Archive of Our Own

Harry Styles had been waiting for this day for three years. Now that it was here, he was suddenly unsure. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, checking the time on his phone. 7:28am. He had a few minutes to spare, if he was remembering it right.

Turning around in the bed, he stretched his muscles. Louis sniffled in his sleep next to him, burrowing into the pillow. Harry took a moment to study his features. He had them memorised, of course, but Harry didn't know how different he'd see them once he got back. 

If he'd feel any different, or if he'd still feel the same. 

It was an ugly sliver of doubt, one that Harry knew to shut down straight away.

Today was destined: it had already happened, and it was going to happen. It had led him here, and he would lead it here. 

It would be easier to wrap his head around, if Louis hadn't been so tight-lipped about the whole thing. 

“I don't know, Harry, you’ll know what to do when you're there,” he'd said, distracted as he typed away on his computer—fiddling with the latest hit tune he was writing, no doubt.

“But Louis, can't you tell me anything? Anything at all?” Harry whined. He’d woken up anxious that day, hair a mess and skin sticky with sweat. “What if I say the wrong thing and ruin everything? What if I break the Universe?”

Louis had sighed fondly, finally looking up from his work. “Come here,” he'd said softly, and Harry had moved to kneel in front of him. “There's nothing at all you could do or say that would stop us from happening, my love,” Louis had whispered as he carded his hands through Harry’s hair. “I know you know that.”

Pressing a gentle kiss to Harry’s forehead, he continued, “Stop worrying. Come have a shower with me, yeah?” 

Harry had smiled.

He tried now to remember the feeling of reassurance he'd felt that day, but all he felt was numb. 

“Louis,” he hissed, sitting up. His breaths quickened.

Louis stirred but didn't wake. 

“Louis, wake up. Please,” Harry wheezed out, hand pressed to his beating heart. Was it supposed to feel like this? 

Louis blinked awake and shot up, grabbing at his shoulder. “Harry? Is it happening?” 

Harry nodded, wide eyed. 

Louis smiled suddenly, brilliantly. “You're going to be great, darling. You'll see.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the sharp pain, his whole body squeezing and tightening. It felt like he was being ripped away from himself, torn in two.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his and Louis’ bedroom of four years. He was in a shed of some kind, a darkened and dusty room with maintenance equipment and old sporting goods. He rose to his feet shakily and pressed himself against the corrugated iron wall, peering out through a small crack. Outside he saw the familiar buildings of Doncaster Secondary School.

It had happened; he was here. The clock had started counting down now. 

He had two weeks to make Louis Tomlinson fall in love with him.

The autumn of Louis’ eighteenth year started much like every other; that is to say, it started before he even noticed. 

It felt like one minute it was summer and he was wrapping up his A-levels, and the next minute half of his friends were moving away for university and the other half were like him (stuck in a shit-arse job for even shittier-arse pay). 

Louis mused on the transient nature of time as he reshelved a Paddington Bear lunch box. It looked a little strange next to the Spiderman one, but he didn’t get paid to rearrange things. 

“Sorry, do you have any batteries here?”

Louis turned to face the customer with a bland smile on his face, then had to hide his double take under a cough. Because. 

Wow.

The man standing before him looked sleep-rumbled and a little stressed—frizzy haired, wide-eyed, shoulders lifting up to his ears—but he was also quite possibly the most beautiful person Louis had seen outside of a movie screen. He was dressed rather oddly in a bright jumper and bell-bottoms, and Louis was surprised to find himself spontaneously and immediately charmed.

“Uh…” Louis stuttered, feeling his cheeks start to warm. He never got to talk to anyone fit at this job; it was crusty grandmothers, screaming children, psychotic parents, and beer-stained weirdos all day long. He was totally unprepared for this. 

The man cracked a smile, like he knew what Louis was thinking. His shoulders relaxed and he laughed to himself under his breath. The sound was much too knowing for Louis’ tastes.

Well, then. 

Louis snapped himself out of it—no use drooling over someone who so clearly thought he was just a clueless chav, or worse yet, a kid . He might not get paid to be taken seriously, but he did have some dignity, thank you. 

“Batteries are a few aisles over, mate. I’ll show you,” he said, voice as robotically friendly as he could make it. 

“Sure, thank you–” the man said, trailing off as Louis walked away from him. 

He heard the man’s footsteps behind him, but he didn’t slow down until he was standing right in front of the batteries. 

“Here you go,” Louis grinned, pointing. “Right under the big red sign that says ‘batteries.’”

The man snorted good naturedly. It was an interesting reaction—it showed that he knew he was being made fun of, but didn’t mind in the slightest—and it gave Louis pause. 

“Anything else you need?” He wiped his hands on his jeans, then fiddled with the collar of his standard-issue Toys R Us t-shirt. 

“No, thank you,” the man said. The groove on his brow said otherwise, though. It was the kind of look customers got when they realised they’d asked too much already and didn’t dare ask more, even though they really wanted to. 

Louis sighed. “You sure, mate? Because–” he checked his watch, “–my shift ends in two minutes, and after that you’ve got Barry over there to reckon with.” Louis nodded over towards the till, where Barry was fast asleep on the counter. A harried-looking woman with a very full trolley was attempting to wake him, quite unsuccessfully. Louis squinted at the scene. “Should actually go–”

“No! Um. I did have another question?” 

Louis turned back to the man and folded his hands behind his back, ready to listen and hoping it was a simple, not-time-consuming request. He had a box of mac and cheese and a half-finished song idea sitting at home with his name on it.  

The man smiled at him, and if Louis didn’t know better he’d say he looked nervous. 

—But then he stepped closer, ran his fingers through his cropped, curly hair, and took a deep breath in, and Louis wasn’t so sure that he did know better after all. 

“I’m sort of new in town,” he started, glancing at the floor then back up at Louis’ eyes. It was such a simple action, but Louis was eighteen and he’d only ever snogged one bloke and it was utterly devastating, practically scratching up his insides, with eyebrows that expressive and pupils so green. “–And I was hoping you might know a good place to get some coffee?” 

Louis blinked. “Huh,” he said, smoothing his fringe down. It wasn’t an unusual question in and of itself, but he couldn’t help but feel… disappointed. It had really felt like he was about to be asked out, for a second there. 

But miracles didn’t happen in a town like Doncaster, and they certainly didn’t happen to Louis. Every scrap of good he had, he’d had to work for. And even then, he rarely got to keep them—too many sisters for that. But… his sisters weren’t here, were they?

“Might know a few,” he hedged. The woman at the till started screaming at a still-unconscious Barry, and somewhere further into the store a child was crying, but Louis’ shift was technically over and he wanted to have something for himself, for a change. 

And maybe that something happened to be a mid-twenties potential boyfriend with a voice like warm, smooth timber and a very bold fashion sense. 

“How about this.” Louis tried to do the thing—looking down at the floor, then into the man’s eyes—and he could tell from the slight smirk that blossomed on the man’s face that he didn’t manage to pull it off at all organically, but he forged ahead anyway. “I’ll take you to the best coffee shop in Donny, but you’ve gotta shout me a cuppa.”

Somehow, that managed to shock him.

Louis waited patiently for the surprise on the man’s face to fade away, resisting the temptation to cross his arms over his chest defensively. His brain was chanting an annoying loop of, please be into twinks please be into twinks, with a few added lines of, I’ll kick his fucking arse and smash his car windows if he’s a homophobic cunt and I read him all wrong. 

Louis liked to believe he’d actually do it, too. 

So, it was a blessing in more ways than one when the man’s surprise melted into joy, and he said, “That would be lovely, Louis,” because Louis didn’t want to have to prove himself wrong. 

“Sick,” Louis said, then, “it’s actually pronounced Lewis, sorry–”

The man frowned, and he looked so adorable when he was confused that Louis was tempted to do something drastic like squeeze his cheeks. 

“But… it’s spelt Louis,” he said, pointing to Louis’ nametag like it would grow a mouth and back him up. “The French way, yeah?”

The man looked between Louis and the tag, then briefly at the door, and Louis panicked a little bit. “You’re right! It is,” he agreed, “I just decided to go by Lewis, but you can call me whatever you fucking want, love.”

The man stared at him with poorly disguised glee. He presented Louis with his hand and an expression that warned of an incoming joke. “Hi, I’m Harry,” he said. He waited for Louis to carefully take his hand to lean closer and whisper, “It’s nice to meet you, Archibald.” 

The baby was still crying, and Barry was still asleep at the till, and Louis was still a directionless nobody, but when he laughed just then, it was loud enough to drown all of that out.

And so it went.

Some people will tell you that it's impossible to fall in love in two weeks.

Louis was inclined to agree with them. 

He didn’t fall in love with Harry over that first coffee, or over dinner the next day, or watching him choke on ice cream the day after that, or seeing him in his mum’s kitchen making Louis’ tea the way he liked it without ever being told how, or when he was kissing him and pressing his fingertips against Louis’ neck like he knew where every single vein in Louis’ body was. 

No; he didn’t fall in love with Harry. He just realised, as simply as breathing, that he had always been in love with Harry and he just hadn’t known it. 

Somehow, someway, that ridiculous man just seemed to fit him . The way he laughed sounded like every dream Louis had ever forgotten. The way he smiled at Louis when he didn’t think he was looking reminded Louis of a painting, of the light streaming through the stained glass windows of that Church his mum used to drag him to—like something beautiful that had been lingering at the edge of his memory, buried only by a thin layer of sand, gold shining through. 

Louis might have only been eighteen, but he knew fate when he saw it. 

When he felt it. 

Perhaps that was why, when Harry met him outside his work exactly two weeks after they’d first met, a sad smile on his face and a bouquet of even sadder tulips in his hands, Louis was willing to bet he knew exactly what he was going to say. 

He forwent a greeting, instead choosing to step up onto his tippy-toes so he could kiss Harry’s forehead. “C’mon, love,” he said, nodding towards his car. The steel grey of it matched the sky, which, in turn, matched the storm brewing in Harry’s eyes. 

Harry nodded and followed, pressing the bouquet into Louis’ hands as they walked. 

“Oh, these for me?” Louis asked, pretending he hadn’t known just for the way it made Harry crack a smile like he’d known it would, somehow. 

Harry crawled into the passenger seat without a word, and Louis frowned as he copied him. He looked so fragile, all folded up in Louis’ tiny car. Louis wasn’t used to it—Harry was larger than life (and larger than him, a little). Even when he was sitting perfectly still, there was a presence about him, an animation that reminded him of himself. But right now, he seemed diminished—though no less beautiful for it. 

Louis relaxed into the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind him with a soft snick. 

He mused about the underrated intimacy of vulnerability for as long as it took Harry to clear his throat and start speaking. 

“I have something important to tell you,” he rasped, staring directly downwards. 

Louis hummed encouragingly. He leaned between the seats to set the bouquet down in the back. He felt Harry’s hand touch his back gently, and then a moment later Harry’s forehead met his hip. Louis paused, still propped up awkwardly in the middle of the seats. His arm started to shake from the effort of holding himself up, but he didn’t dare move. Harry nuzzled further into his side, and Louis heard him breathe in deeply. 

It was the kind of thing that, if Harry had been anyone else at all—let alone anyone else he’d met a fortnight ago—Louis would push them away, laugh out something like, “Y’alright, there?” 

But… he couldn’t. 

They’d only slept together once—two nights ago, the best night of Louis’ life if he was honest—and it had been exactly like this: Harry drinking him in like he was a devout worshipper in the religion of Louis, like his skin was holy fucking wine. 

Objectively, it sounded uncomfortable. 

But uncomfortable wasn’t an emotion he’d felt around Harry, not since he’d learned his name that first day. 

Harry sighed, tickling Louis’ side, then retreated back into his seat. 

Louis did the same. He slowly clipped his seatbelt in. “Where do you wanna go?” he asked. 

Harry sent him a strange look as he started the engine. 

“Where d’you want to be, when you tell me whatever’s got you so in your head?” Louis clarified. He was glad to be driving, glad to be doing something with his hands. Something he was good at. 

“I don’t think–” Harry started, then paused. “Can you just drive for a while?” 

Louis nodded. He glanced at the rearview mirror, then the side mirrors. Traffic was pretty sparse this time of day.

“So, it’s sort of insane,” Harry said.

Louis laughed brightly, then pinched Harry in the thigh. “Try me.” 

Harry wrinkled his nose at him, but something in his shoulders loosened. “Dunno how to tell you, actually. That’s kind of the problem.” 

Louis smoothed his fingers over the spot on Harry’s leg he’d just pinched. “How bout I guess?” 

Harry rolled his head on the headrest lazily and raised his eyebrows. 

“Sassy!” Louis accused, scratching his nails on Harry’s jeans until Harry finally, finally, laughed for him and caught up his hand in his own. “Well, I’m about to impress the shit out of you, pal. I’ve got it all figured out.” 

Harry nodded, patting his hand condescendingly. “I’m sure you do, baby. Go on, then.” 

“Well, we’re soulmates, for a start.” The words flowed out of Louis’ mouth like the fact that they so clearly were. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, either; he’d announced as much to his mum and his sisters and his friends after his and Harry’s third date (Harry had made him laugh so hard he’d snorted beer out his nose, and Harry offered him a wide grin, a tissue, and a snog to make up for it). 

“That so?” Harry asked. It was the same tone you’d use if a child told you that the sun was a star. 

“Prick,” Louis chided. “Need me hand back for a mo, sorry.” 

Harry pouted at him for as long as it took to change gear. 

“See? You’re embarrassing. I should be embarrassed by you.” 

Harry scoffed.“You’re worse than me,”  

Louis shot him a grin. “Yeah.” 

Harry smiled back, then his smile faded. “So, we’re soulmates? That as far as you’ve gotten?” 

Louis rolled his eyes. “No, that’s the obvious part.” 

“Gotcha.” 

“The less obvious part–”

“Yes?”

“The really crazy part–”

“Uh-huh?” 

“Is that you already know me somehow.”

Harry fell deathly silent. 

“Haven’t got it all figured out, mind you,” Louis continued, “but I suspect alternative universes are involved somehow. Or past lives. Time travel?” 

Louis threw out each guess to no reaction, until Harry gasped at the last one. 

“No way!” Louis cried, shaking their joined hands. “Time travel?” 

Louis glanced at Harry for a moment and saw all the confirmation he’d ever need. 

“You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before, darling. Never seen that look on you.” 

Harry shook his head as if to clear it. He raised Louis’ hand to his face and pressed a kiss to the back of it. 

“Hope you don’t treat the older me like glass, you’d be in for it then,” Louis commented, still riding the high of being right. 

“I love you,” Harry said, like it made sense as a response to what Louis had said. 

“Fuck off,” Louis responded. “That’s cheating.” 

Harry frowned. Louis could tell he was about to ask why. 

“C’mon, then, how’s it work? D’you have a machine?” 

“A machine? No, of course not!” 

“What do you mean, of course not? How was I supposed to know?”

“You’re not! And neither am I!” Harry exploded. “That’s the one bloody thing I can’t answer.”

Louis’ brow creased.

Harry sighed, rubbing his thumb against Louis’ hand as if in apology. “When I met you–”

“In the future?” Louis guessed.

“In the future, yes,” Harry smiled, “you already knew me, but I didn’t know it at the time. Guess I’m just not as clever as you.” 

Louis tutted, but Harry ignored him. 

“You told me eventually, though. You knew when it would happen, I guess because… I told you, or. I will tell you.” 

“What, now?” Louis asked. 

“I suppose so. July 23rd—” 

Louis scowled. “I’ve changed my mind; time travel’s rubbish. I'm never gonna remember that."

Harry laughed. “You’re not wrong, it's a bit rubbish. Here," he wriggled his fingers into Louis' back pocket then fished out his phone, ignoring Louis’ giggles. "I'll make you a note. What’s your passcode?" 

"What do you think it is, Quantum Leap?" 

Harry made a face at him, then clicked at the number keys on Louis' phone. 

"Shit," he breathed, turning the screen to face Louis. "You're shit at cyber security."

"Oi," Louis warned. Distantly, he wondered if he was supposed to be creeped out by any of this. But then he looked at Harry, cursing under his breath and squinting at the screen as he tried to make a note, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. “So I’m destined to sweep you off your feet, then?” 

Harry chucked the phone back in Louis’ lap with a laugh. “Not exactly.” 

Louis shot him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean.” 

Harry turned to look out the window with a cryptic smile on his face. “You’ll find out.” The smile faded as quickly as it came, and Harry’s shoulders slumped. 

“What, there’s more?”

“Not really,” Harry said. “It’s just…” he shifted in his seat, turning so he could face Louis. He spent a few moments just staring at him, and Louis wondered what he saw that had him looking so starry-eyed. Was it the floppy brown fringe, the soft smoothness of his cheeks, the delicate way his wrist moved as he changed gear, the pouch of his stomach, the acres of bare skin on his arms? Maybe it was something else. Something Louis couldn’t see. 

Harry sighed wistfully. “You’re so beautiful like this, Louis. I’m glad I got to witness it.” 

Louis’ skin started to feel itchy. He didn’t look directly at Harry’s expression, but he could tell it was doing something too much. “When do you leave?” he asked. It was the question that had most scared him, when he’d been thinking about this late at night. There wasn’t a right answer, was the thing; if he got to keep Harry now, then he wouldn’t get to have him later. No matter what, he lost. 

“Soon,” Harry said, then he cursed and grabbed his head. “Shit, now.” 

Louis almost swerved. “Fuck! Really?”

Harry nodded once, fingers clutching his hair and gripping tight. 

Louis hastily pulled over and threw off his seatbelt. “Harry? What do I do?” He grabbed Harry’s hands so he could see his face. 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, lip caught between his teeth. He didn’t answer Louis’ question, which was answer enough. 

“How long will it be, baby?” Louis asked, tender and frantic. He cupped Harry’s face, almost recoiling at the way his skin felt—alive, shifting; static, like he was all charged up. “Please, tell me–”

Harry opened his eyes. All Louis saw was green, and unshed tears, and then he saw the black faux-leather of his passenger side seat and the empty street out the window. 

Harry was gone. 

“Shit.” Louis thumped the wheel, then he did it again. “Fuck!” 

The fight left him after that, and he pressed his hands to his face. The car still felt warm, like Harry’s heat had yet to leave. Louis fixed his fringe and picked up his phone with shaky fingers. 

The note Harry had made was still open. Louis was tempted to throw the phone out the window into oncoming traffic when he saw what it said.

July 23rd, 2019. 

Ten fucking years. 

Louis hadn’t ever been good at waiting.

So, it was a cruel and unusual twist of fate for him to have to do it for somewhere between a week and a decade. He knew that he and Harry had been together for quite some time before Harry travelled into the past, but that made it worse somehow—to have to wait for something so important, but not know when it would happen.

He tried learning, at first; patient steps, day by day. 

He joined a band, because Harry had gotten this look in his eye when he’d found Louis’ pile of half-written songs on his desk—a look of recognition, excitement, and pride.

It made him feel like he was doing something to find him, something more than staring at the aisles in that fucking Toys R Us like Harry was just going to appear from around the corner asking for batteries again. 

The band was a shitshow, though. Louis learned a lesson on the day they split up, a lesson that he wasn’t likely to ever forget. He was standing in the matchbox-sixed apartment he’d rented in Manchester, looking at the boxes crammed into his living room/bedroom/kitchen. He was freezing in just a pair of boxers and some socks, and he was listening to the dial tone of his mobile, and he was still in shock that he’d uprooted his life for a dream that three other wankers had chosen to give up on. 

And what he learned was thus: 

Sometimes the choices we make when we’re holding out for something better aren’t the best ones, maybe. 

So Louis had thrown a strop, got wildly drunk for a week, burnt half his savings, and got the fuck over it. 

He landed himself a job at a record studio fetching coffees for conceited pricks, and he upgraded to a better flat the second he could, and then he upgraded again to a worse flat, but in London this time. He learned how to look after himself. He had honest conversations with his mum about that one time he’d hallucinated a time-travelling boyfriend. He bought a pot plant for his windowsill. 

And he wrote songs. 

And sometimes, he got paid for it. 

So it went. 

It happened when he least expected it, as these things tend to do. 

It was half past seven, and Louis was in line at the corner store. He was dressed in sweatpants, a beanie, and a crop top (it had looked like a normal-sized shirt when he’d grabbed it in a hurry), and he was out of smokes. 

It was a lethal combination. 

His eyes just happened to pass over to the street. He saw a small crowd gathering—ten people or so. Louis squinted and peered closer, trying to work out what all the fuss was about. Then, he froze. 

Because for a moment there, he swore he’d seen–

“Can I help you, sir?” 

Louis jolted, looking wildly between the cashier and the street. 

“Um—shit, sorry–” he said, throwing the packet of crisps he’d grabbed onto the counter and sprinting out the door. 

He was too late, the crowd was dispersing. Young girls and boys were giggling to themselves excitedly, and they were saying things like, I can’t believe it was him! And He’s so handsome in person! And Louis was right there with them, because. He was there. He was right there, ten metres away from Louis, being shepherded by an angry looking security guard into a sleek black car. 

“Oi!” Louis called. 

Harry turned for a moment, just long enough for Louis to really look at him. He looked so young; distant and frightened, like a deer. His hair was longer than Louis remembered, brushing the collar of his tan coat. His lips were pink, and his eyes were still green, and they focused on Louis for the length of a heartbeat before he was pushed into the car. 

The security guard hopped into the front seat, and then the car was speeding off. 

Louis stood there in shock, staring after it. 

Two of the kids walked past him, gawking at each other’s phone screens. Louis jumped into their path. 

“Hey! Sorry, sorry, but, um. Could you tell me who that was?” Louis tried to look a normal amount of interested in their answer, but he could tell from the look they sent each other that he hadn’t pulled it off. 

“He’s a singer,” one of them said. “Harry Styles? Heard of him?” 

Louis laughed, then covered his mouth with his hands. 

“Yes, actually,” he answered, but they were already backing away from him. “I fucking have.” 

Shit. 

Harry Styles. 

Always-on-the-radio, pride-of-Britain, everyone’s-in-love-with-him Harry Fucking Styles. 

He’d been a simple google search away for at least two years now, and Louis. Louis marched back into the corner store, because he’d be damned if he was even going to try and deal with this without his smokes. 

And his packet of crisps. 

It was as if Louis had set something into motion that day; he started seeing Harry everywhere he went. 

There he was on a magazine cover, looking incredibly uncomfortable next to some random Victoria Secret model. 

And there he was again, popping up on Louis’ Spotify recommended. 

Heard of him? Spotify asked. This one? With the warm-smooth-timber voice? This one, the one that ate you out when you were eighteen years old like he wanted to drown in you? That one? Have you fucking heard of him?

Louis listened to every single song. 

And he found himself saddened by most of it. 

It was clear that Harry wasn’t singing from the heart—Louis could hear it in his voice—and a simple check of the writers of his first (admittedly, quite catchy) rock-pop album told Louis all he needed to know about the kind of creative team Harry was working with. 

Louis watched things, as well: concert videos and interviews, everything he could get his desperate little hands on. 

He found himself staying up late every night, obsessing over a few pixels that came together to make a picture—a picture of the love of his fucking life—and filled with equal parts anger and hope. 

“I’ll write you a better one, love,” he said to the tiny Harry on his screen, sitting on a stool and singing some Ed Sheeran nonsense about British showers and holes in polos. “Anything you want. I’ll write it for you.” 

But tiny Harry hadn’t responded, because he had no idea who Louis was yet. And also because he was a shitty concert recording. 

Six months. 

It took six months of sucking up to his boss and his current client (though the latter wasn’t exactly a hardship; Zayn was a wicked lad). It was six months of working his arse off on a project—Zayn’s third album, a masterpiece combination of queer RnB, acoustic folk, and his desi heritage—for Louis to get himself here: the album release party, the guest list of which included one Harry Styles. 

But as he was standing in the corner, hunched next to an unnecessarily extravagant potted plant, looking around the room, he felt more like vomiting than doing a victory lap. 

Everyone was dressed in their very best—nothing but designer—and Louis was sweating through his borrowed blazer. 

He’d rolled up the cuffs of his jeans because Harry liked his ankles and he’d left his hair down, swooping across his face even though he’d really wanted to style it, because Harry liked to run his fingers through it. 

But Harry was over there, wearing the brightest suit in the whole fucking room—shining like the sun, shaking hands and laughing like he belonged there, with a crowd of white-toothed rich fuckers who only gave a shit about what he had to say because he was famous. 

And he couldn’t give less of a shit about Louis’ ankles or his fringe. 

Louis allowed himself exactly two more seconds of wallowing, then pushed himself away from the wall. Just because Harry had had the easy side of the deal— why can’t I just go up to him and ask him where the batteries are, everything would be so much simpler— didn’t mean Louis was a quitter. 

Everything he had, he’d gotten for himself. Of course this would be the same. 

Of course. 

“Tommo!” 

Louis turned, eyes scanning over the crowd until they landed on Zayn. 

“Malik!” Louis called back, glad to see his friend. “Congratulations on the turnout!” 

Zayn rolled his eyes and pulled him on for a hug. “Yeah, coz I invited all these cunts myself,” he whispered under his breath. 

Louis snorted and patted him on the back. “Gotta say, you’ve got terrible taste.” 

Zayn pulled back and whacked him in the shoulder. “I’m going to fire you.” 

Louis rolled his eyes. “You can try. But I’ll be back at album four, ringing your doorbell relentlessly ‘til you let me write for you again.” 

“Or…”  Zayn drawled, slinging his arm over Louis’ shoulder and leading him towards the open bar (and towards Harry, Louis noted). “You could finally take my advice and write for yourself, for a change.” 

Louis huffed. “This, again.”

“This, always,” Zayn replied easily. 

Louis was about to tell him off when someone cleared their throat behind them. 

Zayn swung them both around, Louis giggling and clutching at the hand around his shoulder so he didn’t lose his balance. The giggle died in his throat when he saw who it was. 

“Hi, mate,” Harry said. His suit was too bright this close, iridescent and illegally beautiful. He upstaged everyone, no competition; sort of rude, it being Zayn’s party and all. “Congratulations! The album sounds sick.” 

Harry was grinning at Zayn, and Zayn was smiling back in that vacant way of his, and Louis might as well be invisible as far as Harry was concerned. He hadn’t so much as glanced at him, and suddenly Louis was violently angry. Six fucking years. Six fucking years. For a man he’d almost convinced himself he’d made up. 

“Thanks,” Zayn was saying, and Louis could only barely hear him over the rushing in his ears. “It’s all thanks to my team, I couldn’t have realised any of my ideas without them. Have you met Louis? He’s one of my writers.” Zayn nodded his head towards Louis and patted his shoulder firmly—Louis could tell it was a way to shift the focus of the conversation away from himself, and in any other situation he wouldn’t have minded. 

Harry’s gaze travelled over to Louis lazily, a politely-interested smile on his face. It was a stab in the guts, to see Harry look at him like that. 

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Harry’s words said, but his tone said, I couldn’t care less. He presented his palm to shake, and Louis had a wild fantasy. 

It involved slapping Harry’s palm away, kneeing him in the balls, shouting six years, you cunt! At him, then fleeing into the night. 

Then Harry blinked his lovely green eyes, still waiting for Louis to shake his hand, and Louis had another fantasy. This one involved sweeping Harry into his arms and kissing him until they both ran out of oxygen and suffocated. 

“Louis?” Zayn asked, retreating a little so he could look into Louis’ face. 

Harry was still standing there like the main character of a Kinks song, hand hovering in the air and smiling politely. 

Shake the plastic man’s hand, Louis’ mind prodded. 

“Uh,” Louis said. “Yeah. Um. I love your suit. Fuck.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at him. His hand started to droop a little. 

Louis caught it before he could, but the instant their palms met and that familiar frisson passed over his body— loveofmylife, soulmate, safesafesafe— he jerked back. 

“Nope! I need a smoke,” he announced. 

Zayn looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Harry’s brow wrinkled, and he stared down at his hand like the answer to Louis’ strange behaviour was written in his love line (which, to be honest, wasn’t far from the truth). The last thing Louis saw before he took off towards the balcony was Harry rub his hand onto his expensive trousers, erasing Louis’ touch. 

“Shit,” Louis cursed, pushing through the crowd without care. “Fuck.”

He burst out onto the balcony, then collapsed onto the railing. He closed his eyes as he felt the ice-cold breeze caress his cheeks. 

His heart rate started to slow the longer he stood there, breathing in and out. After about a minute of that, he started patting his pockets down. 

“Hey.” 

Louis looked up, paused halfway through pulling his smoked out of his blazer. Zayn settled next to him, leaning back against the railing and crossing his ankles. 

Louis offered him a cigarette in greeting, and Zayn took it with a smile. 

Louis turned so he could lean beside Zayn, lighting his cigarette with an expert flick of his wrist, then throwing the lighter in Zayn’s direction, trusting him to catch it. 

“So, that Harry Styles, huh,” Zayn said, tiptoeing around the topic like the kind-hearted soul he was. “He’s very…” he frowned, trailing off. He waved his hand through the air vaguely, making a face that Louis interpreted as, floating up to the ceiling. 

"He's a rockstar," Louis admitted, taking a drag and watching Harry through the grand glass doors as he flitted about shaking hands and kissing cheeks. You wouldn’t know from looking at him that a stranger had just sworn in his face and stormed off—perhaps Harry had already forgotten about him, Louis mused. The glitter of his suit glinted in the light, even from this far away. Louis turned back to Zayn as he tapped the ash of his cigarette off the edge of the balcony delicately. He blew out the smoke with a devilish upturn to his lips, daring to feel smug even after the disaster he’d been so far. "And he's mine."

Zayn squinted at him dubiously. "Really, mate? Not to question your sanity or anything, but it seemed to me like he had no idea who you are."

Louis swallowed his hurt with cigarette smoke. "He will."

As the promise left his lips, Louis shoulders relaxed. He threw his head back and laughed on an exhale, blowing smoke up into the sky. 

Because it was fucking true, wasn’t it?

What the fuck was Louis so worried about?

He wasn’t going to fuck this up, because he already hadn’t. 

“There weed in these?” Zayn asked, peering at his cigarette.

Louis shook his head. “I’m high on fate, darling,” he purred. 

Zayn nodded and took another drag. “Fair enough. Here,” he shoved his hand into his jean pocket—tight enough to cut off circulation, those were—and fished out a scrap of paper. “Rockstar over there gave me this. ‘S for you.” 

Louis frowned and snatched it. It was a business card for some random Sony exec. Louis tilted his head, then flipped it over. 

A smile bloomed across his face when he saw the string of numbers scrawled across the back. 

“He said you seemed familiar, asked me if he’d pissed you off or something. I made up some shit about you being bad at crowds, don’t worry,” Zayn was saying, but Louis couldn’t look away from the numbers. “And I told him how good a songwriter you are, and he got this weird look on his face like–” Zayn scrunched up his nose and raised his eyebrows, “–and he said he was in the market for one of those, and he was scribbling that down before I could tell him what a pain in the arse you are.” 

A peel of laughter bubbled up out of Louis before he could stop it. 

“Mate, you’re the fucking best,” Louis said. 

Zayn took another drag and shrugged, but there was a definite lift to his lips. He wasn’t fooling anyone. 

Louis rubbed his thumb over the numbers gently, then wiggled his eyebrows in Zayn’s direction. “Guess I better call him.” 

“What, now?” Zayn asked, accidentally blowing smoke into Louis’ face. 

Louis nodded decisively, dropping the butt of his cigarette. He crushed it under his heel as he pulled out his phone, and ignored Zayn’s confused sputtering for as long as it took to punch the numbers in. 

He pressed his phone to his ear and listened to it ring. He watched Harry through the door as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, frowned, and said something to excuse himself from his many admirers. 

“Hello?”

Louis heard the word in his ear a second after he saw Harry’s lips move. 

“Hiya,” Louis chirped, flashing a grin at Zayn, who was shaking his head. “Is this Scott Bakula?” 

There was silence on the other end, and Louis watched Harry pull the phone away from his ear, squint at the screen, then put it back up to his face. “No? This is Harry.” 

“Harry, hm?” Louis bit his lip to contain his grin. “Guess you’ll have to do.” 

Harry laughed—a bright, surprised sound—and he looked up. His eyes searched the crowd of the room, then they met Louis’ through the glass door.

Louis raised his hand and wiggled his fingers at Harry. 

“Louis, right?” Harry asked, waving back just as cutely. 

“Love, you can call me whatever the fuck you want,” Louis replied. 

Zayn groaned next to him, collapsing back against the balcony. “Harry, don’t hire him!” he yelled in the direction of Louis’ phone. “He’s the worst–”

Louis shoved a hand over Zayn’s mouth as Harry giggled in his ear. 

“I don’t know, I think he’s kind of cute, actually,” Harry replied. 

Louis shoved at Zayn’s shoulder. “Hah! He thinks I’m cute, you prick.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, you weren’t meant to hear that,” Harry said in his ear, cheek shining through. 

Louis had missed him so fucking much. 

“Too bad. Can’t get rid of me now.” He smiled at Harry, who’d managed to halve the distance between them while Louis was distracted. Harry smiled back, dodging waiters and studio execs and champagne-glass-holding heiresses as he made his way towards Louis. “I’ve got your number, Harry Styles.” 

Harry laughed softly, and then he was there, the other side of those ridiculous glass doors. He paused, staring at Louis with a quizzical expression on his face. 

“Do I know you, Louis?” he asked. Louis bit his lip to stop himself from letting out an involuntary pained noise. He knew exactly what Harry was feeling in that moment—confused and happy, like the world was spinning too quickly to get your bearings but you were having too much fun to ask it to stop. 

When Louis answered, he heard something in his voice he hadn’t heard in six years: a part of himself that had been sitting in the corner of his brain, gathering dust but no less gold underneath. “Not yet,” he said, and he smiled at Harry tenderly; lovingly. 

Something clicked into place in Harry’s expression, and pulled the phone away from his ear and tucked it into his pocket. 

He smiled back at Louis. 

And he pushed the door open. 

Harry collapsed back into the soft sheets of his and Louis' bed. "Ow."

Louis laughed next to him, fingers already buried in his hair. Harry hummed and nuzzled into his side.

"How'd it go, love?" he heard Louis ask. 

"Wonderful," Harry sighed, then he paused, remembering how long it had been since he'd been in this Louis' arms. "Let me look at you!"

He threw himself at Louis, and they tumbled back down into the bed, Harry propped up above a giggling Louis. “Oh, thank God. You’re still beautiful.” 

“Oi!” Louis wrapped his arms around Harry and scratched his back just enough to make Harry shiver. 

Harry sighed, eyes flickering over Louis’ features—the red-brown scruff, the new freckles on his cheeks from too many days out in the LA sun, and the still-same blue of his eyes—and he found himself feeling guilty. 

“What is it, darling?” Louis asked, smoothing the crease in Harry’s brow away with his thumb. 

Harry shifted down the bed, laying his head on Louis’ sternum and closing his eyes. “What happens to him? I mean, to you? Were you alright, after–”

Louis laughed under his breath, drawing shapes in Harry’s scalp with his fingers. “Not really, for a bit there. But then I was, for a long time. And then I wasn’t again, and then—well, you remember the rest.”

Harry turned his face into Louis’ chest. 

“Baby, don’t be like that,” Louis tsked, tugging on Harry’s hair. Harry let himself be pulled, propping himself on his elbow so Louis could look into his eyes. “Wasn’t it worth it, to get us here?” 

Harry let out a breath, allowing himself to smile—a proper smile, no holds barred. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “I reckon it was.”

The end.