Archive of Our Own

Stalks of pseudo vines and flowers adorn Louis’ side of the dorm room, crawling in the edges of the eggshell white wall. He had fastened some fairy lights within the vines and flowers, creating a somewhat “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” aesthetic. With one hand, he holds the vine in place, using his other hand to grab the thumb tacks sitting between his pretty pink lips and tack the stunning shrubbery into place.

“There,” he smiles, sitting on his knees with his hands on his hips as he admires his work. The wall is still bare, but soon it’ll be covered in papers of poetry and other decor Louis finds fitting.

“That’s atrocious,” a voice sounds from behind him. Startled, he spins, nearly falling off the elevated not-yet-made bed.

The man before him stands with a slight slouch, his black attire seemingly sucking him into a void. His eyes are lined with dark makeup, sharp blue eyes piercing at him—well, mostly piercing at him; his heavily styled black fringe cut covers the majority of his face.

“Oh, hi there!” Louis leaps from his bed like a jittery fairy, sticking his hand out, “I’m Louis, your roommate.”

“Thorn,” he stares at Louis’ hand, already seemingly exasperated from the social interaction; or perhaps the bright colors that glitter across his dark demeanor. He pulls his lip ring into his mouth a moment before staring back at Louis.

“Is that… your real name?” Louis questions politely, raising an eyebrow. Thorn stares at him instead, turning on his heel and bending over to grab some of his own things from boxes that must’ve been brought in unbeknownst to Louis, who had been too busy living out his Pinterest dreams.

Louis smiles nonetheless, getting back to his own side of the room. He has a few more boxes to unpack, two of them filled to the brim with clothes, evident by how the packing tape is holding onto the cardboard for dear life. He hums a happy tune to himself, using an exacto knife to open a box full of old books.

Loud, screaming music blares in the room so suddenly Louis startles backward and falls on his ass. Laughing at himself, he turns around to find Thorn fixing up a giant boombox on his desk, cassettes and cds strewn about. It’s definitely not his kind of music, but he grins nonetheless.

“What song is this?!” Louis yells out his question, covering his ears with his hands. He can feel his entire body vibrate from the sheer velocity of the bass.

“What?!” Thorn yells back. He turns the volume dial, the blaring of music lessening greatly. Louis sighs happily, standing to his feet.

“That was loud,” Louis giggles, blushing prettily. Thorn blinks at him, unamused.

“The only way to listen to heavy metal is loudly,” Thorn states, and Louis takes in the information, nodding.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I would appreciate you playing it when I’m not here,” Louis asks politely, eyes wide, hoping to not offend, “If you must play it loud, that is. And I most likely won’t be around often, I’ve already signed up for like, three organizations, so no worries!”

Thorn stares at him for an entire minute before sighing, “Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks, Thorn!” Louis grins, and spins on his heel, getting back to unpacking his books, “So, what are you majoring in?”

“Drama.”

“Nice! I’m majoring in Literature, I love poetry,” Louis turns to face him again, “Wanna read some of my work?”

“No,” Thorn mutters, organizing his cd’s.

“Okay,” Louis smiles nevertheless, pulling out a thick book, “I think you’d like this guy, Edgar Allen Poe. You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course I’ve heard of him, who hasn’t?”

“You’d be surprised,” Louis sets the book on his already set-up desk, next to his laptop covered with “enchanted forest” aesthetic stickers he’d ordered from Etsy, “Some people have no idea. It’s a shame, I think.”

“Yeah, real shame,” Thorn is no longer listening, too enraptured in getting his cassette tapes organized by artist name, which seems to be a daunting task, since Louis can see that most of them are mixtapes made by Thorn himself.

Louis hums to himself, taking out more books and setting them on their sides, lined up against the wall at the corner of his desk. He stares at his job well done, satisfied.

He can already tell this semester is gonna be one for the books.

. . . 

With a skip in his step, Louis glides down the sidewalk, his green drawstring backpack bouncing against his lower back. One earbud hangs from his ear, his Spotify playlist titled “happy happy happy” playing in his ear. He stares down at his schedule as he walks, looking at the building before him, trying to get an idea of where his first class of his very first week of university (!!!) is. 

He curses himself for not taking a quick tour of the campus earlier in the week, and before that, for not paying attention during his first time visiting the school to see if it was a good fit. And it ended up being a perfect fit; the school focuses in liberal arts (check), there’s multiple opportunities to study abroad (check check) and the campus is filled with a plethora of greenery and spacious lawn space to have a nice afternoon lunch, if he decides to do so (check check check!).

He ends up finding the correct building, and takes the closest elevator to English 101 with Professor Motz. He checks the time on his phone, 10:04 AM, meaning he only has a minute to get to his class. Quickening his pace, his hands turning clam at the heightening anxiety rising in his throat. Perhaps the professor will be lenient? (it is the first day after all)

The door is still open when he arrives (thank God) meaning class has yet to start. Apparently, everyone else seemed to be on time, because the entire lecture hall is filled with nearly a hundred students. Swallowing his lumped anxiety, he scans the area for a seat, but then his eyes land on someone he wouldn’t have expected to see ever again in his life .

There, in the far back of the room, next to the only available seat left, is none other than Harry Styles. Harry, who grew up next door to him, who knew all his secrets as a child and played FIFA with him on Saturday mornings after he would spend the night Friday evenings every week, whose curly hair would tickle his nose as they held each other during bitter cold nights that made his room glow a haunting blue. Harry, who knew just how to make Louis feel better whenever necessary, who knew what made him laugh the hardest, who abruptly stopped talking to Louis in Year 10 and made new friends with the footie players and—and—

“Everyone take your seats, please,” the professor says, startling Louis as she closes the door. Louis treads up the aisles until he reaches Harry’s, eyes downcast. He can hear Harry’s breath hitch, can tell the moment he recognizes him.

“Lou—?”

“May I sit here?” Louis blurts, asking as calm and collected as he can. He makes eye contact with Harry, and the green of his eyes turns darker, pupils dilating. Louis holds his breath, his cool fingertips trembling against his trousers. God , he can’t even remember the last time he saw him.

“Um… yeah, if there’s nowhere else,” Harry hesitates in taking his bag out of the seat, setting it in front of him on the table. Louis frowns at the comment but thanks him silently for not being completely horrible, and takes his seat, unzipping his bag and pulling out a notebook and pink fountain pen.

He can feel Harry staring from the corner of his eye, which ends up being more distracting than the kid directly in front of them who won’t stop rapidly tapping the heel of their foot against the linoleum floor. Louis turns to face Harry, frowning.

“What?”

“Nice outfit,” Harry comments, and Louis genuinely cannot tell if he’s mocking him or being sincere. His eyes travel down and look at his outfit; he’s wearing a simple white jumper tucked into his tan trousers, held together with a black belt, his shoes knock-off white Adidas. The trousers have tiny flowers of various colors embroidered into the pockets (done by Louis himself—he’s very proud).

Taking a quick glance at Harry, whose outfit resembles something someone would wear after working out (aka, clearly not much effort involved), he scoffs, “Are you making fun of me?”

“If that’s how you wanna take it, then sure,” Harry smirks, the guy smirks, and Louis can feel his cheeks reddening, warm with anger. He stares hard at his blank notebook, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down. Tears pile on his eyes, swiftly blinking those away and forgetting about them entirely. He plasters on a fake smile, and looks up at the professor, deciding then and there he won’t let the slight inconvenience of Harry being in his English class, of all things, bother him or ruin his day.

“Welcome to English 101. I’ll be your professor for the semester, Professor Motz. Today will be all about the syllabus, so I apologize for how boring this’ll be, but I’ll try to make it as painless as possible. You may take notes if you wish, but it’s not required. In fact, I’ll post the syllabus on my website after class if you’d like to look it over again afterwards. Now! Starting with what English 101 will consist of…”

Professor Motz begins her hour-long class, and Louis diligently takes notes as she speaks, showing slides on the whiteboard and highlighting important information. He learns quickly that, although Professor Motz is a lovely lady so far, she’s quite strict about deadlines and attendance. More importantly, the books they’ll be reading this semester are ones he already owns and has read multiple times, so his papers this semester should be a breeze.

He can’t help but take a quick look at Harry--who could blame him? Louis hasn’t been this close to his ex-best friend since Year 11 when Harry had sat at Louis’ lunch table when his other friends had skipped school. He catches Harry chewing on what he thinks is bubblegum, typing away at his phone, seemingly bored. He feels himself begin to scowl but is quickly brought back to the professor's words when she begins to take attendance.

Attendance for a class this large takes forever , and Louis is struggling to stop fidgeting in his seat, nails clawing at his chapped lips. Louis hopes this ends soon so he can run back to his dorm and try not to think about anything but the twinkling lights on his wall and the pretty hair clips he ordered off of Etsy recently.

“Styles, Harry?” She calls out, and Harry raises his hand nonchalantly, calling out, “Here.”

“Tomlinson, Louis?”

Louis can feel Harry’s eyes on him again, and more squeakish than he plans, he lets out a weak, “Here,” and raises his hand. Professor Motz writes down something, then continues.

Beside him, Harry chuckles, and Louis has an inkling it’s against him and how pathetic he sounded. Louis furrows his eyebrows, trying his hardest to not scoff toward Harry, and instead grips his pen between his fingers, releasing all his annoyance on the poor pen. 

He usually doesn’t allow himself to feel such anger towards others. Lots of annoyances occur in his day, which is fine, and easy to get over as soon as they happen, but something about seeing Harry back in his life unwillingly is gnawing at his consciousness, creating an unpleasant sensation behind his eyes that a rubbing of the temples won’t resolve.

Professor Motz ends class with a quick note about assigning partner research papers when they meet next, and that the seats they’ve chosen for today will be their seats for the remainder of the year (which, is just fantastic , Louis groans internally). The professor turns off her powerpoint, and students begin to scramble out of their seats, filing out of the lecture hall. 

Louis is one of the first to leave.

. . .

“I have to drop the class.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Imani laughs over the phone, “This ‘Harry’ guy is only a slight inconvenience. Don’t let him affect your entire schedule.”

“Mani, he’s… it’s… he was my best friend ,” Louis sighs, laying on his back on his bed, legs crossed, “I thought I’d never see him again; I never wanted to see him again.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” his best friend lectures him, “From what you’ve told me, the professor seems great, and this class is perfect for you. You’ve already read all of the required material, the time is reasonable… don’t let some old friend ruin this for you.”

“You’re right…” Louis winces, “I just want this semester to be perfect—”

“And it will be! If you put for the effort to make it so,” Louis can see her smiling from where he stares at the popcorn ceiling, “Give it a chance. If after a week or so it’s too miserable, then drop. But give it a few more classes, see how it goes.”

“I will,” Louis bites his lip, smiling, “I miss you.”

“Miss you too, Lou,” Imani sighs into the phone, “Why’d you have to go to school so far from me?”

“I’m soooorry ,” Louis laughs into the phone, “I promise we can see each other for the holidays.”

“You better keep that promise!” Imani demands, tone light, “I’ll get you a nice, big gift too to lure you back to Doncaster.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Louis giggles into the phone, curling up on his side. The wool of his pink oversized sweater bunches up over his belly, exposing the tan skin. 

Thorn busts through the room randomly, throwing his black bag across the room from the doorway and onto his bed with a thud.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mani. I’ve got some organizing to finish up,” Louis tells Imani, then after sweet goodbyes, he hangs up, and falls back, head flopping onto his feather pillow.

He stares back up at the ceiling, Thorn making a mess of his desk doing God knows what. He closes his eyes, and thinks of more pleasing topics, like how his order from Amazon of a fake mini cactus is coming in soon.

. . .

Wednesday arrives and this time around, Louis is early to class; nearly 7 minutes early, to be exact. He finds his seat from last time, pulling out his laptop and opening up a Word doc. Silk glides over his arms, his long-sleeved tee keeping him cozy yet chic. He had planned on wearing a flowy strawberry-printed top, but ended up pulling the number he had on from his closet instead (and nooo —not because he was afraid Harry would make fun of him again, certainly not).

Louis stares at the entrance to the lecture hall, the door held open with a door stopper that looks older than himself. He waits, anticipating, hoping to gauge Harry’s reaction, to see how he’ll look when he realizes he couldn’t get rid of Louis with primary-school-level teasing. Determined, Louis smirks; it would take a lot more than that to get rid of him this time.

This time… it wasn’t necessarily “easy” last time. Last time, it was gradual, their bond falling apart like soaked driftwood. His face falters as the rush of memories cloud his mind; memories of Harry purposely hitting Louis in the chest with a dodgeball and Louis laughing it off, even if he knew, deep down inside, Harry had meant it to hurt. A memory of Harry turning away the moment Louis made eye contact in Year 9, watching his cheeks redden prettily and green eyes dart the carpet in Louis’ bedroom with a worry Louis couldn’t pinpoint. A memory of Louis grazing Harry’s arm and Harry flinching away as if he’d been burned with a hot iron. 

Eyes boring into his keyboard, he begins to pick at his fingernails, pulling at a hangnail on his pinky that he’s sure he’ll regret doing later. He wants to shake his brain and tell it to stop giving him painful memories of things that happened so long ago, that they’re not worth looking back at, that all they do is—

“That’s one nasty habit,” a low voice sounds from above him. Louis snaps his head up, lip between his bright teeth as he makes eye contact with Harry. He prays to whoever will listen that Harry can’t read the despairing emotions on his face.

Harry… he looks at him in a way Louis doesn’t understand. He can’t pick up on why Harry parts his full red lips slowly, why the green of his eyes nearly disappears, why his right hand clenches to the strap of his bag. Louis releases his bottom lip from his teeth’s hold and lets the spit-covered muscle free. Harry seems… dazed? Is that the word? As a Literature major he should possess a broader vocabulary but Harry’s expression has him stuck in metaphorical bubblegum.

“Okay?” Louis stupidly responds, unsure of how else he would reply to Harry’s unnecessary commentary. It’s then he notices that Harry’s eyes have been stuck on his lips the entire time. Nervously, Louis shifts his body in his chair, eyes moving to face the board, missing the moment Harry sucks on his teeth.

Professor Motz begins class as soon as Harry stumbles to his seat, his entire face beat red. Louis can’t help but look from the corner of his eye at Harry, how “tomato-esque” he looks. Louis giggles into his hand at the made-up word, eyes crinkling in the corners, the silk of his blouse rubbing against his lips.

“What?” Harry snaps, his irritation simmering, not yet at a boil. Fingernails find their way back into Louis’ mouth as he raises his eyebrows at the angered man.

“Oh, I was just…laughing at something,” Louis mumbles, fingers messing with the white paper clip hairpiece on his chestnut fringe. Harry’s eyes move from the paper clip back to Louis, and with a sigh, he turns back on his chair, facing the board.

Class goes smoothly for the most part. Pencils tap desks incessantly with bored students attached to them, someone near the front row is FaceTiming a friend with wireless earbuds in, and Louis can feel Harry’s eyes on him every once in a while, when he’s not focused on typing whatever Professor Motz says as quickly as possible.

Professor Motz takes a deep breath after a long and drawn out lecture over sentence structure (which… they’re university students? Why would they need to review sentence structure ), and clasps her fingers adorned with rings together, smiling.

Uh oh. The research paper assignment. Louis nearly forgot.

“Now, as for the research paper, you may choose whatever topic you and your partner agree on. However, there are a few topics blacklisted up on my website, because I’m tired of reading 10 identical papers all about Brexit or something happening in the US. I want your topic to be unique and something that you can write three or more pages on.”

Some of the students laugh at her comment about blacklisted topics, but Louis’ mind is far away from the lecture hall at this point, terrified he’s going to get a partner that’ll leave him doing all the work.

“I’ve already pre-assigned your partners, so whenever I call your name and your partners name, you’ll be free to go and exchange contact information. Remember! This’ll be due at the end of the term!”

She begins to list names, and one by one students file out, phones in hand as they add their numbers into the other’s phone, smiles and frowns evident all around. Louis throws his fingers into his mouth again, eyes squeezing shut.

“Louis Tomlinson?” she says aloud, and Louis jumps at the sudden call of his name. He stands up awkwardly, closing his laptop as he awaits for his partner’s name to be called.

This won’t be so bad , Louis thinks to himself, they could be a wonderful person, hard worker, easy to get along with. Fingers closing around his backpack strap, he holds his breath (a bit dramatic but that’s simply who he is).

“Let’s see here—oh! And Harry Styles,” she smiles and Louis nearly blacks out, oh no , this is worse than he thought, he’d take the guy a row in front of him who sleeps the entire time than Harry . His mouth pops open, head snapping in the direction of Harry’s equally stunned demeanor.

He’s experiencing a conscious nightmare, is what this is. He doesn’t know if that’s actually a thing but that’s the only way he can describe what’s happening.

Out of the 98 other people in this class, his professor took the easy route and picked the two names that’re side by side on the attendance roster. And, if his memory is correct, most of the other names called had last names that were nowhere near each other alphabetically.

Harry looks at Louis with his mouth parted, eyes wide and swiftly throws his backpack over his jacket-clad shoulder. With a side-step around Louis, his bag hitting Louis nearly in the face, he shuffles down the wide steps of rows, darting toward the door. Louis panics, rushing behind him.

“Harry, wait!” Louis squeaks, tripping over someone’s discarded jacket. He collects himself, brushing his fringe and reclipping his clip in his hair and continues forward and out the door, darting around focused students with their noses in their phones.

“Hey!” Louis claps Harry on the shoulder, who spins around abruptly. Louis crashes into Harry’s chest at the sudden stop, nearly tipping backward, hands flailing on either side of him to catch his balance. Embarrassment rushes over his skin, eyes glued to Harry’s annoyance.

“What?” Harry sighs, eyebrows furrowed and definitely not in the mood. To be fair, neither is Louis, this is 100% not what he expected nor wanted, but sometimes you’ve gotta work with people you absolutely do not want to deal with, and Louis has slightly accepted that. Only slightly.

“Let me give you my number, so we can contact each other,” Louis catches his breath. Harry stares at him, rolling his eyes.

“Is your number not the same as it was before?” Harry asks, then stiffens, as if he’s realized what he’s said, as if it was a mistake. Louis tilts his head, confused.

“You mean the number I had when I was 14?” Louis pauses, because why on Earth does Harry still have that ?

“Yes…?” Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable. 

“No…” Louis lingers on the syllable, “Why do you—“

“What’s your email?” Harry pulls out his phone, talking at a rate faster than his usual speed, “We can exchange ideas through there.”

“Um, okay—“

“Your email?” Harry mutters impatiently, eyes stuck on his phone screen. Louis stutters out his email, eyes glossing over.

“Cool. Just sent you my name. Bye,” Harry doesn’t look at him after he puts his phone back in his jean pocket, turning on his heel and pacing off into the swarm of students.

Louis tells himself Harry probably has a class after this one, as an explanation for his rush away from him. He tells himself it isn’t because he can’t stand to talk to him, or because something about him infuriates Harry to no end, or because… because…

He sulks in his walk down the opposite end of the hallway, passing by groups of students laughing and chatting about their days filling his ringing ears. With earbuds popped in and music blaring, he listens to his playlist titled “bad bad bad” on his way back to his dorm building.

. . . 

Fingers hovering over his keyboard and eyes set, Louis is determined to send a well-thought out email to Harry. Despite the urge to drop out of the class even more, or even better, email Professor Motz about how working with Harry will end in destruction to his fragile mental health, he has the “New Message” tab open with Harry’s email in the “To:” section. Behind him, Thorn is reciting a script for an audition the theatre department is putting on. It’s only distracting him because of how loud and dramatic Thorn is, walking back and forth in a line with his hand outstretched as if he’s reciting Shakespeare and not a random monologue he found on Google twenty minutes prior.

Louis stares at the blinking cursor for approximately two seconds before his fingers fly over the keys, typing at a speed unlike any he’s ever typed before.

Harry;

Sorry to bother you at this time of night, but I’ve come up with a few topic ideas that I believe will be exemplary for our grade average. I’ve embedded a link to a brief article for each topic so you can read further into them. Let me know which ones interest you, and from there we can decide which one we’ll write about. If you have any ideas that I haven’t listed, let me know!

• Minimum Wage

• Prison Reform

• Opioid Epidemic

• Climate Change

• Dietary Supplements

I know some of these are a bit dark, but please let me know what you think!

Sincerely, Louis

He scans the email once, twice before clicking the send button. He titled the “Subject” line “URGENT”, so hopefully Harry will read it and respond in a timely fashion.

A “timely fashion” ends up being two hours later, right before Louis was about to fall asleep. He hears the familiar ding sound for his email emit through his phone as he steps into satin pink pajama shorts that came with a matching top. With a start, he picks up his phone and opens the email.

He scans the email several times over, annoyance bubbling in this chest. Clenching his jaw, he plops onto his bed with a jump, staring at his bright screen.

louis-

okay .

-harry .

Okay?! “Okay” is all he had to say to that? What the heck is he supposed to do with that ?! It seriously took Harry two hours to read the articles (which, he probably didn’t, now that he’s thinking about it) and respond with one word? 

Annoyed, Louis starts a new message;

Harry;

I appreciate you replying, but it would be incredibly helpful if you responded with a topic of choice. I’d like to have our thesis statement done by our next class.

Sincerely, Louis.

He hits the “Send” button harder than intended, phone flying out of his hand and somehow hitting a sleeping Thorn in the head on the floor. What Thorn is doing sleeping next to his bed, Louis has no idea.

“Oh! Sorry!” Louis scrambles down from his bed, picking up his purple phone and holding it to his chest, eyes wide, “Didn’t mean to!”

“‘S okay,” Thorn mumbles, half asleep. He turns on his side, snoring away. Louis lets out a relieved sigh, swiping his hair out of his eyes as he hops back into bed.

This time, he cuddles into the comforter, not expecting Harry to respond any time soon. He plugs his phone into the charger, pushing his phone under his fluffy pillow and lays his head down, eyes snapping shut.

And for a brief ten minutes, Louis falls into a comfortable half-conscious sleep.

Ding . Eyes wide, he pulls out his phone, squinting at the white screen and reads the new email from Harry.

louis-

sounds good.

-harry

Louis holds in an irritated scream (for Thorn’s sake) and types up an as-polite-as-he-can-muster email.

Harry;

Is there a topic you’re interested in? Perhaps one that I didn’t list?

Sincerely, Louis

He glares at his phone after sending the “Send” button once more, eyes red with lack of sleep and teeth clenched. His fingers drag over the jewels he stuck to the back of his phone, the sensation calming him a little.

Harry never responds. Louis stays up for an hour waiting for anything, but it never comes. With a defeated sigh, he shoves his phone back under his pillow. After shifting and squirming beneath the sheets and fluffing his pillow a couple times, he breathes in deep, falling asleep with zero thoughts of Harry. Not a single one.

. . .

Sunlight shimmers against Louis’ tanned skin, head tilted back and a pretty smile on his lips. He takes in the afternoon sun, the weather a perfect breeze for a nice brunch on the main university lawn. Surrounding him are some of his new friends he’s made from his dorm building as well as from the “Poetry Club”, a club Imani made fun of him for joining but Louis could care less. Besides, he knows she teases him lightheartedly and would never actually make fun of him for his interests. 

Louis wears one of his coziest outfits today: an oversized, knitted lilac sweater adorned with clouds, the collar hanging below his collarbones. His shorts are also lilac, simple jean material that accentuates his ass (at least, he thinks it does), with his signature off-brand Adidas shoes and a gold anklet wrapped around his left ankle. A white flower clip keeps his hair out of his blue eyes, and a bit of raspberry lip gloss coats his lips. He especially likes the way the sweater covers most of his hands, only his manicured nails popping out. He had tweezed his eyebrows a bit this morning so he’s feeling extra pretty today.

“Lou, you still with us?” William, a ginger boy with the darkest brown eyes Louis’ ever seen chuckles, the sound of a song unknown to Louis playing softly from Francine’s cellphone.

He jumps awake from his daydream, turning his head to William and smiles, “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

“What’cha thinkin’ about?” Francine, a girl from the Poetry Club whose arms are littered in more tattoos than a 20 year old should have the money to possess, asks Louis in a sincere tone. Louis shrugs.

“Nothing,” he sits up, crossing his ankles, hands spread out behind him, “Except how wonderful this weather is.”

“True right,” another boy, Kaholo, who wears a different colored suit everyday (does the man own casual clothing?), bumps his fist into Louis’ sweater-covered shoulder.

What they don’t know is Louis does have a thought rolling around in his mind, a thought about Harry and why he’s being difficult. They’re not 14 anymore; they’ve grown since then and they’re proper adults now. There’s no need to act childish over all of it, it’s in the past, it doesn’t even hurt Louis anymore.

Well. The hurt Louis feels is hidden for the most part. He tells himself it’s fine that Harry no longer looks at him like he’s the best thing in his life, and that he doesn’t tell Louis all his secrets and true feelings anymore because they’re not friends and that’s not a thing in Louis’ life anymore. It’s a lie that’s keeping Louis from falling apart whenever Harry so much as looks at him with a broken lightbulb hidden behind the eyes.

It’s as if the universe is listening in on his thoughts, because Harry, along with a couple other guys wearing matching track uniforms stumble across the lawn and toward his group, tennis shoes stained from grass and arms covered in sweat that drips off their fingertips. Harry is smiling, teeth glaring at Louis’ pitiful hunch, his sleeveless top oversized and showing off a bit of skin underneath Harry’s armpits. Louis can feel himself blushing, losing control of his feet as his body wills to a standing position and trots over to Harry, ignoring his friends protests.

His plan is to get Harry to agree to a topic, or at least give him some sort of indication that he plans on actually doing this paper as partners. He quickens his steps, suddenly frustrated as he approaches Harry and the two other men, making sure to stand in front of them so they’re forced to stop. 

“Uh—“ Harry cuts himself off, eyes immediately darting to Louis’ exposed collarbones. His wet lips part, the rest of his sentence becoming an exhale.

“Hey,” Louis whispers, then clears his throat, speaking louder, “You never answered my email yesterday—“

“I don’t do homework outside of class,” Harry regains his control of… whatever that weird reaction to Louis was. 

Louis rests his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed, “But we need to—“

“Talk to you in class,” Harry mutters, casually nodding at his friends as they move past a hurt Louis. 

He stares at nothing, eyes glimmering with tears and— God, why is this affecting him so much. Why does he allow himself to get upset over Harry, a guy who hasn’t spoken to him in several years unless absolutely necessary (and even then didn’t make eye contact while doing so). He needs to let it go .

He has new friends now, ones that appreciate his androgyne expression and enjoy listening to his poems and actual care about how his days go…

But. It’s just… Louis misses him . He misses him so much that his heart constricts in pain whenever Harry’s eyes don’t meet his. He wants to talk to Harry about what happened, what went wrong, why things went wrong but he can’t because Harry won’t even freaking look at him properly.

So Louis sulks, and picks up his things from the grass and tells his friends he’s got homework to catch up on, but in reality, he goes back to his dorm and falls asleep to the sounds of his own pathetic cries. Thank God Thorn isn't around to witness it.

. . .

Poetry is a wonderful way to express the things that Louis is afraid to say aloud, or feels so deeply that there’s no other way to release his emotions (unless he hits his pillow very very hard, but that doesn’t do much anyway). He loves to crack open a dictionary and find new little words that mean more than meets the eye and finds ways to put them into a rhyme.

He holds a periwinkle pen in his hand, the ink matching the color as he scribbles in his journal, bottom lip tucking between his teeth. He has his phone beside him, “happy happy happy” playing softly from the metallic speakers. 

a sprinkled rain,

dots of old blue coating the pavement,

petrichor entering blooming lungs,

gusts of pain amidst the sweet,

a scintilla of…

Scintilla. A pretty word that feels nice against the roof of Louis’ mouth, meaning “a spark or trace of something.” He has an urge to write something ridiculous down like “ i’m so freaking angry at everything right now even though pretty music is playing through my phone” but he doesn’t think that would suffice for a bittersweet poem.

He’s never been an aesthete poet. He wants to be, yearns to be as legendary as Wordsworth or Frost but he’s accepted the fact that he’ll always be ordinary, and it’s okay. It’s fine, honestly. This time, he isn’t lying to himself.

He decides he’ll work more on the poem later, which is for a poetry slam the Poetry Club is hosting next month. Hopefully, he doesn’t humiliate himself in front of all his new friends.

With a click, he closes his journal, slotting the pen into his mesh metal pencil holder filled with a plethora of colorful pens and markers, and opens up his phone, pressing on the Etsy app to look for some more decor items for his side of the room. And, perhaps , something for Thorn too.

. . .

Louis stares at himself in the mirror for two seconds the next morning and decides he won’t try and dress up for English today. He doesn’t feel like getting ridiculed by Harry for whatever reason Harry can think of.

Instead, he wears a simple yellow jumper with skinny jeans and black Adidas tennis shoes, hair tousled “boyishly” with no lip gloss in sight. Well… maybe a tiny bit, only a couple dabs at the center of his lips.

The walk to class is brief (an extraordinary amount more than the first day) and he happens to get there as soon as Harry does, watching him enter the lecture hall down the hallway. Steps light and quick, Louis spins into the room, treading up the steps and ignores Harry’s presence entirely, who he can feel staring at him. Again.

Apparently, Professor Motz isn’t feeling up to teaching, so she has everyone sit with their assigned partner and start working on a thesis statement, in which they can leave after Professor Motz approves the topic and thesis. Louis can’t help but scoff, knowing that if Harry knew how to communicate properly they would’ve been able to leave class early.

He’s not daft; he knows Harry knows how to communicate. He knows it’s because something about being in Louis’ presence makes Harry uncomfortable and it hurts , a lot, but he won’t let it affect him today. Nope. Nope!

“So,” Louis starts, “Have you—“

“I think we should go with climate change,” Harry cuts him off, clicking a pen with his thumb and scribbling something down, “It’s easy.”

“Yeah, but there’s a chance someone else already chose that one—“

“Then why even suggest it?” Harry snaps, eyes still down at the paper and scratching something out. He starts writing again, “How about… lack of diversity in the media?”

“Oh, that’s, yeah, good idea,” Louis is a bit taken aback that Harry pulled that seemingly out of his backside. Harry nods once, finishing a sentence in mere minutes. 

Harry slides the paper to Louis, who looks it over. It’s a thesis statement, and a pretty dang good one. It annoys Louis only a smidge, and he smiles back, holding in a frown.

“Great,” Harry grits through his teeth, his tone of voice still somewhat pleasant. He gives Louis a short nod and stands from the desk, paper in his hand as he makes his way to the professor’s desk. 

Louis watches as he walks down, how his joggers cling to his toned calves, how his waistband cinches at his waist. He shakes his head, screwing his eyes shut, throwing away any other weird thoughts into a wormhole of some kind.

He notes how the professor’s eyes light up and how her mouth moves, approval leaving her pink painted lips. Harry takes the paper back after the professor signs it off, and heads back up to their desk. Eyes pierce into Louis’, the contact a bit too much for Louis to handle at the moment. He darts his eyes down to his lap, hands clasped on top of his thighs. 

“It’s good. We can go,” Harry shoves the now-crumpled paper into his bag. Louis opens his mouth to protest, to ask when they should meet up because they have yet to do that but Harry’s already zipped up his backpack and is out the door, leaving Louis dumbfounded.

Louis has never thought of Harry as mean , at least, not on purpose. Yet his actions make that deliberately so. Yes, Harry wasn’t against teasing Louis back in high school on the rare occasion they saw each other, but he never assumed Harry was serious . Perhaps he always was.

And… the thought bothers Louis. It bothers him a lot but he can’t bring himself to think of that right now, can’t bring himself to dwell on anything of the sort. So he packs his things neatly into his bag and pops his earbuds in, shuffling his “happy happy happy” playlist in hopes that it’ll lift his mood.

It does, for the most part.

. . . 

After a pleasant afternoon at his Poetry Club meeting, Louis begrudgingly pulls out his laptop, sitting on top of his fluffy white comforter and crosses his legs, toes stretching as he leans back against his headboard.

He zones out on the blank email in front of him, Harry’s email address already typed in. He knows he has to get some kind of work done today; he’s already completed the rest of his homework and started on his biology project, which is due in two weeks, so he’s got time. Something is itching in the back of his mind to get the research paper at least started however, his fingertips hovering over the black keys anxiously.

Typing quickly, he composes a polite email to Harry;

Harry;

Hello! I just wanted to know if you’ve gotten anywhere with the paper yet. I haven’t had the chance to look through any articles that’d be helpful, but it’s only because I’m a bit confused on which direction we’re taking the paper. We need to compromise on an agreement of some kind so that we’re on the same page. Please let me know as soon as you have the time!

Sincerely, Louis

Satisfied, Louis sends the email, fingers tapping against the smooth metal of his laptop. While he waits for a response, he opens up Tumblr, scrolling through his feed. He feels pink soap bubbles rise in his chest as his eyes scan through pretty minimalist decor and pretty embroidered outfits, ideas flashing through his mind with ways he could incorporate it all into his daily life.

Being an adult and out of the house, it gives him more of a push to do and wear whatever he feels without the fear of judgement from his family and hometown friends. It’s one of the reasons he was so excited to go to university; he’d be able to unapologetically be himself, and makes friends similar to him.

That excitement died down the moment Harry stepped his way back into his life with his weird mannerisms and rude remarks, bringing back memories Louis would have rather kept in a safe locked away in a closet, to collect dust and never to be revisited again.

His laptop dings with a notification from Gmail. Louis clicks the tab, opening up his email once more to read Harry’s message.

It’s… it’s a link. No subject, no hello or goodbye, just a link. With a hesitant click (because Louis can’t be too sure that Harry wouldn’t send him a virus just for the hell of it), it ends up being a scholarly analysis of the lack of representation in the media of people of color. 

So that’s what they’re going for, then. It would have been nice to have some context instead of a simple link he has to decipher, and for what? Why is Harry being so childish ?

With a tiny bit of anger buzzing through his fingertips, Louis responds;

Harry;

Thank you for the helpful link, however, it would have been nice if you added some context. From what I’ve noticed, email is not your forte, so feel free to text me at any time. I feel like it may be better for communication anyway. 

+xx xx xxxx xxxx

Sincerely, Louis

By the time he sends the email, he feels the simmering regret of giving Harry his phone number, not because he’s afraid Harry will start sending him stupid things at the crack of dawn for the hell of it, but because he already knows it won’t change anything, and that they’re gonna fail the class at this rate, and maybe Louis is being dramatic but he’s already got it set in his mind that this is going to end so, so badly.

When he doesn’t receive another email in the next hour (or text, which, isn't at all shocking), Louis throws on his pink pajama set and settles into bed, scrolling through Tumblr and reblogging multiple posts with the hashtag #for me with a small smile on his lips, thoughts of Harry and research paper far away from his wandering mind.

. . .

Weeks go by, and all Harry sends is stupid links and nothing more, leaving Louis to play detective in trying to figure out what the hell they all refer to. He sends Harry snippets of an outline he’s been working on, but nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But tonight, research papers and grades and Harry are far away in the back of his mind. Tonight, he’s contemplating on going to a party.

It’s not that parties repulse Louis; it’s that they’re mentally exhausting. He’ll arrive at the beginning, excited and clinging to his friends and drinking mysterious drinks that he gets handed left and right. Then, about an hour in, he has to think of some excuse to leave as soon as possible or else he might mentally collapse.

It’s not his fault he’s a stereotypical introvert.

So when Francine sent him a text to a frat house party happening later tonight, the first thing he wanted to do was throw his phone across his dorm room and ignore any messages for the rest of the night. He had the sudden urge to take a long shower, to lather his skin in lavender oils and daydream about daffodils and clear skies.

Instead, he pondered for a moment. He’s yet to have gone to a university party yet, an event he wants to experience at least once throughout the next four years of his life. After all, he wants to do all the typical things one does in uni, in fear he’ll regret it later in life.

With a sigh, he had text Francine, Are we meeting up there or?, and left it at that, heading to his closet to find some appropriate clothes.

Now, a plethora of color metaphorically slaps him in the face the moment he opens the closet door, clothing of various designs and cuts entering his view. To be honest, the last time he went to a party was… well. He can’t remember. It’s been that long.

He hears a ding from his phone, which ends up being Francine, who says she’ll pick him up from his dorm in about thirty minutes, which gives him more than enough time to get himself mentally prepared for the party scene. 

Dropping his phone back onto his bed, he looks over at his closet. Thankfully, he showered earlier in the day, so there’s no need to rush. In times like this, where he lacks creativity, he goes to Pinterest to find some inspiration.

This time around, Pinterest fails him, so he does his best in what he has available—which is a lot . He can’t help that he buys nearly every piece of clothing he sees whenever he goes out, or shops online. Dressing up is something he truly enjoys, and gives him a sense of pride knowing he looks good.

He ends up finding some high waisted mom jeans, along with a white long-sleeved crop top that has black horizontal and vertical lines over it. It shows off the top of his toned stomach, something that would usually bother him, but he assures himself the party will be dark enough that he won’t be on display. At this kind of party, he won’t be the center of anyone’s attention, which is fine by him. 

He grabs crème ankle socks with ruffles at the top from his dresser inside the closet, slipping them on. No one will be able to see the ruffles thanks to the jeans, but knowing that they’re there makes Louis feel fuzzy inside. He doesn’t doubt he’ll start showing them off to his friends by the time he gets a few drinks in. After slipping on his white tennis shoes, he sits down at his desk, taking out his gold makeup bag, pouring out the contents.

With his compact mirror held up in one hand, he takes a stick of glitter lipgloss and applies it to his lips. His eyes glance at the analog clock beside him; he’s got about ten minutes before Francine arrives. 

He wouldn’t call himself a “makeup” kind of person, but he does enjoy adding bits of shine and glitter to his face every now and then. A party scene is no exception; in fact, he would scold himself for not taking advantage of it.

So he dabs the gloss to his lips, and takes his ring finger and adds a dash of pink glitter eyeshadow to his lids. He debates on whether he should add any mascara, opening and closing the top with a frown, deciding a small amount wouldn’t hurt. With quick swipes of his wrist and a dash of sparkly blush to his prominent cheekbones, he sighs, content, looking at himself in the mirror. He can’t remember the last time he dolled himself up like this, and it a comforting reminder that , deciding a small amount wouldn’t hurt. With quick flicks of his wrist, fingers pressed on the tube of cheap mascara, and a swipe of sparkly blush to his prominent cheekbones, he smiles to himself in the compact mirror, admiring his work. He doesn’t remember the last time he dolled his face up this much. The thought makes him solemn. 

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. A knock sounds at the door just as a ding emits from his phone. It’s Francine, who ends up letting herself in.

“Ah!” Francine grins, holding Louis to her chest, “You look so cute!”

“Oh, thank you—“

“Why don’t you dress up like this more often?”

It’s a fair question, one he was letting glide around in his brain as she entered the dorm. Instead of giving a winded speech on insecurity and fear of scrutiny, he shrugs, smiling sheepishly, “Dunno.”

“Well! Do it more often, you’re absolutely glowing, love,” Francine places a soft kiss to Louis’ blush covered cheek, gentle enough that her purple lipstick doesn’t stain his skin.

Louis grabs his phone and wallet, shoving both into his front pockets as he follows Francine out the door, shutting and locking the door behind them.

The walk to the frat house isn’t far, at most ten minutes. During the time, Francine vents about her awful psychology teacher who’s assigned multiple projects throughout the next few weeks. Louis can see the stress in her frazzled hair; either that, or she intentionally teased her hair. He’s not too sure, and he feels like it may be rude to ask, so he stays silent and lets Francine rant.

“He’s such a pompous ass!” Francine eventually yells, sighing exasperatedly. Louis covers his mouth with his sleeve, giggling behind his hand. 

Francine gives him a narrowed stare, “What?”

“Pompous ass?” Louis bites his lip, eyes crinkled as he teases Francine, who jabs him in the ribs with her long fingernails. Louis gasps, jumping back in a fit of laughter, hands slapping hers away.

The entrance to the frat house is littered with drunks the moment they hit the lawn, strobe lights flashing from inside. The door is wide open, essentially allowing whoever feels like having a good time inside. It eerily reminds him of “Hotel California,” only without the drugs. 

Well. There’s probably drugs. Perhaps this is “Hotel California.”

They step inside, an overwhelming flood of humidity falling against his skin, the stench of man and alcohol engulfing his senses. He grimaces as he lets Francine drag him through the living room, passing by overly affectionate couples and dumb frat boys who slosh solo cups in their hands.

“Fran! Lou!” Kaholo calls out, wearing a dark blue suit, embroidered with gold, a dark red handkerchief in the front pocket. It’s an odd look, but Louis finds himself admiring it.

“Hey Kaholo—“ before Louis can get a real greeting in, William is shoving a drink into his hands, clapping him on the back.

“Drink up! The night’s only just begun!” William bellows, eyes clouded over. Louis smirks, leaning to the side, muttering under his breath to Kaholo, “How many has he had?”

“Enough,” Kaholo takes William’s new drink out of his hands, who barely notices the action. Instead, he runs off with a girl Louis doesn’t recognize and out to the makeshift dance floor, where multiple people grind against each other.

In the kitchen, Louis milks his drink, sipping idyll as he watches party goers travel in and out of the vicinity. Francine and Kaholo have long gone, dancing against each other in a questioning way. Louis decides to blame it on the alcohol. 

Colors begin to blur together after a third drink, one of his hands gripping at the marble countertop to keep himself steady. He’s never been one to drink, and even when he did throughout high school, he was always a lightweight. Clearly, things haven’t changed.

Leaning against the counter, Louis looks up at the ceiling with fogged-over eyes, creating faces and shapes out of the popcorn bits that cover the white. A bear, a star, and…

Harry. He’s not looking at the ceiling anymore. Harry stands at the front of the kitchen, eyes dazed and pretty red lips parted, staring at Louis—and he’s drunk , not wasted, but clearly inebriated. He has a friend with him, at his side, who barges past to pour himself a drink from the punch bowl. The lanky friend hands Harry a drink, who takes it without his eyes ever leaving Louis’ face.

Louis grimaces under the stare, turning his face to the side. The tiny fray on his shoe has become the most interesting thing in the moment, the urge to lean over and pull on it tempting.

“Louis,” Harry slurs, stepping forward. He’s in a blissful state, Louis can see it on the way his cheeks blush, how the green of his eyes are glossed over. Not that he’s looking.

“Having fun?” Louis asks, voice warbly. He’s not in the mood to speak to Harry, but a bit of conversation never hurt. He can be civil, he’s not a child .

Harry nods in response to Louis’ question, a curl falling into his eyes. Without a second thought, Louis brings his fingers to Harry’s soft hair, pushing the curl back into place. Harry’s eyes widen at the movement, a slight frown on his open mouth. Louis freezes with his fingers still in the chocolate curls.

“Pretty,” Harry lines Louis’ cheekbone with his forefinger, eyes never leaving his face, lips set in a straight line. Louis holds his breath, heart racing as his mind scrambles for an answer, because what is he doing ?

“Thank you,” Louis whispers amidst the blaring music from the living room. Harry catches Louis’ eye, the background song muffling in his ears.

There’s… a flicker of some kind in Harry’s green eyes. From their proximity, Louis can see flakes of gold next to his pupils. He wonders if Harry can see the forest that lines his own eyes.

Silence. A deafening, bordering uncomfortable kind of quiet that seeps its way in Louis’ skin, fingertips numb when they touch Harry’s wrist. Harry has his hand on Louis’ bare waist, the flesh sizzling. 

“Wanna dance?”

He should say no. He should smack Harry’s hand off and get the hell out of there, maybe spit in Harry’s face for changing his entire demeanor toward Louis simply because he’s drunk. But he doesn’t. He flickers from Harry’s hand on his waist to Harry’s tinted eyes. He finds comfort in Harry’s stance, how he’s stood between Louis’ outstretched legs. It’s not threatening in any way; he could easily stand to his full height and walk away.

He doesn’t. Instead, he nods, lips parting with a dizzy slush in his mind as Harry intertwines their fingers, gently pulling Louis behind him. Louis stares with clouds in his eyes at the muscles pushing through Harry’s flush shirt, his shoulder blades shifting with every move. 

Harry spins around, hands on Louis’ waist, pulling Louis in cautiously, as if he knows Louis’ apprehensive. And he is, he certainly is, but his beating heart is aching for the touch, craves the affection he hasn’t felt from anyone, especially Harry, in so long.

Is it the alcohol that’s making him dizzy, or the cologne spritzed on Harry’s skin? Either way, he can’t bring himself to leave Harry’s neck, nose touching the taut tendon that runs along the side. Harry moves his hands around to Louis’ back, fingers barely touching the top of his jeans. 

Louis’ not much of a dancer in any sense of the word. He assumes the wallflower position in most party scenes, but he feels himself flush against Harry’s hips, moving in sync to the club music that blares from the oversized speakers that one of the frat boys probably used their scholarship money to purchase. The song becomes mush in Louis’ ears, hyper focusing on his heartbeat and Harry’s breath against the front of his neck.

He’s leaning back, Harry’s nose dragging down Louis’ neck. He rests his arms on Harry’s shoulder, fingers playing with the curls on the back of his head, hips gyrating into Harry’s, head falling back as his eyes close. His lips pop apart, heavy breaths flowing into the humidity surrounding him. If Harry wasn’t holding him, he’d surely fall.

Harry places an open mouthed kiss to the bottom of Louis’ neck, between both of his collarbone, and—no. No.

He won’t allow himself to feel this, allow himself to think after this Harry won’t be a complete asshole and everything’ll be fine, they’ll go back to being at least friends and Louis won’t leave English class feeling humiliated in some way or another, whether because Harry said something or because Louis allowed his thoughts of something brighter to hurt him once more.

He pushes a dazed Harry off, shoulders rising from his rapid breaths. Harry stares at him, confusion evident on his features, pupils dilated, and no. This will not do.

Harry’s drunk. Louis’ getting there. That’s the only reason Harry isn’t acting repulsed by him. He can feel tears line the rims of his eyes, fingers trembling at his sides, regret pulsing in his arteries. He takes in a shaky breath, and turning on his heel, nearly runs to the front door, pushing couples and wasted students out of his way, ignoring Harry’s pleading protests.

On the sidewalk outside, he wipes at his watering eyes with his sleeve-covered hands, wet breaths leaving his lungs. God, how could he let himself do that? Let himself stoop down to receive affection from someone who, literally yesterday, exuded annoyance with Louis’ presence without even trying to hide it?

That night, cuddled in a multitude of blankets, face freshly cleaned with tear stains on his cheeks, he listens to his “sad sad sad” playlist, holding himself in a fetal position as he dips into a sleep filled with dreams of soft things that he won’t be able to recall in the morning.

. . .

Afternoon falls through the cracks of Louis’ blinds, lining his exposed arms. His feet are covered in thick socks, a gift from a few birthdays ago, toes tapping against air to the song playing from his phone. 

His laptop is sitting in his lap, multiple tabs open to various web pages (one that’s Tumblr, but to anyone else, it looks like he’s studiously doing his homework) when Thorn enters the room, a bag of food clutched in his gloved fist.

“Hi!” Louis grins, greeting his aloof roommate. Thorn gives him a curt nod, throwing himself onto his own bed. Louis notes how Thorn awkwardly opens the bag of food, then proceeds to quite literally shove a sandwich into his mouth.

He shrugs to himself, politely moving his music into his earbuds and continues scrolling through Tumblr, reading poetry from amateur writers and finds himself enjoying one in particular. He’s about to send a message to the author, asking for permission to print it out (so he can hang it onto his wall, but they don’t need to know that part), when his phone dings in his ears. 

It’s a message from Harry. Louis squeezes his phone in his hand, the ridges of the phone case imprinting on his skin from how hard he’s holding it. The images of the previous night flood his mind, humiliation and hurt and something else pounding against his skull. He can’t bring himself to open the message just yet.

Closing his laptop slowly, watching the Apple logo on the top fade from its usual brightness, he opens the message, taking a breath.

He’s expecting a stupid link, or more irrationally, a text filled with hate and disgust for their actions last night. The sensible part of Louis knows that last night wasn’t that bad; he’s done more humiliating things in his life than dance provocatively with his ex best friend who despises him (for whatever reason). But… he’s counting on the fact that Harry hasn’t done something more humiliating than that, and more importantly, in front of his peers.

The message gives Louis whiplash;

hey louis...i just wanted to say i’m so sorry about last night. that shouldn’t of happened and i feel like you deserve a real explanation of some kind, or a better apology than i can give through text. i was hoping you’d be up to meeting at the café near the campus bookstore, and maybe work a bit on the paper ? if you want

Louis stares at the message for a long while, longer than he meant to. He didn’t expect Harry to apologize , out of every possibility Louis conjured in his mind. He assumed Harry would go back to being childish, ignoring him in class and making unsolicited comments about his outfits or stickers or whatever Harry could think of doing that day. Instead… he apologizes.

And he wants to meet up. 

The petty part of Louis wants to tell him to fuck off respectfully. The mature part wants to hear what he has to say and go back to their usual dynamic.

His stomach grumbles with hunger when Harry sends another message;

i’ll pay for food if you want

How can Louis say no to free food?

With hesitation, Louis replies that he’ll meet him there in twenty minutes and leaves it at that. Thankfully, he’s mostly dressed, so most of the twenty minutes will be spent walking to the café. He doesn’t bother with putting on any makeup or adding anything extra to his current outfit. Instead, he throws on a pair of tennis shoes, giving himself a moment to admire his gold anklet.

Shaking his head, regret for agreeing already filling his thoughts, he heads out the door, his oversized crème sweater showing off his collarbones, the jumper ending just below his hips. His calves are on full display, tanned and toned. He speeds down the sidewalk, anxious to get the talk over with. 

Halfway there, he realizes he forgot his laptop and internally groans to himself. If he turns back now, he’ll be late to the café, which would give Harry an excuse to pester him over that , so he continues walking, cursing at himself for forgetting the one thing he actually needs, because finally Harry is willing to work on the paper with him (of course, this is after an unfortunate turn of events in which Harry is forcing himself to be cooperative, but nonetheless, it’s progress).

So that’s how Louis looks at this whole thing; it’s progress. Not to become friends, but to become better work partners. Just partners.

When he opens the café door and the bell dings, he scans the vicinity in hopes Harry hasn’t arrived yet. His luck is thrown out the window when he meets Harry’s eyes, who has his own laptop set up at a booth near the left side. Reluctantly, Louis shuffles between tables and chattering students, taking a seat in front of Harry.

The first thing he notices is how Harry’s eyes flicker from his face to his exposed collarbones, and he prays Harry doesn’t notice the crawling blush that’s beginning to appear on his cheeks.

Whether Harry does or doesn’t isn’t noticed, because Harry points out how Louis didn’t bring his laptop.

“I forgot it, sorry,” he internally scolds himself for apologizing; he’s not the one who needs to apologize here.

“It’s fine…” Harry mumbles, slowly closing his laptop shut. He rests his elbows on the table, hands clasped together in front of him.

There’s an awkward silence between the two, with Louis staring at Harry’s drink and Harry… well. Louis’ not paying any attention towards the man, lost in his own thoughts which are screaming for this to be over and done with already.

“I…” Harry starts, faltering. His eyes flicker from the table to Louis’ face, his features softening, “I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Louis blurts, and it’s rude, they both know it, but Louis can’t find it within himself to be kind.

“I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that, I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just drunk and in a daze and you looked so pretty—“ 

Harry stops himself. He bites his lower lips, grimacing. Louis’ eyes shoot up from their focus on the cup to Harry’s face.

So. Louis looking pretty in Harry’s eyes wasn’t a simple drunk thought. Interesting.

“Oh—“

“I’m sorry. Um… I’m also sorry for being a complete dick about this entire paper, by the way. I’ve been letting things from the past affect me, and, those things should stay in the past, right? Like, that was so long ago…”

The past . The words ricochet inside Louis’ mind, muting Harry’s incessant rambling for a moment. Have the same things Louis’ dwelled over the past few weeks been plaguing Harry’s mind as well?

“Harry,” Louis places his hand over Harry’s clasped ones, eyes still stuck on the table in front of them. He takes a deep breath in, feeling Harry’s eyes on him, how his hands twitch beneath his own.

“I’m just… I’m sorry , Lou,” Harry sighs, and when Louis looks up to meet Harry’s eyes, they look more genuine and sincere than they have in some time.

So Louis forgives him, and forgives himself for his own actions that night, and they move forward. 

“Let’s just… work on the paper, yeah? I forgive you, we were both drunk, it was an accident, right?”

Harry hesitates. Louis can see something shift in Harry’s eyes, see how slowly Harry moves his hands into his lap. Harry gives Louis a silent nod, and wow Louis hates seeing Harry look like this. They haven’t been friends for a long time, he knows that, but there’ll always be an inkling of empathy for the boy in front of him. He can’t help it. He’s known Harry for far too long to let apathy cloud his judgement.

“Seriously, Harry, it’s fine.”

“Alright,” Harry whispers, eyes focused on something else. Louis wonders if memories of the two of them that night are flooding his mind the same way they’re flooding Louis’.

“So… that article you sent me the other night, I’m not gonna be able to use it.”

“Oh,” Harry meets his eyes, “Why not?”

Louis stifles a laugh, “It’s from Wikipedia, H. That won’t fly.”

Harry gives Louis a soft smile, rolling his eyes, “Oh, yeah, right, sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, it’s fine,” Louis moves to sit on his leg, leaning forward, “Now, have you found anything else?”

They spend the next hour or so looking through scholarly journals and statistics, deciding whether or not they’re credible for their paper. Harry ends up being much more easier to work with suddenly, as if the quick apology set him straight. Or… perhaps it’s all because of the precious night that allowed them to even have this kind of conversation.

At some point, Harry moved into Louis’ seat so that they could work together more easily, and a rhythm of ease is set back into place, one that they haven’t had in years. It’s as if they’re in Year 9 again, giggling over dumb things and Harry letting Louis vent about occurrences and Harry watching Louis with a look at sends light butterflies throughout Louis’ core.

It’s good. It feels good .

“Do you remember when Mrs. Bartle from across the road caught us egging James’ house that one time?” Harry brings up randomly. Louis falters as he types, hands moving away from the keyboard to rest in his lap. He gives Harry a curious glance, “What?”

“I was just thinking about it, ‘cause of that ad from the one video,” Harry points at the open YouTube tab on the screen, “About the dairy farm eggs, or whatever.”

Louis can’t help but laugh, covering his mouth with his hand as he shakes his head, “What?!”

Louis almost forgot how Harry’s odd brain worked, picking up on random little tid bits without a filter.

“I—“

“Of course I remember that. We got grounded for three days, but you snuck out later that night and threw rocks at my window like some weird romcom,” Louis rambles, reliving the memory in his mind. 

Harry smiles, nodding along, dimples on full display, “I can’t believe I never got caught!”

“I have a feeling your mom would’ve known you left the house,” Louis retorts, “You had this hyper-weird security system.”

“That’s still a thing, by the way,” Harry notes, “My ex girlfriend triggered the alarm so many times that my mom almost considered removing the whole thing, but then we broke up, so the reason for trashing it was gone.”

The idea of Harry dating someone without Louis knowing sends an unfamiliar icy chill down his spine. He remembers the days when he and Harry would talk about girls (or boys, in Louis’ case) at midnight and tell each other about their crushes and their first kisses and their first times. 

“Yeah,” Louis can’t help but whisper, his vocal cords barely working at that point. He shouldn’t let that affect him so greatly, yet it does, and he hates himself for that.

“Um, it was nothing,” Harry starts defending himself, “Dana worked with me over the summer, just a summer fling, you know how those go.”

“Why are you defending it?” Louis blurts, and he doesn’t truly mean to ask it, meant to keep it to himself, but he can’t take back the words, and Harry noticeably shifts in his seat. 

“‘Cause… ‘cause it was nothing,” Harry replies. The excuse is lame, but it’s an excuse that never had to be said, because of course Harry dated after they stopped being friends, and it wasn’t like that part of Harry’s life was important anymore.

Louis can feel a lump growing in his throat, so he swallows down some spit, blinking rapidly, “Yeah, of course.”

Harry crosses his legs, leaning forward, “Did you… date? Anyone?”

Louis glances at Harry, the look on his face unreadable. He shrugs, “Here and there. Dated a girl for a week just to make sure.”

Harry laughs a bit too loudly at that, shaking in his position. Louis smacks his arm, “Why are you laughing?!”

“You? Dating a girl?” Harry catches his breath, eyes popping, “No.”

“It happened! And I hated it. I knew immediately it wasn’t for me.”

“But you’ve known that, since like, forever. Why bother?”

He doesn’t want to get vulnerable, doesn’t want to say the real reason, that he wanted to fit in more with the other boys his age, wanted to be respected like the jocks and not have his friends pretend he wasn’t gay.

Because Harry was the only person who never once made it seem like him being gay was a phase. Harry knew before Louis did that he wasn’t straight, knew before anyone else. It was Harry who allowed Louis to openly be himself, and never once felt weirded out by it. Of course, until they drifted apart.

So instead, Louis shrugs again, “I was bored.”

Harry shakes his head at that, a grin slowly growing on his face, “You are… something else.”

“It’s not like you were there to stop me,” Louis immediately regrets it when the words leave his lips. He looks at Harry, panic overtaking his features, but is met with solemn eyes and a frown.

“I know,” Harry whispers, looking down at his hands, awkward tension suffocating Louis.

They’re silent once again. He wants to laugh from the uncomfortableness of it all, wants to shrug and pretend he never said it.

He doesn’t get a chance to change the subject, because Harry turns to face him fully, eyes set, “I regret the way our friendship ended nearly every single day.”

The words leave Harry’s mouth in slow motion to Louis’ ears. Without knowing it until that second, it’s what he’s wanted to hear for a long, long time. He wants to know why Harry drifted away from him, why he started to ignore his existence and then dissimulate like he didn’t know who he was in school. 

He wants to know what he did wrong.

He has the urge to ask, to hold Harry by the shoulders and shake him until he gets a real answer, but then Harry’s phone beeps and he’s scrambling to get his laptop back in his bag.

“God, sorry to end this so abruptly, but I’ve gotta get to my next class. We can meet up again soon, yeah?”

Louis only nods, lips parting as a sigh escapes. There’s so much more to say, so much closure Louis needs (and now that he knows how Harry feels, kinda , he thinks Harry needs some too). But the opportunity is gone, Harry is clearly in a rush, and by the time Louis replies with a soft, “See you in class,” Harry is out the door, the tiny bell dangling from the metal door frame ringing in his ears.

Despite his blunt remarks and the awkward moments, Louis leaves the café feeling lighter. Before, he assumed this would all be a forced apology and mundane work session, but now… it’s the beginning of where they left off in Year 10.

He hopes it is for Harry, too.

. . . 

A few days pass, both class days with Harry have gone exceptionally well and they’ve got a page done of their paper already, Professor Motz approving each part. They’ve got a main focus for their research, and Harry’s been sending more links and snippets of his writing for Louis to approve and look over. Sometimes, Harry even sends Louis a random meme he finds on Instagram, a tightness growing in his chest each time.

So, things are good.

They see each other again in class, where Professor Motz has everyone take a break from working on their research papers to dive into some required reading.

The book Professor Motz assigns is Night by Elie Wiesel, a depressing book but one Louis’ read enough times to know he’ll be able to ace the paper with ease.

He pulls out his planner, and with a click of a red pen, he’s ready to add in dates for checkpoints on the paper as the professor begins to list off requirements.

“Your thesis statement should be ready by our next class on Monday, which gives you the weekend to complete it. It’s alright if it’s not perfect, but I’ll be expecting everyone to have it done. If I see you trying to complete it during the beginning of class, I’ll take 5 points off the total grade of your paper.”

Yikes . Thankfully Louis won’t have to worry about that (he prides himself on having excellent time management), but something tells him that Harry will.

Beside him, Harry incessantly taps his foot against the blue carpet, a hand running through his hair.

“Uh, Harry? You alright?” Louis mumbles, glancing at Harry’s face. Harry turns to look at him, grimacing.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to get it done,” Harry admits, “I’ve got this big track meet during the weekend, then I have to finalize my psych project…”

He continues to ramble off his busy schedule, and Louis wants to listen, wants to pay attention but his mind is rattling over the fact that Harry’s actually… communicating. Talking to him like they’re friends. Spewing out a tangent with serious worry in his eyes.

“I’ll help you,” Louis exclaims, his tongue moving faster than his thoughts. Harry halts mid sentence, eyes wide as he gives Louis a questioning look.

“Are you sure? You aren’t like… obligated to help me.”

He’s right, technically. Louis doesn’t owe Harry anything . Harry’s done nothing to make Louis feel like he should do anything for him.

Except… he has , recently. The café discussion wasn’t much but it was enough to make Louis believe that Harry’s willing to try and be friends again, and he supposes that’s a start.

“I’m sure,” Louis gives a small smile, “Just let me know when and where you want to meet up. I’ve read Night a hundred times, so this’ll be a cinch.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Harry slides his rolling chair towards Louis, throwing his arms over the smaller boy’s shoulders, embracing him. Louis can nearly taste the cologne Harry adorns, the warm vanilla delightfully swirling in his brain.

Harry holds on for a bit longer than Louis’ comfortable with, so he taps his back once, twice before Harry leans away, a blush painting his smooth cheekbones. He’s biting his lip, and if Louis knew any better, he’d think Harry was embarrassed .

But why? Why on Earth would a hug give Harry a blossoming blush and a glaze over his dilated eyes? 

He doesn’t have the time to think about it too hard, because class is ending and everyone is packing to leave. Louis assures Harry once more that they’ll get it done, and he tries not to think of the award-winning smile Harry flashes as he leaves the lecture hall, butterflies swirling in Louis’ stomach.

. . .

Thursday morning flies by, classes attended and homework completed. In the afternoon sun, Louis lays out on the lawn with Kaholo and Francine, listening to Francine vent more about her psychology professor (but at least she’s got two of the many projects she has to finish by the end of the term). Louis mentions that her and Harry must have the same professor, which makes his friends give him a curious look.

“I thought you hated that guy?” Kaholo throws a handful of crisps into his mouth, 

“Hate is a strong word,” Louis winces. He doesn’t hate Harry; it’s more like a tender annoyance, a slight irritation that is quickly changing the more he and Harry talk.

“Sure,” Kaholo shrugs as Francine speaks up, “So you two are getting along?” she wiggles her eyebrows knowingly, “I saw how you two danced at the party last weekend.”

Louis flushes red in embarrassment, “We were drunk—“

“You were tipsy at best, mate,” Kaholo snorts, nearly inhaling one of the crisps, “You don't dance like that with your enemy.”

“We’re not enemies ,” Louis shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, “And… that was a mistake.”

“Why?” Francine seems genuinely concerned.

“Because…” Louis falters, picking at his nails, “Because it was. That shouldn’t have happened, I mean, he can’t just be rude to me one second and… and whatever he was then the next, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Francine nods, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“What’s so wrong with it though? ‘s all just for fun,” Kaholo mutters with a mouthful of crisps, barely coherent.

“Harry’s just…” Louis’ eyes slide over to the group of students dressed in track gear, shoes squelching against the muddy parts of the grass near the sidewalk, a couple yards away from Louis and his friends. He lets his sentence fade off, eyes locking on Harry’s figure.

“Just a second,” Louis rises from his relaxed position, wiping his hands on his jeans. Kaholo shoves another crisp down his throat, Francine giving him a knowing quirk of her lips.

Harry isn’t paying attention to anything but his track friends, laughing obnoxiously over something one of them had said moments before. Louis shuffles across the grass, anxious to cut into their vivid conversation, but anxious to ask Harry about when they should meet up next.

He flicks his hair out of his eyes, smiling brightly, “Harry!”

The taller man halts his movements, head turning to face Louis. There’s something off in his eyes, almost a kind of panic but more confused to see Louis there—which is odd, considering Louis spends most of his time on the lawn outside the campus, but perhaps Harry hasn’t caught on to that.

“Louis?”

Louis rolls on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back, “Was just wondering when you’d want to meet up? Over the book report?”

Harry darts his eyes between his judgemental friends and Louis, giving Louis an odd glare, “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Louis falters, body relaxing into a sulk, “What? You know, the book for—“

“Stop meddling in my business, Tomlinson. Go paint your nails, or something,” Harry mutters, his friends cackling behind him. Louis stares at Harry, appalled, a frown forming on his lips.

“Um… yeah, okay,” Louis nods once, spinning on his heel, embarrassment and shame and God knows what else rising in his throat, forming a pathetic lump. He swallows thickly, retreating back to his friends.

Before Kaholo can say anything, Louis’ grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder, furiously wiping silent tears from his cheek.

So much for progress.

. . . 

Sometimes, different songs feel different depending on your mood.

Louis feels this more greatly than he has before. A song plays through his phone’s speakers, a soft, twinkling sort of song that would usually put him in a good mood has made tears spill over his cheeks even more. Humiliation plays at his heartstrings, picking and prodding at his skin.

He thought that something had changed between him and Harry, thought that maybe they were on track to being friends once more. Apparently, he was naively stupid to ever think that.

Thorn isn’t around, so Louis plays his music as loudly as he feels necessary (without bothering the inhabitants on the other side of the wall—he’s still got manners despite his melancholy mood). He stares up at the pseudo vines hung on his wall, noting every tiny detail he can think of, to help get Harry and books and research papers off his mind. He hasn’t eaten since this morning but he can’t bring himself to walk to the kitchen and grab anything available. 

Instead, he lays flat on his back, arms spread out and sulks. And he hates it.

He doesn’t know what to do about Harry, and he can’t call anyone to talk about it. Imani is ultra busy this week with her own classes, and he fears Francine and Kaholo would just say, “I told you so,” something he doesn’t need to hear.

He’s interrupted by his phone dinging, the tone indicating a new message. With a lazy arm, he smacks around on his comforter until he finds it, pulling it up and in front of his face.

With a racing heart, Louis reads Harry . What he wants to do is go and delete Harry’s contact and go back to emailing mundane messages back and forth; it’d be better than the pain he feels in his chest, the tightening of his heart, and… why does he even feel this way? Why has he allowed Harry to make him feel this way?

He opens the message regardless, expecting some half-assed apology, but is met with something a bit more… endearing? Is that the word?

lou, i know you don’t want to hear from me probably, and i completely understand, but i need you to know what i said earlier today was uncalled for. i can’t really explain why i acted like that, but you don’t deserve it and i understand if you don’t want to help me anymore. my actions were inexcusable and you deserve a better friend, someone who isn’t afraid of how others will perceive them, which is what i suppose i do with my track lads. you’re a great person and i mean this in the best way; i hope you continue to do whatever makes your heart happy, because you look damn good doing it. i think i’ve gone a bit off track here, but what i really want you to know is that i’m so fucking sorry AGAIN. i keep hurting you and from now on i’m going to make a conscious effort to stop. if you don’t want to talk anymore or try and be friends again it’s fine, i understand. just let me know.

Louis’ eyes dart over the text repeatedly, confusion clouding his mind. About twelve seconds ago he was sure Harry hated him, didn’t want to be his friend, was putting on an act to somehow get under Louis’ skin, but now…

How does he even respond to this? There’s a hundred different questions overcrowding his mind, but the one thing he’s stuck on is;

You think I look “damn good” ?

Harry messages back seconds later;

absolutely.

Louis bites his lip, a blush blanketing over his features prettily. There’s dried tear stains on his cheeks, but suddenly he could care less.

I suppose I can forgive you then. But that was really shitty.

Louis isn’t the kind to curse, it’s simply not his thing; but he feels like this situation deserves it, he wants to make sure Harry knows how much this hurt him.

i know, and i’m so fucking sorry. can i make it up to you?

He reads the message, eyebrows furrowed. How could Harry “make it up” to him? He supposes there’s only one way to find out;

How?

Harry responds immediately;

i could come over today and we could work on the thesis, maybe watch a movie or something?

And--well. This is a completely different Harry from who Louis knew a few weeks ago. It’s reminding him of the Harry he’d known for years before. With a suppressed smile, Louis responds with an “OK” and sends Harry his dorm information. 

With that, Louis throws his phone to the side, sitting up. He probably looks like a right mess, fingers messing with his soft fringe as he looks down at what he’s wearing. The outfit he has on is the same one from earlier today, so he decides to switch into something more comfortable.

He eyes his silk pajama set folded neatly at the edge of his bed. With a lip between his teeth, he considers putting it on. There’s a small knot in his stomach, telling him not to, a small fear that Harry’ll say something about it that would come off as rude.

But then the text comes to mind once more, “ do whatever makes your heart happy, because you look damn good doing it ,” and Louis says screw it , changing into the pajamas, a hand on his tummy as he admires himself in his body mirror. Just for fun, Louis dabs a smidge of lip gloss, smacking his lips to spread it around. 

It’s incredible how Louis’ mood has given him whiplash in a single day. He woke up this morning believing Harry was his friend again, to thinking Harry actually hated him this whole time in the afternoon, and back to feeling appreciated in the evening.

There’s a faint knock on his door, and wow that was fast. Louis nearly slips on the carpet thanks to his socks when he opens the door, eyes locking with Harry’s wide ones.

“Hi,” Harry mumbles, swiping at his own fringe. The action is so cute it leaves Louis in a pile of giggles.

And that’s how the night starts. Louis sits on his bed with Harry as they start typing multiple thesis statements and ideas for how Harry could write his paper. Harry has yet to read the actual book, so Louis agrees to lending Harry his own copy, who at first protests against the idea but Louis insists, shoving the worn book into Harry’s chest. 

The majority of their time is spent sitting on Louis’ bed, knees touching as they watch some TV show Louis can’t remember the name of on Louis’ laptop. Harry seems to be really into it, eyes wide and jaw set as an action sequence plays.

After a few too many minutes of Louis staring more at Harry than the actual show, Louis shoots up to sit on his knees, shouting, “Alright then!”

Harry is startled out of his trance, eyes on Louis, “What? You don’t like it?”

There’s the faintest pout on Harry’s lips, one Louis wants to get rid of immediately, so he sits back down on his backside, soft, “I mean… it’s just not my thing? I’m sorry--”

“It’s fine if you don’t like it,” Harry chuckles, lips spreading into a stunning smile that would have Louis weak in the knees if he were standing (thank God he’s not, how embarrassing would that be).

With the laptop closed, Harry tilts his head, curious, “What else do you wanna do?”

Louis is reminded of their time as children, how Louis would never have a clear idea of what to do when Harry would come over and they’d spend twenty minutes making indecisive decisions on what they could do. He supposes some things never change, and the thought makes him smile ever so softly.

After a moment of thinking about it, Louis rises to his knees again, his shirt riding up on his waist, “Wanna read some of my poetry?”

Harry’s eyes lock on Louis’ bare skin for a millisecond before looking back up at Louis’ playful eyes, “Of course. It’s gotten better since we were 12, right?”

“I’d hope so,” Louis giggles as he scoots passed Harry on the bed, shorts riding up when he bends over under his desk, flipping through well-used journals and notebooks of the like, “Gotta find one that’ll impress you.”

“Anything you write is impressive,” Harry bites his lip, and Louis can’t see it, but he stares at Louis’ ass, pupils dilating. When Louis finds what he’s looking for, Harry dips his head down, screwing his eyes shut.

Louis sits back up, a brown notebook in his hands. He flips through the pages, eyes focused until he finds a particular page, “Here, this one, I like this one.”

He hands Harry the open journal, pointing to a doodle he did next to the words, “This one.”

Harry nods silently, reading aloud, “Summer’s day, swimming--”

“Don’t read it out loud!” Louis shrieks, throwing his hands over Harry’s incoherent words. Harry’s eyes flicker to Louis’, Louis locking in on the sage green that wraps itself around Harry’s pupils like a silk scarf. Without realizing it, Louis leans in, the touch of Harry’s parted lips on his palms enticing, soft.

Suddenly, teeth sink into Louis’ palm, and he squeaks, falling back on his shins, “Harry!”

Harry cackles, wiping his mouth a bit too obscenely, “What?!”

Without thinking, Louis grabs Harry’s wrist, biting animatedly on the soft part of Harry’s hand, just below his thumb. Harry snatches his hand back, alarmed, “Hey!”

“You bit me first!” Louis points at him childishly, falling into a fit of laughter. A hand rests on his stomach, eyes prickling with happy tears as Harry’s laughter echoes in the tiny dorm room.

Louis falls onto his back, legs flying into the air out from under his backside, Harry crawling down to the ground beside him. They lay side by side, hands nearly touching as they take in deep breaths, laughter dwindling down.

For a moment, Louis is brought back in time, when he would ramble on and on to Harry about the most insignificant things, and Harry would watch him like he held up the moon and stars, absorbing every word and thought that came out of Louis’ mouth.

When Louis turns his head to face Harry’s, he finds Harry already looking back at him, that same warmth and glow in his eyes as he remembers. It takes Louis’ breath away, eyes locked on each other, lips parting. Louis watches the way Harry’s eyes dart down his body and back to his eyes, a blush crawling over his entire body. The eye contact becomes too much, so he looks to his other side, biting his lip.

Louis’ never seen Harry as more than a friend when they were young, and in recent times, strangers. But now, as Louis turns back to look at Harry, who’s eyes have yet to leave him, he can’t help but feel stars glitter in his eyes, yet another blush covers his cheeks, his head dizzy and drunk on the idea that...

That there could be more.

It’s a silly, stupid thought. Louis curses at himself for even thinking that way and sits up, knees bent with legs apart as he rests his arms on his bony knees, looking down at the carpet. He can hear Harry shuffle into a standing position, hear his socked feet mesh over the tan carpet to Louis’ bed.

“It’s getting a bit late,” Harry notes, and there’s something distinct in his voice that Louis can’t pick up on, “I’ll see you later?”

“Absolutely,” Louis rises to his feet, because even though his mind is being plagued thoughts he simply cannot be having right now, he’s still got manners.

He walks Harry to the door after Harry slips his tennis shoes back on, eyes downcast. Harry clears his throat, Louis flicking his face up to Harry’s.

With precarious silence, Harry leans forward, pressing his lips to Louis’ cheek. The action isn’t unfamiliar; Harry would kiss his cheek all the time as children, a simple, friendly act. And yet, now, it seems as if there’s something a bit more to it, as Harry leaves his lips there for a bit too long, Louis leans into it, wondering if Harry can feel the heat of his cheek against his plush lips, the contact burning. Louis closes his eyes, face moving to the left—

Harry moves back upright, a small smile quirked at the corner of his pink lips. Louis picks at the ends of his silk shorts, suppressing a grin as Harry whispers a goodbye, closing the door behind him. 

Louis stares at the door as he walks backwards in a daze, the back of his knees hitting his bed. Falling backwards onto his comforter, he lets out a breath, bouncing from the impact. With arms outstretched, he lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

He is doomed .

. . .

After a few more classes together, two weeks have passed since Harry came over and had Louis red all over. They turned in their exemplary book reports earlier in the day during class, confident with their work. 

The kiss Harry gave Louis on the cheek has played over and over again in his mind, making him hot all over at the thought that… that….

Why would Harry like him? Especially after not seeing each other for a few years, after the way they ended things, which was more like drifting apart without a real conclusion to things, a real explanation as to why Harry started looking at Louis in a way that painfully tore at his heartstrings.

It doesn’t make sense, but he wants it to. He needs to know. 

So he calls Harry up and asks him to come over, with the full intention of getting words out and getting the explanation Louis’ wanted for longer than he’d like to admit.

Instead, Harry invites Louis over to his dorm, wanting to celebrate their finished book reports. It’s not exactly what Louis had in mind, but at least they can still talk, if it comes up.

He sort of hopes it comes up, because he can’t have these butterflies in his stomach if he doesn’t know what Harry’s intention is.

For all he knows, Harry could still be trying to mess with him somehow. He could be playing some kind of mind game on him and the idea kills him, makes him feel guilty for wanting to write epic poems about Harry’s lips alone.

He arrives about twenty minutes after the phone call, hands clammy wrapped around the strap of his backpack. He flicks his hair out of his eyes warily, looking down at his outfit.

Now that he knows Harry thinks he looks “ damn good ” in whatever he wears (not that he dresses for anyone else), he didn’t think twice about the light pink knit sweater he threw on. He’s also sporting some long, frayed jean shorts that hit just above his knees, his gold anklet glittering from the fluorescent lights above in the dorm hallway. He rolls on the balls of his feet, waiting for Harry to open the door.

The door swings open, Harry’s eyes wide as he scans Louis’ body. His eyes land on Louis’ glossed lips for a moment before going back to his eyes, an open mouthed smile plastered on his pretty face.

“Hey Lou,” Harry sidesteps from the doorway, “Come on in, sorry it’s a bit of a mess.”

His dorm is anything but a mess; yes, there’s a few pieces of clothing at the end of his bed and some clear wrappers on his desk, but other than that, everything is well put together. There’s some miscellaneous posters hanging on the wall where his bed is, and his window is wide open, the sounds of birds and students laughing faint inside the dorm room.

It’s cozy, and nice, and Louis wouldn’t mind staying in here forever. The atmosphere is inviting, not at all awkward, and it reminds him so much of a Harry he knew before that he could cry.

But he doesn’t, and instead eyes the 6-pack beer laying on Harry’s bed.

“Beer?” Louis tilts his head, eyes flickering back and forth between the alcohol and Harry’s goofy smile— God , what is up with him today?

“Of course, we’re celebrating!” Harry grins, shutting the door when Louis steps in fully. Louis sets his bag down next to the door, watching Harry move around. 

Harry moves to sit on his bed, which has been made into a nest of some kind, pillows lined against the wall and headboard. He’s got several blankets piled up, and what appears to be a bowl of popcorn in front of the laptop, which is open to Netflix.

Louis toes his shoes off, stepping toward the bed with jitters running down his spine. Harry smirks, patting his lap for Louis to come sit. It’s clearly a joke, but Louis has to look away and bite his lip, fingers trembling at his sides, turning more red than the nail polish that adorns his nails. 

He can hear Harry shuffle some more, and when he looks to see what he’s doing, he frowns.

Harry’s sat on the ground, popcorn bowl in his lap with his laptop in front of him. He smiles kindly up at Louis, “C’mon, you can pick the movie.”

“Oh, alright,” Louis shuffles down to the ground, crawling into a spot next to Harry. He decides then that they’re probably not going to talk about anything at all, and for now, he allows himself to accept it.

They pick a movie, a foreign film both of them have never seen before, the title immediately escaping his mind as soon as Harry clicks play. He hands Louis a bottle opener, his beer already halfway down. So it’s gonna be that kind of afternoon, then.

The movie ends up being a tad funny, with Harry cackling loudly, head thrown back and nearly smacking it against the wood bed frame behind them. Louis giggles more at Harry’s reactions than anything, biting his lip. Harry turns to look at Louis, small tears in his eyes from laughter.

“This was a great pick,” Harry compliments him, eyes flickering down to Louis’ lip gloss once more, “I like that shade on you.”

“Oh, thanks,” Louis taps his chin self-consciously, hands covered from his sweater, “I just got it.”

“I thought you wore that one all the time?” Harry questions, genuinely curious, Louis shaking his head.

“I own more than one lippie, who do you think I am?” Louis smirks, flicking his hair out of his eyes. Harry simply shrugs, turning back to the movie. 

A particularly funny part comes on once more. Harry slaps his hand down in laughter, missing his knee as it lands on Louis’ thigh instead. Louis darts his head down at the action, honing in on the warmth he can feel through his jeans. He can hear Harry’s breath hitch as his hand slides down from his thigh to Harry’s knee.

With hesitance, Louis lifts one of his hands from his lap, inching closer to Harry’s. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, no longer paying attention to the movie, as Louis sticks his pinky out, touching the back of Harry’s hand.

He hasn’t looked up to see what Harry looks like, if he’s even bothered by the action. Clearly, he’s not, because then Harry’s pinky is wrapping around Louis’ and—huh.

Louis likes this, is thriving from it. Maybe it’s the alcohol or, more likely, it’s the confirmation Louis needs for the moment.

That Harry is bullshitting him, or playing some game, or perhaps he is and he’s a damn good actor. Has probably taken some tips from Thorn, or something.

Louis prays that’s not the case, because now the butterflies in his stomach are too intense to ignore, the trembling of his finger around Harry’s persistent. 

With that realization, Louis takes a long swig of his beer that he was previously milking, with Harry cheering him on beside him, his laughter loud and pretty in Louis’ ear. It’s a kind of laughter Louis could write poems upon poems about, one that he could sway to with his arms wrapped around himself.

The movie comes to an end, Harry clapping as if they’re at an actual theatre. Louis rolls his eyes at the gesture, opening another beer.

At one point, Louis has drank more than expected and stumbles around Harry’s dorm, pointing at things he likes and asking more incoherent questions than necessary. Harry indulged all of them, chuckling at every slip up of the tongue or trip over air. 

Louis sits criss-crossed on the carpet, eyes glazed over with Harry standing in front of him, his face full of fond and light.

“Tired?”

“A bit, yeah,” Louis smiles, covering his face with his sweater-covered hands, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Harry smiles, crouching down in front of him.

“I don’t drink often,” Louis rubs his eyes.

“Clearly,” Harry hums, holding his hand out, “It’s late, and I don’t want you walking home. You can take my bed.”

“Sure?” Louis yawns, taking Harry’s hand and rising to his feet slowly, with a bit of effort. Harry nods, helping him to the bed.

“Are you drunk?” Louis mumbles as he crawls into Harry’s bed, too tired and out of it to slide underneath the covers. 

“A little, why?” Harry grabs one of the blankets from the end of the bed, throwing it over Louis.

“Don’t wanna be a bore,” Louis closes his eyes, nuzzling into the pillow. Harry frowns.

“You’re never a bore, Lou,” Harry sighs, tucking the blanket in. Louis opens his eyes, the rims red with sleep.

“Is that why we stopped talking?” Louis blurts, slurred. Harry falters, turning his head to the side.

He seems to collect his thoughts, leaning over on the bed, elbows resting beside Louis, “No. I never intended to leave you.”

“Sounds like we broke up or something,” Louis chuckles, dropping consonants. There’s a hint of sadness embedded between the laughter, caught by both of them.

Harry lays a hand against Louis’ warm back, rubbing circles, “I was stupid back then. I’m being stupid now.”

“How?”

“I keep fucking up, yeah?” Harry exhales, placing a kiss on Louis’ soft cheek. Louis doesn’t bother suppressing his grin, nuzzling the side of his face more into the pillow.

“Mm, no, just sweet,” Louis brings his hand out, grabbing nothing, “Really nice. Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Harry swallows a lump in his throat, “More than anything.”

“Mm,” Louis hums, eyes shut, jaw slack. Harry wipes his eyes, and Louis can’t see it, but there’s tears forming at the rims.

“I’m sorry, for everything,” Harry places another kiss to Louis’ cheek, “I’m sorry for the pain.”

“I forgave you a long time ago,” Louis rolls onto his back, arms spread out. His eyes are still closed, missing the way Harry wipes a stray tear from his face. 

“Good,” Harry moves away, grabbing a blanket and one of his pillows, “Goodnight, Lou. Get some rest. Hope you don’t have a terrible hangover tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Louis opens his bloodshot eyes, “Wait.”

Louis grabs Harry’s hand, pulling him back. Harry halts his movements, dropping the blanket and pillow. 

“Yes?”

“Don’t… don’t wanna be alone,” Louis stares at him, unfocused. Harry nods, sitting up onto the bed.

“I’ve got a twin-sized, it’s kinda small—“

“I don’t care,” Louis pulls Harry into his embrace, who goes willingly. 

They rearrange themselves, eventually fitting together with Harry’s chest as Louis’ new pillow. Louis reaches up, playing with Harry’s hair.

Louis promptly passes out, Harry watching the way Louis’ back rises and falls. He can’t find himself to care about the potential drool piling onto his shirt as he holds a snoozing Louis.

. . . 

Sunlight beams through the plastic blinds of Harry’s tiny window, blazing into Louis’ eyes. Louis stirs, groaning as he stretches his arms up. 

His hand hits something made of flesh, a noise that’s not his own emitting through the room. Louis opens his eyes, staring at the arm in front of his face.

He hyper focuses on the way his legs are wrapped around Harry’s, one of his arms asleep from being trapped under Harry’s body. His hair is a mess, eyes barely open from lack of sleep and a growing hangover.

With a rising heartbeat that has no promises of slowing down anytime soon, Louis sits up, promptly sliding off the bed. Harry seems undisturbed, casually rolling onto his side and letting out a quick groan that shoots straight to Louis’ groin before falling back into a deep sleep.

His lips quiver, confusion sweating across his forehead as he slips his shoes back on, grabs his bag, and heads out the door with as little noise as possible.

. . .

Messages from Harry continue to be ignored as Louis paces back and forth in his dorm, Thorn laid back on his bed with a giant book in his hands.

Louis throws a hand through his hair, keeping his breathing steady as another ding from his phone sounds. Thorn puts his book down, raising an eyebrow toward Louis curiously.

“You good, roomie?”

“Not really Thorn,” Louis halts his movements, facing Thorn, legs spread wide in his stance, “I think I’m in love with… someone.”

“Oh,” Thorn sits up, setting his book aside, “What makes you think that?”

“Well, I’ve never actually been in love before, but I’m pretty sure it feels like shit,” Louis holds a hand to his chest, willing his heart to stop racing so dang fast.

“Not sure I would explain it that way, but,” Thorn throws his legs over the side of his bed, “Why is this a bad thing?”

“He’s my best friend from childhood, and we haven’t spoken in years and whoop dee doo! He suddenly goes to my university and we’re paired for a project and we’ve been talking more and I slept over at his dorm and woke up in his arms but before that we danced at a party and I didn’t totally hate it—”

“Okay, firstly, stop talking,” Thorn rubs his temples, “Secondly, I had no idea you were gay—“

“What? Really? I kinda thought it was obvious—“

“That’s not really important right now,” Thorn looks up at him, “But seriously. What’s the big deal?”

“He could be playing me,” Louis begins to count on his fingers, “He could be making me think we’re friends again just to… I don’t know, manipulate me in some way? Or maybe he’s not, but then what if he doesn’t feel the same and then we’d stop talking and I would hate that because I’ve missed him so much—“

“Enough with the rambling, man,” Thorn sighs, annoyed. He leaps from his bed, feet thumping against the floor, “Clearly, you need to talk to him. Tell him how you feel, straight up.”

It’s as if the universe is pulling the worst of strings on Louis’ life, because then there’s a knocking at the door. A voice from behind shouts, “Lou? It’s Harry, you in there?”

“Oh fuck,” Louis heaves over, hands on his knees, “I’m gonna be sick.”

“You’re so dramatic, and this is coming from a Drama student,” Thorn rolls his eyes, walking toward the door. 

Before Louis can protest, Thorn swings the door open. Harry stands at the doorway, hands full of things in grocery bags and seemingly out of breath. Louis turns to face the window, eyes wide.

“I’m just… gonna go,” Thorn clears his throat, “Good luck Louis.”

“Good luck?” Harry questions as Thorn leaves, promptly shutting the door behind Harry, who’s stepped inside cautiously.

Louis takes a deep breath in, before spinning on his heel, taking in Harry.

Harry stares at him, confused and borderline worried, “Hey, sorry, I just… I was worried ‘cause you weren’t answering and so I… I brought chocolate?”

“What? Why?”

“Well I don’t know if I did something to upset you, and I know you like chocolate when you’re upset, so I grabbed some on my way here…” Harry pulls out the chocolate, still looking in the bag, “And I found this pretty lipgloss I thought you’d like? It’s not, like, a brand name I recognize so I hope it’s nice—“

“Why are you worried?” Louis blurts, and it’s not supposed to come off as as rude as it does, but at this point his heartbeat is so strong it’s pulsing in his ears and he can’t think correctly because he loves Harry and he doesn’t know if it’s always been that way or if this is a new thing, but it’s evident now in the way his fingers tremble, aching to hold him as he did this morning.

Because this morning, Louis realized something. He’s loved Harry for a long time. Perhaps when they were younger, perhaps only in the few weeks they’ve been working together, he’s not sure, he’s not really sure about anything except that he loves Harry and the revelation is eating him up.

“Because… because I…”

Louis steps forward, taking the chocolate out of his hand and dropping it to the floor beside him.

“Please say it,” Louis whispers, blinking a few times. He’s about to go into heart failure but he can’t go much longer without a clear answer from Harry.

“I…” Harry bites his lip. Louis grabs his free hand, squeezing.

“Why did we stop talking, Harry? Why did we drift apart? What happened?”

“I just—“

“You still have my number from 5 years ago. Why is that?”

“I just forgot to delete it—“

“That’s bullshit,” Louis blurts, “ Why , Harry?”

Harry drops whatever else is in his hands and grabs Louis’ other hand.

“I was scared,” Harry whispers, nearly incoherent. Louis nods, slow, wanting him to continue.

“I never thought that… I was a coward, Lou. I still am,” Harry takes a breath in, eyes flickering between both of Louis’ eyes.

“Can you be brave? Just this once?”

There’s a beat of silence between them, Harry’s hands in Louis’ warm and soft and there , the only thing Louis can focus on.

“I fell in love with you,” Harry breathes, and if Louis wasn’t holding Harry’s hands he would have collapsed, “And that fucking scared me, terrified me. So I… I walked away. I didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t want you to… I walked away first. I couldn’t, I can’t handle your rejection, of any kind, so I…”

Louis swallows the lump in his throat, because now everything makes sense . The touches, the way Harry would look at him in the mornings after sleepovers, how Harry would blush when Louis would give him a silly wink or play with his hair during movie nights.

“And you did it in the worst way, huh?” Louis chuckles wetly, “Let me think you hated me.”

“I was such a fucking asshole,” Harry shakes his head, looking away, biting his lip, “I’ve been such a dick because… I don’t know. There’s no excuse for it. And I’m so sorry, Lou, I’m so sorry.”

With Harry’s face still turned away, Louis brings one of his hands up, fingers pressing on Harry’s chin. They’re closer than when the conversation first started, the tips of their toes nearly touching. Harry faces him again, eyes focused on the ground.

“H,” Louis whispers, “Look at me.”

With hesitance, Harry flicks his eyes up to Louis’, lips parted. Louis looks down at his lips, then back at his green, glistening eyes.

“Louis—“

Louis slips his lips against Harry’s, a simple press, nothing more. Harry’s hands glide up his sides to hold Louis’ face, lips dragging against each other’s. Their eyes are closed, noses gliding against cheeks as Louis walks backwards, toward his bed.

“Lou—“

Louis’ legs hit his bed frame, ass hitting the comforter. Harry leans down, keeping their lips sealed as Louis brings his hands to Harry’s sides, gripping at his waist.

“Louis, wait.”

Harry breaks the kiss, dazed. Louis breathes in heavy, blinking rapidly. His hands are still tight on the other’s waist.

“Yes?”

“I still love you,” Harry exhales, fingers trembling against Louis’ face, “I’ve always loved you. I should have never done what I did, I was young and stupidly naive. You… you’re everything.”

“I think I’ve always known,” Louis licks his lips, “I think I’ve felt the same for far too long without wanting to admit it.”

“But that’s… that’s not on you,” Harry sighs, frowning, “I fucked up.”

“You did, a bit,” Louis chuckles when Harry furrows his eyebrows, “Hey! You said it. Not me.”

“I just… the guilt has been eating me alive for so long—“

Louis presses another kiss against Harry, who immediately breaks it.

“Louis,” Harry rubs his thumb against Louis’ cheekbone, “I need you to…”

“To…?”

“To say it back,” Harry’s never looked more vulnerable in his life, the revelation almost scaring Louis.

Louis swallows, hands holding Harry’s wrists, gripping like he’s his lifeline.

“I love you,” Louis affirms, “Even after all this time, I think I’ve loved you since before we ever knew it, to be honest.”

There’s more to be talked about, more to be said. But for now, with Louis laying down on his back as Harry crawls on top of him, holding him tight…

This is enough.

. . .

Turns out, kissing is one of Louis’ favorite things to do. He kisses Harry as frequently as he can, taking whatever chance he gets to do so.

And Harry obliges, everytime. Especially after they turn in their research paper at the end of the semester, with their works cited and all.

They end up getting a fantastic grade, with complimentary notes from the professor herself. To celebrate, Louis invites himself over to Harry’s dorm, giddy and happy and feeling all kinds of love and fluff and mush.

Because now, they’ve talked, they’ve had their moments. They’ve sat for hours reminiscing on their childhood and making new memories everyday they spend together.

Such as now, with Louis sitting in Harry’s lap, raised on his knees as he kisses Harry—no shock there—hands pressed to Harry’s face.

Harry leans back against the headboard, holding Louis’ waist underneath his sweater as their lips glide against each other, tiny breaths escaping through their noses as Louis tilts his head, pulling at the curls at the back of Harry’s head.

“Should’ve been doing this years ago,” Louis mumbles against Harry’s lips, who hums in response as Louis leans in impossibly close. Harry’s hands slide down to Louis’ ass, squeezing when Louis lets a tiny moan slip through.

Abruptly, Harry holds Louis’ waist and pushes him down on his back, who falls with a laugh escaping his red bitten lips. Harry crawls over his body, kissing his neck, licking at his collarbones and leaving marks.

Harry hovers over him, raised on his hands. He stares with adoration present in his eyes, eyes flickering all over Louis’ face. Louis blushes from the contact, turning his face to the side. He bites his lip, suppressing a smile as Harry presses sweet kisses to Louis’ cheek and temple.

Things aren’t perfect. There’s unresolved things that still need to be discussed, tender spots that they walk past on eggshells, but it’s okay. It’s better than okay; it’s splendid.

As Harry moves Louis’ sweater up his torso and kisses down his stomach, Louis knows how he’ll finish that poem of his;

a sprinkled rain,

dots of old blue coating the pavement,

petrichor entering blooming lungs,

gusts of pain amidst the sweet,

a scintilla of predilection,

kisses of sweet,

what more could there be,

when the anguish of lost love

is found?