not to soil Harry’s virtue while drunk. Well, he trusts Harry not to let him.

“Morning,” a groggy, carful, deepdeepdeep voice murmurs from behind him as warm, gangly arms pull him to lie down again.

He goes willingly, settling himself on Harry’s chest. Being held by Harry is nice too. “Good morning.”

Louis tenses in Harry’s arms, waiting for Harry to comment on their surroundings, or ask why he’s in Louis’ room in the first place, or tell him that the past month has been a joke and he really does hate him.

“I like your The Fray poster,” is all he says, as he strokes a large palm down the length of Louis’ spine. He doesn’t seem to be recoiling in disgust at the sight of the small room or the pealing wallpaper, which is good, and he doesn’t seem to be running away either, which is reassuring. But Louis promised himself that’d they talk, so they’re gonna talk. Louis has no idea what he’s doing.

He clears his throat. “Harry, do you hate me?”

Harry’s hand freezes its ministrations and Louis can hear the genuine confusion in his voice. “Why would I hate you? How could I ever hate you?”

Louis scoffs, warm breath cascading over Harry’s skin. He can feel the boy shiver in response. “Oh, I’ve given you plenty of reason to,” he says, bitterly.

“What?” Harry asks, and Louis really can’t have this conversation in their current arrangement.

He sits up, but doesn’t turn to look at Harry. “I’m a dick to you, and you must be deluded if you can’t see that.”

“Of course I can,” Harry says, voice small. “It’s pretty hard to miss it.”

Which Louis knew, obviously, but the hurt in Harry’s voice hurts him in return. “Exactly. You should loath me.”

Harry reaches out a hand to stroke down his back again. “But I don’t.”

Louis groans in frustration, finally turning to the boy and knocking his hand off it the process. It’s the first time Louis’ got to properly look at him since he woke up and Harry’s hooded eyes have him literally floored. Louis doesn’t deserve him in the slightest. “I’m a pitiable arsehole without a nice bone in his body or a penny in his pocket.”

Harry scoffs. “I know you’re more than your fucking pocket money, Louis.” He lowers his voice. “I know you’re more than your callous behaviour. Cut yourself some slack.”

Louis has to look away from Harry’s too-big-too-honest eyes or he’ll start crying. “I don’t see why I should.”

“You’re not just a one trick pony, Louis,” he says forcefully, soft fingertips gently turning Louis’ head until their gazes meet again. “You’re not just wit and insults. Yes, I’m very aware of your mean streak. But I’m also very aware of your intelligence, and humour, and kind heart and loyalty.” Which. Certainly isn’t what Louis expected him to say. It’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to him. Louis doesn’t deserve him. “And people shouldn’t care about how much money you have,” Harry tacks on for good measure.

“You should,” Louis insists. “You’re loaded and shouldn’t be hanging around with the commoners.” He knows he’s being a right cunt, but he really can’t help it at this point.

“I don’t care if you’re not as rich as me-”

“Not rich at all,” he corrects, bitterly.

“It doesn’t change how I feel about you,” Harry insists. “It doesn’t define you. Well, only in the ways you let it. In the way you’re brave and responsible and clever, and have way more common sense than me and my money do. In how strong you are. In how caring you are. How resilient. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” He pulls Louis to him, pressing them together until there’s no space between them. Tangling them up in Louis’ worn sheets, whispering soothingly into his ear: It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You don’t have to feel guilty for your situation.

“Do I make you feel guilty for your situation?” Louis asks, softly.

“A little bit. Sometimes,” Harry admits softly.

He exhales shakily. “I’m so, so, sorry. So, unbelievably, sorry.” He’s whispering his apologies into Harry’s skin, hoping they’ll seeping in quicker that way. ”I like your music and you're stupid plaid shirts and your tattoos, and- and your flowers and your nail varnish and everything really, and I'm so, so, very, very sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Harry whispers back. And Louis almost wants to believe him.

“Why do you bother with me?”

“Because I like you,” Harry says, as if it’s completely ridiculous that Louis even asked.

Louis groans in frustration. “But, why?”

Harry pulls Louis closer into his chest, as if that’s exactly where he wants to keep him. “Because you’re special.”

Here Harry is, sleepy and soft with purple petals tangled in his hair, smiling and calling Louis special.

“I’m not,” Louis insists, turning to hide his face against Harry’s collarbones. “I’m rude and insensitive and probably insane.”

“I like insane.”

Louis wants to scream in frustration, he settles for joking. “You must be crazy, too, if you actually like someone like me.” He feels Harry’s laugh before he hears it, the deep sound resonating through him.

Carful fingers set about softly untangling the mess that is Louis’ bedhead and Louis has never felt safer or more inadequate. “Sometimes I wanna be like you.” He blurts. “Not the hipster thing, dear God no, but. You’re exactly who you want to be. I want that.” Louis’ whispering now, so quietly he’s not sure Harry can hear anything he’s saying. His soft hum assures Louis he can.

“It’s not that difficult,” he promises, “Just don’t overthink things or let people stop you being happy.”

He sighs against Harry’s skin, pressing a kiss there. “I guess I’m too scared to be anything other than the default setting.” And ok, this is getting a little too deep and overdramatic, even for Louis. And he can’t breathe.

“I’ll love you no matter what setting you’re on.”

I’ll love you no matter what setting you’re on.

I’ll love you.

If he couldn’t breathe before, there are no words to describe how he feels now. He feels like he doesn’t even have lungs to breathe with in the first place.

Louis sits up so quickly he feels dizzy, although that might be the not breathing thing, his eyes wide and desperately searching Harry’s face. He seems just as surprised as Louis feels but the peaceful smile upon his lips shows he doesn’t regret his admission. Which is. Undeniably, surprisingly, reassuring.

And, yeah. It’s definitely too soon for love declarations, but Harry isn’t taking it back and the confession makes Louis feel warm and tingly rather than panicked. He might not feel the same, yet, but he definitely feels he can get there, feels so very close to it anyway, and maybe Harry can tell. He doesn’t seem disappointed by Louis’ silence, and isn’t reassuring Louis that he doesn’t have to say it back. As usual, he’s calm and probably a little bit magic.

So Louis kisses him, because when else should you kiss someone you like other than when they just told you they love you? And it’s kind of completely perfect, and nothing could have prepared him for how easy it would be. How easy being with Harry actually is. He’s such an idiot.

“I’m such an idiot,” he whispers against Harry’s plump lips.

Harry chuckles, nibbling on Louis’ bottom lip. “I know. But I kinda love that about you,” he says between kisses, as if he’s trying to imbed the words in Louis’ lips so he’ll never forget.

♡♡♡

Zayn meets them for lunch on Monday with a look of surprise on his face. When he sees Harry’s hand in his, the matching love bites scattered over their necks and the white carnation - meaning sweet and lovely - tucked behind his ear, he smirks and says, “I see you took out the leader of the pack.”

Louis hates him. But he doesn’t hate Harry Styles. Not one bit.