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Louis takes a long, listless sip of his pina colada. As the first hit of too-sugary pineapple flavouring hits his tastebuds, he grimaces a little. Of course the cheap Spain holiday package couldn’t even get them real fruit juice in their cocktails. Typical. He narrows his eyes and focuses intently on the way the liquid travels up the swirls and loops of the bright pink straw, twirls the garish little toothpick umbrella with the tips of his fingers. Tries, and fails, to block out the insufferable nasal chatter of his three companions.
Not for the first time, he regrets ever agreeing to come on this trip.
Technically Briana’s honeymoon, it ended up as a sort of girls’ getaway when, not six hours after the ceremony, the newlywed in question spotted a smudge of someone else’s lipstick on her brand new husband’s cock. Cheryl and Lucie, Briana’s bridesmaids, had suggested that they leave Michael to think about his actions while they reap the benefits of the honeymoon, and as the group’s long-suffering designated gay best friend, Louis had been dragged along as well.
The only thing giving him solace in this hell on earth is the fact that he alone knows the identity of Briana’s husband’s lover.
For some godforsaken reason, Briana had decided it would be fun and not at all trashy to spend the entire afternoon in the dingy little bar next to the pool, and as it has been for the last six years, the only thing the girls seem capable of talking to Louis about is how he ought to be more fun, more exciting. Which Louis is certain is just their way of trying to get him to start calling them all “queen” and telling them to slay.
The irony of the girls who used to dare each other to shout slurs at him when he was sixteen practically begging him to be gayer for the benefit of their vanity at twenty-four is never lost on Louis.
Headache pounding, he shoves his chair back and stands up abruptly.
“You know what? How about I go get us some more drinks, yeah?” He turns away without waiting for an answer.
Louis has absolutely no intention of getting some more drinks.
When he reaches the bar, he gives the bartender a pained look and she returns it with a sympathetic nod, juts her thumb towards a door marked ‘Employees Only.’
“Down the hall, there’s an emergency exit,” she whispers.
Louis gives her a grateful look, and pushes the door open.
. . . . .
Having finally escaped the trio from hell, Louis settles down between silent strangers at a large round table in one of the resort’s two late-night all-you-can-eat restaurants. Grateful for the momentary reprieve from inane conversation, he digs into his plate, piled high with decidedly un-tropical pub-style foods.
After a few minutes of valiantly battling his huge parmigiana, he starts to get an odd prickling feeling on the back of his neck, like someone’s watching him. He looks to his left and right, his tablemates oblivious to his confusion.
Eyes narrowed, but not wanting to sacrifice his dinner over a little paranoia, he slowly lifts his fork once again.
“Are you Louis Tomlinson?” a voice cuts in abruptly.
Louis startles and turns, meeting the eyes of the man sitting at the table behind him, his own body twisted round to lean right into Louis’ space.
He’s gorgeous, long curly hair framing his wide features. He’s also wearing the most offensively bold clothes Louis has ever seen, including at this very resort, which is populated equally by young trashy binge drinkers like Briana, and middle aged holidaymakers in tacky matching Hawaiian shirts. Somehow the man’s floral yellow ensemble manages to only highlight his physique, and theres a modest little string of pearls draped over his toned chest.
Louis might be a little in awe.
“No,” he barks reflexively.
“Yes, you are,” the man retorts.
“What? Why?”
Curls-and-Pearls bites his lip, smiling.
“You just are! I know you, we went to school together.”
Wait. Curls-and-Pearls is looking awfully familiar now. Louis racks his brain, visualising him with shorter hair, rounder cheeks, skinny little arms…
“It’s me, Harry Styles! From two years below?” Curls - no, Harry, is grinning widely now. “You married now?”
Louis is utterly lost.
“Sorry, what? No? Why would you think that?”
“Well, you said you weren’t Louis Tomlinson, thought you might’ve taken your husband’s name or something.”
If he had any of his usual mental faculties, Louis might be obsessively examining why Harry had just guessed his sexuality with absolutely no trace of a doubt. As it is, he’s just barely processing “hot guy is talking to me” and “hot guy knows me??”
“So did you change your name, or?” Harry presses.
“Uh, no,” Louis fumbles, “I just- just panicked. I’m not married, and I didn’t change my name. Just not used to people recognising me in cheap Spanish resorts, I guess.”
Harry is seemingly unfazed by Louis’ stunned awkwardness. It’s at that moment that the woman to Louis’ left gets up, and Harry is quick to slide into her abandoned chair and turn his entire body to face Louis.
“So you’re here for, what, a summer fling or something?” Harry asks conspiratorially. “A good time? You’re wicked, aren’t you? You’ll have to stick with me, Louis, I’m wicked too. My whole life is just one last fling after another, at least until I find Mr. Right.” He winks.
Louis raises his eyebrows.
Harry holds a grin for a second before his mouth shifts into a cartoonish ‘O’.
“Louis!” he exclaims. “You should do a number with me for that Star Search thing they’re doing! My friend Nick was telling me all about it when he went here last year, so I brought my own costumes and everything - I even have a spare for you!”
Louis waves his hands hurriedly, head shaking so fast his vision blurs.
“No, no, no, I’m not doing any of that. It’s tacky and awful.”
Harry pouts.
“But I was going to do ABBA. Don’t you want to be my Agnetha?” he whines.
“No.” Louis says it firmly, but he can feel his resolve eroding away. “I do love ABBA…but I wouldn’t do it. I’d love to see you perform, though. By yourself,” he stresses.
Harry gives him a knowing look.
“Mmhmm. Alright. Don’t think I won’t be asking you to join me again, though. I’m a pretty persistent gal.”
Louis bites his lip to hide his traitorous grin.
“Come on!” Harry gets up abruptly, tugging at Louis’ arm and flicking his head to the half-empty dance floor. “We should practice our choreography!”
Louis plants himself firmly in his seat.
“No, no. I’m not dancing with you, Harry. Not tonight, not for the competition -”
“Please?” Harry levels his wide green eyes onto Louis, doing his best imitation of a dairy cow. It’s ridiculously endearing.
Louis keeps his face blank. Harry pouts, then sighs.
“Well I ought to practice anyway. Would you watch me?”
Louis concedes and moves his chair to the edge of the dance floor reluctantly.
He watches with amusement as Harry chooses a spot to call his, spreads his feet shoulder-width apart, and takes his first pose. The minutes fly past in fits of giggles from both parties as Harry tries to demonstrate to Louis the basic moves of his routine, but keeps stumbling over his own feet and getting thrown off by the changing beat of whatever horrid “tropical” remix of a horrid pop song the DJ has decided to torture them with.
Once Harry’s run through it a few times his movements get more fluid and balanced, and Louis finds his own muscles twitching slightly as he follows the choreography in his head. When he decides he’s satisfied, Harry takes a sweeping bow and Louis applauds him dutifully.
“That was one of the gayest things I’ve ever seen, which might not be saying much - but take my word for it Harry, it was incredible. You’ll blow everyone away.”
Harry giggles, coming right up to the lone chair, so close Louis can see the sheen of sweat on his brow where a few wayward curls are plastered, and the way his exposed chest moves with each exertion-heavy breath. He snaps his eyes back up to the beaming face hovering in front of his.
“Just wait till you see me in drag,” Harry practically vibrates with excitement.
A scary-looking woman gives them both a dirty look as she walks past, sending the two men back into childish giggles.
. . . . .
Louis didn’t dare to expect that the fun he’d had with Harry last night could be counted on to continue and brighten up the rest of his trip. He’d reminded himself just that morning not to get his hopes up, that someone as vibrant and exciting as Harry was bound to be spending time with all sorts of different people at the resort, people far more interesting than Louis. But.
Against all odds, Harry had spotted Louis immediately as soon as he walked into the brunch buffet, dimpled megawatt smile lighting up his face and banishing all Louis’ doubts. As he inspects a suspiciously stale piece of toast, Louis can’t help but suppress yet another involuntary smile before his dining companion notices his frankly ridiculous little infatuation.
Harry plucks a few cherry tomatoes out of the salad bar with a pair of long tongs, inspecting them closely before dropping them onto his plate.
“How hard d’you think it is for them to just…put a little quinoa dish in here? Or even just some pine nuts or something? It’s no wonder nobody’s eating the salad, all they have are the basics,” Harry scoffs.
Louis rolls his eyes and pointedly dishes himself a generous helping of pancakes from the opposite station.
“Yeah, can’t imagine having a salad without any activated organic walnut bliss balls,” he deadpans.
Harry sticks out his tongue.
They weave through the myriad of tables to find one empty, put their trays down side by side.
They eat in comfortable silence for a while, before Louis starts to get an itching feeling in his head. He knows this is all bound to end at some point, and he can’t shake the urge to give Harry the whole truth. Show him just how pathetic he is, give him the chance to find someone more exciting to invite dancing. He takes a breath.
“D'you remember Briana? She got married to Michael not long ago.” Louis says casually, mopping up a puddle of maple syrup with a piece of pancake. Best to test the waters before revealing the real reason for his vacation.
Harry shoots Louis a pained grimace.
“Strauss? Oh I remember them…what a pair of twats. They deserve each other.”
He shakes his head quickly, curls bouncing in a sweet contrast to his clear distress.
“Honestly, Louis, I try to be kind to everyone, no matter what, but whenever I think about how revolting Doncaster was, I can’t help but think about Briana and her idiot friends. They made my life hell.”
Louis nods in sympathy. He remembers Harry being picked on for his bright nail varnishes, his long curls, his cherry-pink lips. He realises with a shameful jolt that all those memories were foregrounded by Louis himself turning a blind eye, deciding to pare down his own undesirably flamboyant traits instead of defending the younger boy. He turns away abruptly, plays with his thumbs. Tries to avoid looking directly at Harry.
Of course, Harry can’t help but demand to be looked at, simply by being.
“D’you ever dream about what you’d say to them if you saw them now?” he muses, head dangerously close to Louis.
Louis squeezes his eyes shut. He has to do it. Just like ripping off a bandaid. He clears his throat.
“I do see them now. They’re over there.”
Harry turns to look at where Louis’ tentatively raised finger is pointing. He gasps. It’s so needlessly dramatic that Louis nearly breaks out into giggles.
“What? Oh my god. What are they doing here? Louis!” he rambles, eyes darting around and hands fiddling with nervous energy.
“Ok, well, um. Technically I’m here with them. Not because I want to be, just - well, she paid for my ticket, so. Well. She seems to think I’m her little gay accessory?” Louis phrases it like a question.
Harry blinks, mouth hanging open slightly.
“They’re here on Briana’s honeymoon. Michael couldn’t come.” Louis finishes with a crooked smile, one that he hopes communicates I hate them too you're the best thing that's ever happened to me please don’t abandon me now.
“Oh my god,” is all Harry can seem to say.
. . . . .
The afternoon is spent lounging by the pool, Louis in plain trunks and a t-shirt, Harry in the tiniest, gayest, gaudiest swim shorts Louis has ever seen. He tells himself the sweat pooling on his skin is just from the sun, repeated like a mantra every time Harry gets up and bends over to readjust his folding lounge chair.
Around midday Harry suddenly sits up with a gasp, reaching out and grabbing Louis’ arm like a vice.
“Louis! I see them!” It’s little less of a whisper and a little more of a comically overacted hiss.
Louis groans and rolls his lax, sun-sleepy body off his own chair, straightens up lethargically.
“Alright, let’s go then.”
Harry darts off, clearly a little too excited. Louis trails along behind him, wincing in anticipation.
They reach Briana’s table, and Louis raises an eyebrow at the little pose Harry’s arranged himself in, hip popped out to emphasise his slight curves and wrists exaggeratedly limp.
“Oh. My. God. Briana! What a fantastic surprise!” Harry practically shouts.
Louis bites his lip and tries not to laugh at his truly awful acting.
The girls turn around all at once, all in vile matching bikinis from the resort gift shop, eyes widening as they scan him up and down. Harry grins.
“Harry Styles?” Briana gapes, lowering her sunglasses. “I haven’t seen you since…Donny College?”
“How are you, Briana?” Harry chirps.
Briana smirks, practically thrusts her hand into Harry’s face to show off her obscenely huge diamond.
“Married.”
Louis nearly gags.
Harry takes an exaggeratedly deep breath, cradles her hand like a newborn kitten to admire the ring.
“Louis told me! Congratulations!” he fawns.
Briana preens at the attention for a moment, then a thought crosses her face.
“Hey, why don’t you come have a drink with us?”
Harry’s eyes widen, blinking in surprise like a helpless little doe.
“Really? You want to have a drink with me?”
Briana smiles wide, flicks her hair.
“We can’t let you spend the entire holiday alone! We’re not in school anymore, babe. You don’t have to feel like you’re not good enough for us now.”
“Oh, is that right?” Harry replies innocently.
“Yes. I’m an honest person, Harry. If I feel you’ve changed, I’ll tell you.” She says it with such a ridiculous air of graciousness, Louis could almost strangle her.
Harry tilts his head with a little chuckle.
“Honest, hm. I like to think I’m honest too,” he says sweetly.
Louis’ pulse quickens as he watches Harry lean in closer to Briana, not wanting to miss a single twitch of her face.
“Cheryl is having an affair with Strauss. Louis saw them fucking in the toilets at your wedding reception.”
Briana’s expression morphs into pure horror. The other girls gasp and look directly at Cheryl, who might just be on the cusp of a heart attack.
Harry straightens up, smirking.
“Stick your drink up your arse, Briana. I’d rather swallow razorblades than have a drink with you.”
He delicately manoeuvres the heart-shaped sunglasses from the top of his head to rest over his eyes and slides one arm under Louis’.
“And I’m not alone. I’m with Louis,” he declares proudly.
At that, Harry tilts his head up high and drags Louis along, staging a film-perfect dramatic exit and leaving utter chaos in their wake.
. . . . .
. . . . .
The air crackles with energy as the iconic opening guitar riff bursts through the speakers. Louis shares a nervous private nod with Harry, who winks back and flings the makeshift stage curtains open, their cue to take to the tiny Star Search stage.
They strut forward and take their positions, back to back in their ridiculous ABBA costumes and skyscraper platform boots. Louis’ ankle wobbles a little.
“My my! At Waterloo Napoleon did surrender! Oh yeah!”
They lip-sync to the words, Harry putting his entire being into his performance. Louis cringes reflexively when he notices Briana and the girls sitting in the audience, feeling hostile and unfamiliar eyes alike watching him making a spectacle of himself. He takes a deep breath and tries to block the self-consciousness out, moving his hands for the next pose just in time.
“And I have met my destiny in quite a similar way.”
Harry looks fantastic in his Frida costume. The gigantic curly wig somehow looks like an extension of his own hair, and when he’d first stepped out of the toilet cubicles they’d changed in Louis must admit his mouth went a little dry at the sight of his long legs in that iconic slitted skirt. Right now, however, all Louis can think about is how his own white satin jumpsuit is clinging to his bum and thighs, riding up on his crotch.
Maybe this was a mistake. His long blonde wig is itching at his scalp, and he feels a bit like a bargain basement drag queen.
“The history book on the shelf, it’s always repeating itself…”
He looks at Harry, unsure. Harry just trains his green eyes on Louis in a silent show of solidarity.
Ok. He can do this.
“Waterloo, I was defeated, you won the war!”
Louis sighs and sidesteps in time with the music, leaning forward for a tentative little shimmy.
“Waterloo, promise to love you forevermore!”
He moves in sync with Harry, but where Harry’s movements are fluid and practiced, his are awkward and stilted.
They do a little spin, then strut forward off the stage as they flow through the second half of the chorus.
Now closer to the seated crowd, Louis has an excellent view of the women, with their sour faces and dead eyes. Despite his discomfort, he gets a fleeting rush of satisfaction when he spots a dark purple bruise around Cheryl’s eye, clearly from Briana’s hand. Suddenly he can’t remember why he ever cared so much about what she thought of him. God knows he never thought very well of her.
Harry and Louis whip around opposite sides and jump back onstage, meeting in the middle to mime the second verse with their eyes locked.
“My my! I tried to hold you back but you were stronger! Oh yeah!”
Louis feels himself loosening up, catching onto the excitement in Harry’s face.
“And now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight.”
Why was he fighting this? Louis fucking loves ABBA.
“And how could I ever refuse? I feel like I win when I lose…”
A rush of adrenaline surges through Louis’ body as he gears up for the chorus, a roguish grin tugging at his cheeks.
“Waterloo! I was defeated, you won the war!”
He launches himself into the choreography as cheers erupt from the audience. He’s relying on pure muscle memory to keep him synchronised with his dance partner, and it feels like he’s flying.
“Waterloo! Promise to love you forevermore!”
Louis flings his arms around, flicking his blonde wig artfully over his shoulder. He spins around, huge smile pulling at his cheeks. He’s entranced by the way Harry’s fluffy cape flutters around them, tickling his arms in a fleeting caress.
“Waterloo! Couldn’t escape if I wanted to! Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you!”
Louis is vaguely aware of a fight breaking out in the audience, Briana launching herself at Cheryl and wrestling her to the ground amid screams and yells, but he couldn’t care less.
There’s a couple of groups on their feet, clapping along to the song. Harry’s glowing in the limelight, a natural born attention seeker. Louis can’t help but feel a burst of fondness for him, seeing how he’s shining as he flails about in some sort of freestyle boogie, limbs flailing haphazardly.
Louis knows he looks just as ridiculous, perhaps even more, but he couldn’t care less how he looks. How could he, when he feels this good?
. . . . .
Louis is drunk. Or at least extremely tipsy. The comically large bottle of knockoff champs they’d won in the Star Search is almost half gone, and he’s stumbling about on the little patch of grass next to the empty pool. The stars are out, reflected in the chlorinated wobbly mirror of its surface.
“D’you think I could be famous?” he says, toddling over to where Harry’s lying sprawled out on the ground.
“Yeah. Course,” Harry responds immediately, earnestly, as if he could never think anything else. He narrows his eyes. “For what?”
“I don’t know,” Louis giggles. “Could be an actor. I’m mental enough.”
Harry titters along with him, hand drifting to his belly.
“My my! At Waterloo Napoleon did surrender,” Harry sings.
“Oh yeah!” Louis joins in.
They share a grin at their impromptu harmonisation.
Louis flops down onto the grass, just close enough for their arms to touch. Louis’ skin buzzes where it meets Harry’s. He turns his gaze up to the stars, stretching out above them.
He takes a deep breath of the cool night air, gathers it up in his lungs and holds it there. He counts one, two, three… then lets it all out, visualising his mouth expunging toxic fumes.
Harry is silent, but Louis can tell he’s deep in thought.
“There was something in the air that night…the stars were bright, Fernando,” he sings softly.
He rolls his head to check Harry’s response. A smile quirks the edges of his lips.
“They were shining there for you and me, for liberty, Fernando,” they sing together.
Louis falls silent, if only to hear Harry’s rich, molten voice by itself again.
“Though we never thought that we could lose, there’s no regret,” Harry continues, flicking his eyes to Louis in curiosity.
Louis shakes his head with a little smile, joins in for the last line.
“If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend…Fernando.”
They shift their bodies to face one another completely. Under the ocean haze of tipsiness, he feels like he might be drowning in the intoxicating feeling of being the sole object of Harry’s attention and focus. He flicks his eyes down, traces the soft curves of Harry’s plush pink lips with his eyes.
The spell is broken when Harry abruptly sits up and pulls a cigarette out of his little purse. Louis is left on the ground, stunned and reeling at the sudden shift. His mind wanders with the ease of tipsiness, jumping from passing thought to passing thought until he starts to feel like he’s made of static. He pulls himself up slowly and sits cross-legged, hunches in on himself as he gives shape to thoughts that have been plaguing him for years.
“Do you ever think you’re nothing?” he speaks into the open air. “Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing.”
Heat burns behind his eyes at the admission.
Harry turns, stubs out his cigarette and grabs Louis’ hands fervently, sitting on his knees.
“You’re not nothing. You’re amazing,” he says firmly.
Louis raises a cynical eyebrow.
“You are, Louis. Promise. I think you’re just incredible.”
Harry’s eyes look so sincere, but Louis can’t quite believe him.
Sensing Louis’ scepticism, Harry huffs and looks down at his hands.
“Remember how you were in school?”
Louis snorts. “What, a twinky closeted arsehole footie player who could hardly scrape through his second go of A Levels?”
Harry gives him a look.
Louis gives him one back.
“A twinky closeted arsehole footie player who was hilarious, and clever, and witty, and talented, and so, so lovely behind that fake prickliness you always put on around kids like Briana.”
“Didn’t realise you knew so much about me,” Louis says lamely.
They sit in silence for a moment, but Harry keeps fiddling with his hands like he’s not quite finished.
“I always had a crush on you, you know,” he blurts out.
Okay, that was unexpected.
“You what?”
“You really didn’t know? Louis, I joined the footie team just to have an excuse to hang out with you properly. You never noticed me, not really, but you remember how shit I was at it, right?”
Louis nods, dazed.
“I guess I was hoping for some fit, older boy to offer me some one-on-one training after practice,” Harry laughs, ducking his head bashfully.
“But all the shit Briana gave you…I knew, and I saw it happening, and I never stood up to her. I’m so sorry, Harry, I should’ve defended you.”
“I knew you weren’t really like them. You would always have this sad little face on whenever they picked on my nails and that, and I lo- liked you a lot for it.”
Louis feels heat rush to his cheeks.
“Not now though, I s’pose, now I’m just a washed up old loser who never left Donny and still goes on cheap holidays with your high school bullies,” he lets out a self-deprecating laugh, looking away.
Harry makes a frustrated noise and reaches out for Louis’ hands, taking them in his and squeezing until he makes eye contact again.
“Louis. I think you’re marvellous. Just the way you are.”
Louis barely hears the end of the sentence before plush lips are on his, eyes sliding shut as Harry brings one of his large hands to the back of his head. He presses back, unsure as to how he managed to get someone as beautiful and wild as Harry to want to kiss him, but determined to make the most of it.
The kiss tastes like cheap champagne and the mini empanadas they’d gorged themselves on after their performance, and when Louis smooths his hands over Harry’s toned but somehow slight frame, he feels like he might have just managed to lasso a supernova.
After a while they break apart, too wine-bubbly to go any further, and flop back onto the cool grass, limbs tangled and hands tender.
Above them the starlight glows softly, the moon the only witness to what Louis allows himself to hope could be the start of something special.