Work Text:
Harry’s not much of a partier.
As a semi-successful independent artist (look mom, his art degree didn’t go to waste), he spends most of his time holed up in his studio. It’s easy to get lost in his creative juices there, more often than not falling asleep on top of one of his sketchbooks. Both Louis and Niall make it their goal to take him out as much as possible, but he’s nothing if not stubborn, rebuffing their attempts with claims that he’s going to be broke if he doesn’t work.
He figures they both know that it’s mostly a lie.
Because of his hermit ways though, Harry feels wildly out of place in the crowded bar, sipping at his vodka cran. It’s raucously loud, crew members cheering and celebrating with Louis at the center of it all, like some sort of strange solar system. Quite unlike him, Louis looks like he’s right at home.
Niall, of course, has slipped right in at a table of flirtatious girls and boys, all of them fawning over him like he’s the next coming of God or something. Harry honestly has no idea how he manages to do it every time, but Niall is the nicest person he knows. He’ll flirt and smile and schmooze his way to a dozen free drinks and still manage to kindly turn every invite to someone’s home down. He’s a social butterfly on the outside and a hopeless romantic on the inside, inked words on the back of his tricep keeping him from indulging in too many flings.
If only Louis would do the same.
Harry knows like the back of his hand that Louis will get outrageously drunk and then end up taking someone home, stumbling into the back of a car in the wee hours of the morning. He’s seen it happen every time there’s an industry party like this. Hell, half the time, he’s the one to call the damn car for him, even if it tears at his heart to see Louis go home with someone else. At least he knows it means nothing. (He hopes it means nothing.)
Really, Harry should start drinking to match Louis’ pace, so he’ll at least be pleasantly drunk to numb the pain. The desire to keep Louis safe wins out though, and he has to be semi-sober for that to happen. He takes another sip of his drink, savoring the burn. Maybe tonight will be different.
“Hazza!”
Harry blinks and sees Louis stumble out of the crowd in front of him, half-drunk beer in hand. His smile is a bit sloppy, fringe all mussed like people have been running their hands through his hair.
“Hi Lou,” Harry says, patting the stool next to him. He watches with mild amusement as tipsy Louis tries and fails to clamber up, having to use both hands to push himself into the seat. “How are you?”
“I’m doing great! So good.” He frowns at Harry’s vodka cran. “Is this the only thing you’ve been drinking?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
Louis scoffs and waves a hand at the bartender, saying, “It’s a party, Harry! You’ve got to live a little.” He slides his beer bottle across the bar to the smiling bartender and orders two tequila shots before Harry can even argue.
“Louis, I’m not looking to get wasted tonight,” Harry sighs, rolling his eyes.
“It’s one shot, it’s not gonna kill you,” Louis says with a dismissive flap of his hand. “And besides, we’re celebrating me tonight, so you have to do what I say.”
Neglecting to say that he would probably do that regardless of the occasion, Harry snorts and shakes his head, accepting the shot and lime slice that’s slid in front of him. “Fine. Together?”
“Of course, Hazza.”
Carefully, he licks his back of his hand and pours some salt on, grimacing at the granules that spill onto his lap. Taking the lime slice off the lip, he looks over to Louis, who’s poised to take the shot, grinning at him.
“Ready?” Harry nods, and Louis counts down. “3, 2, 1.”
It’s quick and dirty, the way the tequila slides down his throat, followed by the sour burst of lime in his mouth. “Oh christ.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut as he lets his shot glass clink down on the counter. “That fucking sucked.”
He can hear Louis laughing at him so he flips him a middle finger without looking, tossing his head from side to side in an attempt to clear the burn. “Fuck off, Lou. You know I don’t drink that much.”
“I know that,” Louis giggles, “but I didn’t think you’d be such a wuss about one shot.”
Harry rolls his eyes and pushes Louis hard enough that he nearly falls off the bar stool. If he’d been any more sober, he probably would have been able to catch himself, but as it stands, Louis is a sloppy drunk who has no sense of balance. With a squawk, he fumbles for the counter, only regaining his balance when Harry reaches out to grab at his arm.
“Christ, Lou, how much have you had to drink?”
He pulls Louis up so that they’re standing toe to toe and any coherent thought flies right out of his head. It’s not that he doesn’t care about exactly how drunk Louis is, but when he’s so close to Harry, it’s impossible to focus on anything except for how pretty his eyes are and how the scruff on his chin makes him look handsomely older.
“Harry” – Louis pokes him right in the chest – “Are you even paying attention to me?”
Blinking, Harry refocuses in an effort to look less like a lovesick fool, but he’s pretty sure he fails on every level. “Um. Yes?”
With a laugh, Louis shakes his head and splays out his hand across Harry’s heart, saying, “Harry Styles, you’re a fucking piece of work.”
The whole world stops.
Well, it doesn’t, but it sure feels like it does to Harry. His heart just about drops out of his stomach, words burning into his forearm as he fishmouths. “Holy shit, Lou, Lou, shit–” There’s one moment of spiraling, brief elation right before everything comes plummeting back down.
Louis’ face turns white in a heartbeat, taking one wobbly step back. Harry can practically see the gears turning in his head, the denial already slipping into place.
“Lou, please,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. The cheers still echoing around the bar echo nothing but dread in his gut now.
Shaking his head, Louis backs up, dodging Harry’s outstretched arm, until he turns and runs for the door. It takes Harry far too long to start moving after him, brain still trying to process what the fuck is going on.
Louis is his soulmate? No, there’s no question about it, Louis is definitely his soulmate, but judging from his reaction, the feeling isn’t really reciprocated. That doesn’t make sense though, since the words are only said when each soulmate feels the same. Louis has to feel something.
Pushing open the door to the cool nighttime air, Harry looks up and down the street before he spots Louis turning down an alley not too far away. His heart is in his throat as he runs, desperate to catch up.
“Lou!”
Harry skids to a halt at the entrance to the alley, Louis leaning up against the wall just a few feet away. His head is tilted to the cloudy sky, chest heaving as he breathes harshly. “What do you want, Harry?” He sounds so apathetic to it all, such a stark difference to just a minute or two ago.
“Did you not– I mean you must’ve–” Harry stammers, hands shaking with the insanity of it all. “You must have felt something. Right, Lou?”
Before he’s even finished speaking, Louis is shaking his head, pushing off the wall with a distinct anger to his movements. “Harry… I’m not your soulmate.”
“You are,” says Harry immediately, rolling up the sleeve of his jacket. “Lou, your words are marked on my skin. You have to be my soulmate, please, I–”
He hesitates for a brief moment before pushing all in, because hell, he might as well leave everything on the table.
“I love you. I have for years, Lou, please. Tell me… tell me we can at least give this a shot.”
For one heart-wrenching moment, Harry allows himself to believe that everything is going to be okay. He can see the raw emotion on Louis’ face, the conflict that’s openly visibly warring within him. It’s that little bit that he clings to, the knowledge that Louis couldn’t outright say no, when Louis steels his expression.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I really am. But you’re my best friend.”
Harry scoffs, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears welling up. “That’s not an excuse as to why we can’t be soulmates.” His heart is breaking to pieces, and he’s just trying to hold the parts together until he can get home.
Louis steps forward, eyes shining with some sort of unreadable emotion, and just says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, “ before sidestepping Harry and leaving him alone in the alleyway.
Overcome with emotion, Harry crumbles to his knees just as the sky opens up and starts pouring rain. It mixes with the tears running down his face, drowning out the gaping hole that’s in his heart now. He feels like part of him has been torn away, each breath like a knife in his chest, tearing at his will to live.
He hears footsteps come up behind him, a gentle arm wrapping around his shoulders.
“Harry? You okay? Louis came rushing in and didn’t say anything except that you were out here and needed my help. Ran off when I tried asking for more details.”
Niall’s voice is dripping with concern – and alcohol – and it’s just a reminder of how quickly things had swung south.
“Tonight was supposed to be a night of celebration,” Harry says brokenly, tilting his head back so the rain splatters directly onto his face. “And instead, all I got was heartbreak.”
“Harry, what–”
“Louis is my soulmate, Ni.” He hears Niall take a sharp breath in, but delivers the less than comical punchline before he can start to say anything, fingers digging into his soulmark. “He doesn’t want me. He’s my fucking soulmate, and he wants nothing to do with me.”
Niall is silent for a long moment, rain drenching both of them to the bone.
“Fuck.”