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So we are taking off our masks, are we, and keeping
our mouths shut? as if we'd been pierced by a glance!
The song of an old cow is not more full of judgment
than the vapors which escape one's soul when one is sick;
so I pull the shadows around me like a puff
and crinkle my eyes as if at the most exquisite moment
of a very long opera, and then we are off!
without reproach and without hope that our delicate feet
will touch the earth again, let alone "very soon."
It is the law of my own voice I shall investigate.
I start like ice, my finger to my ear, my ear
to my heart, that proud cur at the garbage can
in the rain. It's wonderful to admire oneself
with complete candor, tallying up the merits of each
of the latrines. 14th Street is drunken and credulous,
53rd tries to tremble but is too at rest. The good
love a park and the inept a railway station,
and there are the divine ones who drag themselves up
and down the lengthening shadow of an Abyssinian head
in the dust, trailing their long elegant heels of hot air
crying to confuse the brave "It's a summer day,
and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world."
Frank O'Hara
The summer collapses at the middle of August, sugared berries packed away into the freezer. Louis tucks his ankles under the dirt edge of the river, converse just kissing the water while Niall reads from Emerson’s Nature. Louis lets his fingers play along the bleached blue surface of his knees, the jeans full of holes and memories of a younger self.
*
These last days, a tired surgery, a jobless summer keening into the hot temper of another academic year. Louis trills his fingers Monday through Friday of schedule-grabbing, and plans made. That Sunday he finishes Sartre’s Being and Nothingness and avoids the image-driven trip to church with his family.
He dreams, like he always does, of lunar cycles of five days, of melancholia and a piano—of a pair of hands too big for his own.
*
Youth, the skin of it, is much more finite than his own skin. Already his naïveté is leaving on the steady rum-soaked nights and their exhales.
Louis looks about the party, hair gelled like in second year, like when he still knew what he was or it was easier to be one thing. Nerd, Jock, Bad Boy. What a sting of relief to have a place based on a few attributes alone.
But the gel dries and flakes and this time around it makes Louis itch beneath the argyle sweater. He’s not sure who he wore this for. He can see Niall a few conversations away, chatting idly, looking much more normal and right in his bones.
Quiet, Louis climbs the staircase back to the first floor of Kayla’s house, and leaves through the front door.
*
The asphalt is cool on his feet, vans removed and secure in the hand that doesn’t hold a red solo cup of cake-flavored vodka. If he were sober, he might mind the taste.
His fingers flit against the neck of the air, Concerto in D-Major a restless ode to summertime in his ears. Fireflies are slow and sugary around him. He always used to plug them up in mason jars, keep them for himself, until he felt guilty and would let them out.
Stumbling onto his doorstep, screen door irresponsibly open, Louis thinks how good that kind of freedom must taste.
Tomorrow is the first day of senior year.
*
“You asked for my opinion. This is what I think.”
“I know, Z, but band t-shirts? Really? As if the entire student body didn’t already think I was pretentious.” Louis flips through the Goodwill rack, a Pink Floyd and Rolling Stones t-shirt both poised on his wrist.
“You are pretentious,” Zayn intones, “but you’re not some, like, skinny dweeb anymore, babe.”
“Oh, like I ever was,” Louis grumbles. “Was just a bit more flamboyant with my choices. They suited me pretty well, thanks very much.”
“That was then, this is now.”
“Time passes fast or not at all,” Louis echoes, his fingertips parting the clothing quickly. “This absolute black hole of a life.”
Zayn’s airy laugh catches in Louis’ ear. “I can see Niall’s transcendentalist kick hasn’t quite stuck with you yet.”
“It’s laughable,” Louis proclaims, much too loud, a boy across the way stiffening his broad shoulders at the disturbance. To hell with it. Louis loves being a walking disturbance. “Niall knows I’m somewhat of a nihilist, yeah? In every stupid sense of the word.”
“You’re just mad his heart got lighter,” Zayn shuffles on the other side. “Now who can you curse all of existence with?”
“Right,” Louis scoffs, secretly delighted to find a Nirvana shirt. “Look at what love’s gone and done him. You’d think the center of the earth had a cream filling.” He eyes the boy still stood at the edge of the book section. It’s obvious he’s listening to Louis’ conversation—his giant feet angled out like he’s thinking of interjecting.
Zayn hums, “It’s not like you to demean love. Last time I checked, anyway.”
“Well, Z, lots changed since you fucked off to Interlochen.”
Louis can hear Zayn’s smile through the phone. It’s not so much rare, Zayn’s happiness, but it is palpable. When he’s happy, it’s felt by everyone in the room. “Still want me to send you my manuscript?”
“What’s the theme,” Louis asks, walks around the rack to the other side. He can feel movement beside him, the boy now standing where Louis was, inspecting the t-shirts for himself.
“Religion,” Zayn lists, “spirituality.” He pauses. “Love.”
“Love, spirituality, and religion,” Louis laughs, slight, “all the things that escape me.”
Zayn is quiet for a moment. “You will read it, won’t you?”
“Of course, Z,” Louis bites his lip. “Like I’d pass up the chance to digest some real writing for a change.”
“Thanks. How’s that Violin Concerto coming, by the way?”
Louis opens his mouth to respond, but his eyes flit up to a broad chest in front of him. A gold cross hangs around his neck on a delicate chain. The shoulders match the boy Louis caught sight of before, and he doesn’t know how he forget them—the way they look, how many nights he imagined gripping at them—
“Z,” Louis thinks he says, “can I call you back?”
“Yeah,” Zayn clips, “I’ve gotta get Doniya from school. I’ll text you later?”
“Yeah,” Louis swallows. “Great. Love you.” Louis slides the phone from his ear, eyes finally meeting the boy’s, orange flaring around the edges of his vision.
Because it's not just any boy, really. It's Harry Styles. Golden boy of Traherne High School. Rich, built for a sports success story, and ratty and unshowered in front of Louis on a Monday. Of course.
“Louis Tomlinson?” His voice has dropped decibels since Louis last spoke to him a few months ago. His eyes still retain those same dreams inside the iris, the green an impossible color.
Louis raises an eyebrow and sniffs, disinterested, “Harry Styles.”
This wins him a smile, the kind that fills a room, gets him what he wants. Harry steps around the end of the rack to stand in full view of Louis, cross catching the fluorescent light, eyes scanning Louis’ much thinner frame. “No suspenders?”
Still a fascinating conversationalist, it seems. Louis turns back to the rack of clothing, acrid taste on his tongue. “Aesthetic tastes change, along with other things. Interests, personal philosophies.”
“Hm,” Harry purses his lips, “so I heard.” He lifts his hand to his ear, his fingers folded up into a telephone gesture. “And what did you believe in when you used to wear those red jeans? Liberty and justice for all?”
“Red jeans,” Louis taps his chin. Then, dramatically, “Oh, the ones you ruined?” Louis flicks his hair, securing it to the side with practiced fingers. “Obviously, I was an idealist.”
“And my vomit turned you into an anti-all good things sort of person?”
“Nihilism,” Louis puts a hand on his hip, turning to Harry, “is not anti-good anything.”
“Sure,” Harry grins, polished.
Louis breaks on a smile. “And if you’re curious—yes, I took you vomiting on me as a sign that there is no God.”
“I don’t remember it being that bad,” Harry tilts his head.
“You don’t remember much of anything,” Louis quips.
“I remember asking you to play me a song,” Harry counters, a small ‘v’ worrying itself between his brows. God, he is endearing.
Louis grabs a black cut-off and moves away from the section, “Private shows are in high demand.” Satisfied, Louis says over his shoulder, “And you harassed me, is more like it.”
“What if I ask politely,” Harry falls quickly into step beside him, eyes lidded like almonds.
“Listen,” Louis almost laughs, “you’ve got your circles, I’ve got mine. Best not to cross them, right?”
Harry touches his elbow, light enough to be ignored. “Is that what you really think?”
“I think I stopped concerning myself with image-obsessed personalities a while ago,” Louis brushes him away.
“And you don’t think it’s image-obsessed—or, like, concerned,” Harry again quickens his pace, determined to be next to Louis, it seems, “to be buying gritty band t-shirts at Goodwill?”
Louis turns on his heel and regards him calmly. He gestures to the book at home in Harry’s large hand. “What’ve you got, there?”
Harry holds it up, stare resolute and hard. Louis used to drop pencils in the hopes of having this kind of attention on him. “Art and Philosophy.”
“Very nice,” Louis nods. He enters the queue, thinks about orchestra in his second year.
Harry played the piano—gorgeously, fingers deft. Often he was assigned to play small pieces with Louis. They never talked, aside from discussing the emotion of the piece. Louis doesn’t remember him as particularly articulate, but. He’d been angry, then, in those cinnamon days--after the football team took to teasing him, after his parents divorced.
Louis shrugs one shoulder. “The boy with the red jeans and suspenders cared what hotshot footballers thought about him.” He places his clothes on the belt and greets the cashier hello. Then he looks briefly at Harry. “This one doesn’t.”
“I cared what you thought,” Harry murmurs, glancing up at the cashier. She meets his eye, stuffing the clothes in a paper bag. “Let me get this.”
“No,” Louis blurts out, avoids the look of displeasure he’s sure is on Harry’s face. He gives the girl a $20 and receives his change eagerly.
“Have a nice day,” she smiles politely.
“Thank you,” Louis takes the bag from her hands. Before he slides through the narrow space and out the back exit, Louis fixes Harry with a pointed stare. “Are you gonna do orchestra, then?”
Harry visibly tenses. “Louis.”
“You’re so talented,” Louis shakes his head, hands begging to be wrung in front of him. But he swallows down that disappointment. Harry always made him feel like a petulant child. “It’s a waste.”
The cashier glances between them, uncomfortable.
Louis spares her another second. “I’ll see you around then, Styles.” Harry grabs at his elbow again, the cold from his fingertips a bit of a shock.
“Wait. You’ll,” he sucks in a breath. “You’ll come to the game, right? Um, on Friday night? We’ve been training all summer…” he trails off. Louis looks at him, the young roundness to his face having faded. He’s still tan from the summer, doused in everything that makes him look warm and safe to fold into.
Barely audible, Louis says, “We’ll see.”
Harry nods, placated. “Alright, then.”
“Right. See you,” Louis feels the blushed breath slip out across his bottom lip, and leaves without another word.
*
Louis
SOS
Z
wha
Louis
a certain H. Styles at goodwill
Nialler
FATE
Louis
can u be reasonable for once niall
Z
im w/ Niall
its fate
Louis
if there is a god
which I HIGHLY doubt
he would not send some football idiot
to throw up in my lap
only to chat me up in the book section
two years later
at a fucking GOODWILL
Z
speaking of what shirts u get ?!
Nialler
shirts??????????
Z
lou’s gotta new wardrobe ha !
Nialler
whaT??????? is this why u wanna sell me your colorful jean selection ????
Z
he’s done w/ statement pieces lol
Nialler
no god no colorful jeans
Louis
fucking rite
Nialler
But what did harry say???????? I kinda like the lad
Z
he’s close w./ Li
Louis
whats that got to do wit anything
Z
idk Liams a puppy dog
he’d apologize 2 an ant for stepping on it
Nialler
so would I!!!!!!!
poor ants. They don’t even know how small they are
Z
…anyways
jus saying he’s prob nice u kno
Louis
he asked if id go to the game
Z
im goin
Nialler
ooooo juicy !!!!
Louis
what??? Z u hate that shit
Z
idk
i heard they might do well this yr
u kno actually win shit
Louis
whatever
you just want wank material
Z
Ya Allah
like u dont
Nialler
i think im gonna go FRiday!!!
get all school spirited up!!!!!
Z i can pick you up
Z
im gna be there early
Louis
Why
wait
dont tell me
Z
aight i wont
peace
Nialler
tell what?????
???
hello?????????
some great fuckin friends i got !!!
*
Louis
liam Payne? really Z
of all people
Z
we’re not 14 anymore lou
i dont hold grudges
Louis
no you just forgive people that dont deserve it
couch it in some religious bullshit
Z
whatever man honestly
lol get fucked u need it
Louis
im sorry
Z
sorry
Louis
no it’s fine
Z
it’s fine
Louis
it’s not
i love how much you love god
I wish i got it
Z
u dont have to man
be a nihilist. atheist
who the fuck cares
jus dont be an asshole
Louis
Ok
Z
see u 2moro
xx
Louis
see you
*
Before school, Louis stops at Starbucks and picks up three coffees (black, two sugars for himself, mocha frappuccino for Niall, heavy on the whipped cream, and a vanilla latte for Zayn). After parking and maneuvering his black violin case and his backpack, Louis walks briskly towards the back entrance where some kids are smoking. It smells like stale beer.
Just as he bumps into the door, a hand comes up close to his head and pushes it open with ease. The anchor tattoo runs into other ink, revealing a fresh-faced Harry Styles. He grins, exceptionally cheesy, following Louis inside. “What do I have to do to get on the drink roster?”
“Go back in time, vomit on the grass to the right of you instead of me.”
“Again with the vomit thing,” Harry sighs. “Isn’t it a bit early to be discussing such bad memories?”
“Speak for yourself,” Louis replies, continuing on his way, “I like to think about bad things as early as six in the morning.”
“Is there really a ‘bad’ or a ‘good,’” Harry mocks, smiling through it with charm.
“I see you like to make bad jokes at early hours.”
“Who says moral absolutists can’t have fun?”
“Oh, is that what you call it these days? Not blatant stupidity?” Louis pushes through to the lunchroom, Zayn and Niall tucked away at a tables, cigarettes behind their ears. Third year they figured out that the cigarette was a symbol that warded off excess teasing. They just happened to like smoking, anyways, whether or not it worked.
“Hey, Tommo,” Zayn croaks, voice worn from sleep and eyes red-rimmed.
Louis almost laughs. “Did you bring a spliff for after school?”
“Fuckin’ duh,” Niall shoots Louis an incredulous look. He pats his jean jacket pocket and then glances at Harry, who has yet to leave.
“You guys smoke?” Harry directs the question to Louis. The surprise in Harry’s voice doesn’t really affect him, used to the rumors by now.
“Sure,” Louis exaggerates, “we do all the drugs. Every single one. I’m high as a kite right now on molly.”
“I like molly,” Harry grins, the dramatics either lost on him or none of his concern.
“Hm,” Louis licks his lips and looks Harry up-and-down. “Of course you do.”
“Anyways,” Niall chirps, “you want in, H? We can skip out on free period and smoke it.”
Harry blinks, eyes still trained on Louis, flickering once to his mouth. Uneasiness floods the pit of Louis’ stomach. “Yeah, sure.”
Louis frowns. “Well it costs quite a bit, this habit, so if you could be a darling and spot us…” he smiles mischievously, “fifty?”
Harry’s eyebrows rise far into his forehead. “Fifty?”
The bell rings. Zayn and Niall grab their coffees from the holder, Zayn placing the cigarette in his teeth. “Should I tell Mrs. Crawley you’ll be late, or?”
Louis waves, “She knows.”
Niall winks at him, pulling a package of pop-tarts from his bag. “Don’t be too long, I wanna copy your math homework before second period.”
“Sure thing, Nialler,” Louis pulls a cigarette from the carton and perches it behind his ear. He looks at Harry. “Well. Styles.”
“Where are you off to?” Harry blurts out.
Louis stills. “My…locker…”
“Could I walk you?”
“Um,” Louis itches his arm. “Why?”
Something passes over Harry’s face, as though realizing his forwardness. “Sorry. Um. Just thought, well—I like talking to you.”
The phrase falters in the air, milk thin and out of place. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Harry smiles, and it’s honest, “always have.”
The second bell rings, the cafeteria now empty, as well as the hallways. Louis looks at Harry again, the silence settling both of their movements. It feels too private. He sighs, faux-put out, “Well, now I’ll really be late because of you.”
Louis walks past Harry, his grin lighting up the whole of his face. He follows Louis into the hall, “Like you care about being late.”
“I do care,” Louis reaches for his locker, undoing the lock with ease. “But I’ve helped Mrs. Crawley enough after school that she spares me a few minutes in the morning.” He holds up the coffee, “it’s not for me, yeah?”
“You bribe her with coffee?”
“And I tutor her son,” Louis places the violin case at the bottom, gingerly. Even after four years of pestering, the school still could not spare enough money in their budget to build proper lockers for their award-winning orchestra. Some gratitude they’ve got, honestly.
“Glad to see you haven’t sold out,” Harry murmurs. He’s leaned up against the lockers, body long and sweeping. Louis grabs a notebook from the top shelf and slams his locker shut.
His smile is small, wry. “We all sell out in different ways.”
“Have I?”
Harry’s hair is getting longer—brown curls falling into his face. For what feels like ages, Louis traces each of his features in his mind, the way Harry’s grown into his nose, the reddening of his lips that always makes it look like he’s just bitten into strawberries.
The last piece they played together before Harry quit was Frances Lai’s Love Story, and—and nothing. If anything came of it, it allowed Louis to believe in coincidence, in the random events of the universe, in the reality that there was no point to any event. No meaning, unless he assigned it meaning.
Louis readjusts the cigarette behind his ear. “Of course not, Styles. Once a golden boy, always a golden boy.”
*
The party is red-tinted, mosquito lamps adorning the outside patio. Louis stands, just seventeen, flushed with alcohol. He’s smoking a cigarette, trying to sober up so he can drive home. He’s got to finish editing a persuasive essay and the last stubborn problem from his calculus homework. Louis flicks ash off the end.
Then there’s scales to be done, perfecting the mood of a recent piece. He hums his part, startled with another low hum that joins him.
Louis turns slightly to see Harry Styles at the door. They smile politely at each other.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” Harry hovers next to him. “Congratulations on first chair,” he murmurs.
“Thanks,” Louis pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, self-conscious. “Congratulations on, you know. Making the team.”
“It’s something to do, I guess,” Harry sighs.
“Well,” Louis offers Harry the cigarette, “better than smelling Grandfather Graham’s coffee breath.”
“Yeah,” Harry takes the cigarette from him, eyes focused on the ground when he inhales. “I’ll miss playing, though.”
It settles between Louis’ shoulder blades. Tucked away for when he can deal with it. “Couldn’t—” He pauses. “Couldn’t you have done both?”
“Probably,” Harry shrugs. “But I got offered a job, so.”
“Oh,” Louis nods.
“Yeah.”
The moon is noticeably large, full, an eggshell in an otherwise unremarkable sky. He can’t see any stars, can’t feel anything besides the chill working its way up through his feet. Louis hates when silence works this way. When it puts back up the barriers he tried to knock down.
Louis swallows. “Well, I’ll be heading out—”
“So soon?”
They look at each other.
“I’ve got loads of work to do,” Louis toes the floor, smiling a bit.
“Always the model student,” Harry shakes his head, playful. It’s enticing, that mouth and how it spreads clean with pleasure. He tilts his head to him, and Louis loses track of the moon. “Why don’t you try being less responsible for once?”
*
“That’s why I underachieve,” Oli chatters, black eyes animated, “so I can skip out on bloody ten page papers.”
“Some of us aren’t allowed to underachieve, you tit,” Louis scrunches up his nose. It's overcast, clouds lumping together unattractively over their heads. “If me mum wasn’t all ‘Cambridge this and that,’” Louis sucks at the end of the spliff, “I’d play footie. Work at me dad’s business.”
“That’s what I’m doin’,” Niall takes the roll from him, “minus the footie part.”
“Thank Allah for that,” Zayn laughs, “You’re shit at it.”
Niall nods in agreement, “Got two left feet, I do.”
“Louis’ pretty good though, in’t he?” Oli winds an arm around Louis’ narrow shoulders. “I remember—”
“Oi,” Louis interrupts, “don’t go telling that story again.”
“What story!” Oli exclaims, then sputters at Louis’ glare, “it’s a good story!”
From where they stand, hidden by a decrepit, wooden toolshed, Louis can see Harry slide out of the side door with Liam Payne. Right. He waves his hand in Oli’s face. “Just shut it, would you?”
Harry’s low tone carries across the way, “Alright, lads?”
Zayn’s smile is soft. Louis assures himself it must be the bud, despite Zayn having the highest tolerance out of either of them.
“Alright, Z?” Liam’s brown eyes crinkle t the corners.
“Yeah,” Zayn puffs, examining the rest of the spliff. “You’re late boys. Not much left, as it is.”
“I’ve got your fifty,” Harry turns to Louis. Poor, pathetic boy.
“Thanks very much,” Louis pockets the bill. He gestures for Zayn to pass the spliff to Harry, but Liam’s already inhaling off the edge of it. He coughs, quite conspicuously. When he looks up, he seems to have noticed them all for the first time.
“Tomlinson! Didn’t recognize you, Four Eyes!” He grins. “I like the new look. Miss the suspenders, though.”
“Miss snapping them against me chest, you mean?”
“Aw, don’t be like that.”
Harry tenses beside him. Louis can feel it, the misplaced anger, all the cumulative threats of swirlies and eyerolls from the football team when Louis would get all the answers correct in class. And Harry watching all that time, completely silent.
Oli looks between Liam and Louis. He clears his throat. “Was jus’ talking about that game, y’know. The footie game at Luke’s last year.”
Liam brightens at the memory. “Ah! What a great time. Louis really did a number on some of the boys.”
“Alvie twisted his ankle,” Niall laughs.
“Yeah, ‘cause Louis dive-tackled ‘im,” Oli says.
“He had it coming,” Harry says, blunt. He meets Louis’ eye with his mouth in a firm, blue line.
“Suppose he did,” Liam shrugs. Then he gestures wildly at Harry, “You’ve let it burn down, you idiot!”
Harry examines the remains of the spliff in his fingers. Louis barely suppresses a sigh, Zayn still soft-eyed. It’s a bit too much for what was supposed to be a relaxing time in the parking lot. “Nice job, Styles,” Louis stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I’m going back inside.”
Niall calls, “We’ve still got ten minutes left!”
“I’ve got work to do,” Louis lies, making a point not to look back, not to wonder after Harry or whether or not he watched him leave.
*
Louis
wanna smoke? I’ll drive
Z
sure
im w/ Liam
Louis
nvm
Z
and Harry
Louis
cool
Z
their not bad lou
we smoked a bit so
their cool promise
Louis
ill be there in 10
*
On the way to Zayn’s, Louis smokes four red 100’s in a row and half-sings, half-shouts Fiona Apple at his windshield.
He presses his thumb into his mouth and thinks about when he met Zayn in the toilets, nose bloody from a friendly beating. Zayn cleaning him up and driving him home at lunch period. Zayn the bad boy, helping the school nerd out of his blood-soaked sweater.
Labels turned into nooses. There isn’t a point to them, anyways, Louis concludes, turning into the driveway. They’re all the same in death.
He’s about to send a text when the passenger door flies open. Harry clambers in, face loose and eyes sleepy. He sends Louis an easy smile. “Hi.”
Louis fights a grin. “Hi.” Then, “Where’s Z?”
“Coming,” Harry huffs out a breath. He rolls the window down and pulls a blunt from behind his ear. Louis looks at it.
“I know you didn’t roll that yourself.”
Harry pretends to be offended, “How’d you know that?”
Louis points, “Because that’s the work of a professional stoner. And you’re just a little virgin, aren’t you?”
“Am not,” Harry frowns.
“Whatever,” Louis reaches for the carton and pulls a cigarette out with his teeth. Harry follows the movement with his eyes.
“If you don’t, you know. Like me,” Harry starts. Louis clicks the lighter. “You don’t have to be, like, polite about it. I just want honesty from you, or else. Nothing.”
“Everything with you is so black-and-white,” Louis inhales. “Absolutely no grey. Who put all that in your head, hm? Your parents?” Harry’s silence spurs him on further. “D’you have even one original idea for yourself? Do you even know who you are?”
“Enough,” Harry interrupts. He picks at his cuticle for a moment, then opens the car door. “I don’t know who I am,” he admits, “but neither do you. None of us do.”
“Get back in the car, Harry, for god’s sake.”
Harry stares at his profile, moving back in the seat and slamming the door shut. After a few minutes, he mumbles, “Thought there was no god.”
Beside himself, Louis laughs through his reply, “There’s not.”
“Mhm,” Harry hums. His fingers reach across the distance between them and pluck the cigarette from Louis’ mouth.
Louis raises his eyebrows, but opts to remain quiet, watching Harry’s red lips purse around the end. The cherry lights, so distinct in the darkness. Smoke filters out in curls from Harry’s mouth. Their eyes scan over each other, observant.
“I hated you,” Louis murmurs. “I hated you for so long.”
Harry’s eyes are wild, watery, but he blinks and his eyelids fold down, his face returning to something placid and unaffected. The golden boy. The snake charmer.
Even in the yellow light from the streetlamps Louis hates him, just as much as before. Harry leans forward again to place the cigarette back in Louis’ mouth, but this time Louis meets him halfway, lips bumping against where Harry’s had just been. Harry skims his calloused thumb over Louis’ bottom lip.
Without thinking, Louis pulls the cigarette away with thin fingers and bites at the tip of Harry’s thumb. The smoke lilts upwards and stings his eyes. He feels helpless when he sees Harry, then, the only good thing in the night. Close like he was those two years ago, and looking at Louis the way he looked at the altar in church.
“Harry,” he rasps.
“Do you still hate me?” He traces Louis’ jaw, a plea. Louis searches his face for anything to mock, anything to make him say, “Always have and always will.” But it’s a useless lie.
There are small, brief moments Louis carries. Harry’s confident gait in the hallway, his habit of biting his nails before a recital. Louis flicks the cigarette ash out the window, eyes still trained on Harry’s. “Does it matter?”
“To me, yes,” Harry urges. He exhales, shaky, “I always—”
“Hellooo,” Zayn coos, knocking against the glass, “back door’s locked! Open up, eh!”
Louis rips his gaze away from Harry’s mouth, where it had been resting, and unlocks the back door. He almost yells as Liam and Zayn climb in, “Gave me a fuckin’ heart attack, Z.”
“Sorry, bro.” The car reeks of weed and tobacco.
“Where were you two, anyways?”
Harry’s question goes unanswered for too long to be polite. None of them have much to show for manners, but it kicks out Louis’ gut, and he adjusts the top mirror anxiously.
“Well, um,” Liam stammers. Louis starts the car and winds out of the driveway, turning left into the heart of the neighborhood. No cops come here.
Zayn takes the blunt from Harry and lights it. “We got a bit preoccupied. Liam ruined me mum’s very nice hand towel and now ‘m gonna have to say I did it.” He exhales a long stream of smoke, Louis biting his lip to hold down his laughter.
“You didn’t have to tell them that, you tit!”
“I could’ve said worse, babe,” Zayn pats Liam’s leg.
“Well,” Louis swallows the bad taste in his mouth. “Glad to see some of us are taken care of, eh?”
“Where’s Niall,” Zayn asks, calm.
“Gotta get up early tomorrow. Practice.”
“Right,” Liam says, somewhat recovered. He passes the blunt to Louis over his shoulder. “Cross country’s started up then, yeah? He’s pretty fast.”
They chat easily, smoke still in the air of the car. Each time Harry takes the blunt from Louis—four times—their fingers touch, and Louis knows it’s not an accident.
When Louis drops them all back at Zayn’s, he promises he’ll text that he gets home safely. He doesn’t think about anything on the way back except for how high he is, which makes him laugh.
Louis runs a hot shower, steam licking at the walls. He rubs and scratches at the back of his neck, relishing in the goosebumps it draws. He thinks of Harry’s mouth, his hands, while his own travel to his navel and tease lightly there. Harry looked like an angel in that light, head haloed by it—and Louis’ only human.
He wanks off, chest red and heaving from the water pressure, and comes without a single sound. After he dries off and sits at his desk, opening a few textbooks, Louis hears his phone rattle off. There’s two names.
Z
safe? thx for tonight
i kno ur not happy about it but
thanx for not being an asshole
Unknown
What’s red and grey and not in your pocket? I’ll give you a hint: not your lighter! Haha :)
Louis texts Zayn a simple “love you bro,” first—a bit dismayed he’s getting gold stars just for not being mean, at this point. Then, Harry. Because who else would send something that stupid. He adds the contact under ‘Harry Styles,’ his close friends only deserving of better titles.
Louis
bring it to the game 2moro
Harry Styles
You’re coming? :)
Louis
Z asked me to go
Harry Styles
Oh. well
Okay. Yeah I’ll have it
say Hi afterwards :)
Louis turns off his phone before he makes any promises.
*
In the morning, Louis goes for a walk along the river. It’s colder, September spreading fast, ground hard with frost. He’s been here to greet the sunrise a million times before, but the feeling that everything is changing is nipping at his heels and the sky only reminds him of Harry’s lips and moonlight.
There are no more mosquitoes.
*
Harry texts him throughout the day, which leaves Louis simultaneously confused and entertained. He receives a picture of Harry’s Starbucks cup with the name “Jerry” scrawled on the side, a dog he apparently saw on the walk to school, his jersey number, and a question that makes Louis hesitate before answering.
Harry Styles
Come to the afterparty tonight?
Louis
I dunno
Harry Styles
There’s booze, bud, and babes
;)
Louis
Wow
my 2 favorite things
Harry Styles
Which 2??
;)
Louis
you’re getting a bit excessive with the winking faces Styles
Harry Styles
You love it ;)
Louis
Goodbye
Harry Styles
Wait no!!!
Im sorry :(
are you here?
I don’t see you
What are you wearing…
;)
Ok sorry
Wish me luck at least?
Louis
god shut up
Good luck
Harry Styles
:))))))))
Those are my double chins of gratitude
Thanks Louis :)
*
Scanning the bleachers, every tier is coated in royal blue, their school color. With the way the student body moves during chants, Louis can almost appreciate it aesthetically—how the entire stand seems like some scene from an acid-trip dream. He spots Zayn easily in the crowd, in all-black and a pair of sunglasses. What Louis recognizes as a genuine, though misguided, effort to be incognito.
Louis’ got Kierkegaard packed away in his schoolbag just in case the game proves to be a bunch of testosterone-fueled emotions and little else of substance.
Zayn lowers his sunglasses, “Alright?”
“Yeah, yourself?”
“Brilliant.”
Louis looks onto the field. “So you and Liam.”
“Yeah,” Zayn picks through his jacket pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it despite some displease and rather pointed glances. The buzzer sounds, cheers rising in the thick air, students clapping for their cause. Louis leans in, seated still, “You’re not gonna tell people, are you?”
Zayn’s gaze sweeps over Louis’ face. “Now that’s the last thing I thought I’d hear from you.”
Louis grabs his arm. “What if someone hurts you? What if your mum finds out?” Zayn inhales hard, face turned towards the field.
“Fuck, I don’t know. Can’t I have some happiness for one fuckin’ day?” He shakes his head, smoke billowing over his bottom lip. He looks up at Louis through his eyelashes. Louis drops his hand.
“You’re right,” Louis nods. “No, you’re right. Of course. I’m sorry, Z.” Louis scans his eyes out over the football field, the grass too bright, the lights otherworldly. Harry’s number, 28, stands out to him immediately.
Zayn nudges his arm, “You could be out, Lou.” Louis looks at him. “Your family isn’t religious, they don’t care what you do…and you’re pretty much out already.”
Louis raises his eyebrows, “Am I?”
“People talk at lunch,” Zayn grins.
“Of course they do,” Louis sighs. He turns his gaze back to Harry’s body, all sharp angles in his gear.
“So. Why not?”
“Why not just do it? Make a Facebook status, start a Youtube channel, wear crop tops to school?” Zayn frowns, takes a long drag off the cigarette. Louis licks his lips, shoulders shrugging in annoyance, “It’s just no one’s business, yeah? It’s not my responsibility to keep anyone informed.”
“That’s not what it’s about,” Zayn ashes the cigarette on the bleacher floor. “If you fancy someone who’s out…”
Louis laughs. “I don’t.”
Zayn pauses. “You don’t—? So…you—?”
“Nope,” Louis shakes his head. “Drop it, Z.”
“I can’t believe it.”
Louis forces out another laugh, tightness in his throat. “Oh, believe what?”
“Still?” Zayn holds his fingers at his mouth. “Shit, that makes so much sense.”
Furious, Louis flicks his finger on the metal, annoying some boy sat in front of him. “What does? Can you stop being fucking cryptic for two seconds—”
“You being such a wanker towards Harry. It all,” Zayn waves his fingers in the air, “makes sense.”
Louis opens his mouth to respond, but gets cut off by another wave of electric cheers, the teams getting into position on the field. He settles instead for biting his nails, Zayn clapping beside him vigorously. After a moment, Louis shouts over the din, “I’m not being a wanker!”
“You’re a wanker in love,” Zayn laughs, eyes full of light. Louis loves him like this. He stands and links his arm into Zayn’s, easily.
“Let’s see how good your boy is, hm?”
*
As it turns out, Liam is very good. Kierkegaard remains forgotten in Louis’ bag, his fingers trilling a melody on the bleacher—actually nervous for his school team. Although it’s not the team, really, that he can convince himself to watch. It’s Harry.
Harry moves, sure of himself, his body all long lines. If he lived in Ancient Greece, he’d be a commodity. He’s a commodity now.
Louis finds himself lost in the reverie, unabashedly enamored with the energy of the game itself. How collectively a crowd can feel compassion when a player is tackled, or joy at a touchdown. What clever conditioning, standing and sitting on command. They eat it all up.
“So if they keep winning,” Louis asks, “what happens next?”
“We get press,” Zayn says, eyes focused on where Liam is running, voice marred with anxiety. “Then we—ah! Shit! Um, we face better teams, and hopefully—Yes! Holy shit!”
Liam runs into the endzone, everyone standing and cheering for his glory. Zayn’s eyes are wet with wonder, captivated by the spectacle. Louis watches Harry raise his hands in the air, running to Liam and enveloping him. Still observing Harry, Louis murmurs once the noise has died down, “Hopefully…?”
Zayn, remembering himself, faces Louis with a smile. “Hopefully,” he says, “we win.”
*
“I like it out here,” Louis walks to the edge of the deck, his skin peppered with goosebumps. “It feels so stuffy in the basement.”
“All the body heat,” Harry informs, meeting Louis at the edge. “You look—really good tonight, Louis.”
Shy, Louis fumbles with the end of the black sweater—at Zayn’s request, not his, to be less of a dork at his first high school party. He’d been to a lot of parties, but, this one had alcohol and people making out in exercise rooms.
“Thanks,” he sighs. “Don’t think I pull off Z’s punk look very well.”
“I think you look, um,” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “You look good no matter what.”
“Hm,” Louis smiles. Harry returns it, somehow just as shy. They’re small underneath the night. Louis looks up again at the moon, her shrouded face. “To the question, what is now,” Louis recites, “Let us say: now is night.”
Harry breathes, so loud for how still he is, “What’s that from?”
“A book,” Louis grins. He watches Harry’s mouth part, the hotness escaping in small tufts of steam. They’re alone, he realizes. They’re alone in the backyard of some sloppy party, with the expanse of the sky in front of them and not two inches between their bodies.
“Now is night,” Harry repeats, eyes scanning the velvet stars.
“Yeah,” Louis swallows, smile fading, his pinky finger reaching out to link with Harry’s.
*
Louis waits by concessions, feeling a bit sick from the smell of hot dogs. Niall strolls out, counting dollar bills in his hand.
“Hey,” Louis greets.
“Hiya,” Niall replies, tongue stuck out in concentration, “Fifty, fifty-one—nope. Fifty. Ace.”
“Fifty dollars from working concessions?”
“Thirty,” Niall admits. Then smiles, “plus tips.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“Middle-aged moms love me,” Niall shrugs. “Good game, eh? Absolutely nuts. Almost lost it when your boy made that game-ending pass.”
“Oh, yeah,” Louis nods. Then he pauses, “My boy?”
“Yeah, Styles,” Niall walks ahead, simple. The grounds are clearing, everyone pushing past them and heading to the parking lot. From where he stands, Louis can see Zayn with Harry and Liam. Louis takes the moment to ask, “Niall,” he stops him. “Who told you that? About Styles being—who said that?”
Niall smirks and claps a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “No one told me, Tommo. People talk at this school, you know that.”
He means to keep walking, but Louis stops him again. “But—why are they saying that?”
Niall halts completely. He fixes Louis with a furrowed brow, a playful tilt to his head. “I mean it’s true, in’t it? Everyone knows Styles’ been gone for you for years.”
Louis’ quite certain he doesn’t breathe for a moment. He presses his worried knuckles to his mouth, murmuring, “Everyone except me, I guess.” He looks up again to find Niall staring across the way at Liam, who has his arm wound tight around Zayn, face the very definition of joy.
“They look good together, don’t they?”
“Yeah,” Louis says. “They really do.”
*
Louis feels strange. His body not his own. He barely feels where he leans up against the chain link fence, waiting for the rest of his friends to exit the field. In his mind he’s already imagined a few different scenarios when he sees Harry walk out—does he throw his arms around his neck, kiss him angry, kiss him until the whole school has to stop and pay attention?
He hears Liam’s laugh echo in the rafters of the stands and kicks at a rock with his shoe. It would be a nice time to have a cigarette, if only he weren’t concerned now about his breath.
“Louis,” Niall calls, “I knew you didn’t fuck off.”
Nervous, Louis lifts his head. Zayn and Liam are attentive towards each other, but Harry is still, peering at him with barely restrained pleasure. He’s glad Louis didn’t leave. Louis’ glad he didn’t either.
“Nah,” Louis bounces his back off the edge of the fence and walks toward them, eyes on Harry’s only. Each of his features is delicate, painted. Niall is already turning away, “I’m gonna take Babs to your place, okay, Li?”
“Sounds great,” Liam nods. He smiles at Louis, “Are you coming?”
Louis’ mouth feels dry. He flits his gaze away from Harry’s briefly, “Yeah. I’ll be there.” Then he smiles for good measure, because Liam makes Zayn happy, and because he wants to be alone with Harry as soon as possible.
He can see Zayn hesitate, so Louis says through a casual mouth, “I’ll drive Harry over, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Zayn suppresses a smile, “sure. Let’s go, Li.” He wraps his arm around Liam’s waist, all but dragging him into the blackness of the parking lot. Harry seems to sense the unusual quality to Louis’ mood—or maybe he recognizes it, the stuttering of his heart. It’s been a while since Louis’ let himself feel it.
The silence stretches out in front of them. It makes Louis dumb.
Harry bites his lip, “Not even a congratulations?”
“Oh,” Louis exhales. “Congratulations.”
“Is,” Harry steps closer. “Is everything alright, Louis? You look a bit out of sorts.”
There are a million phrases coming to mind, all of them beginning and ending with the fact that Harry has been in his dreams for two years and now he’s standing in front of him exactly where he thought he might be. Louis pushes them aside. “I am. I heard something tonight,” he says, steps forward.
Prickles of Harry’s stubble come into view, the cut on his lip obvious in the light. He can see so much of him. “What did you hear?”
“That you’re pretty gone for me, Styles,” Louis almost smiles. He tucks a stray curl behind Harry’s ear, the embarrassment at his statement winding around in his chest. Harry cards his bottom lip through his teeth, the edges of his mouth quirking up, playful.
“Is that right,” he breathes. “Um, so.” Their chests could touch if he moved any closer, the height difference allowing Louis to look up comfortably at Harry’s eyes. “What do you think about that?”
Louis fiddles with Harry’s shirt, fingers tapping against the top of his belt. “Hm.”
“Please,” Harry’s eyelids slide shut. “Please tell me I haven’t just, like. Imagined all of this.” His hands come to rest on Louis’ shoulders, thumbs rubbing into the material of his t-shirt. Louis tips his chin up, wondering how nicely his mouth might fit against Harry’s.
Harry knocks his forehead down gently onto Louis’. “Please tell me you don’t hate me.”
“Oh, Harry,” Louis rushes to frame his face with his hands, urging Harry to open his eyes. “Harry, I never hated you. I thought,” he laughs, “god. I thought you pitied me.”
They’re alone. Soon they’ll shut off the lights, the school will close up, but Louis could stand here until then. Harry digs his fingers into Louis’ skin, insistent, “I never felt anything towards you besides,” Harry shakes his head, “dumb, blind adoration. Louis.”
Louis kisses him, then. Just a press of lips. “That night, at Liam’s. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” Harry traces the length of Louis’ cheekbone. “I’m sorry I never talked to you about it. I was—I thought you didn’t remember. I thought I’d have to go, like. My whole life with this story.”
“What story was that,” Louis murmurs against his mouth.
“That I had a chance with someone I wanted,” Harry smiles, “and I let it pass me by.”
“And you vomited—”
“Yes,” Harry crowds him, arms over Louis’ shoulders, hugging tightly. “I vomited on you. I ruined your jeans.” He pulls away, nosing a delicate path back down to Louis’ lips. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“On one condition,” Louis bats his eyelashes, warm from the way it makes Harry smile wider. “You kiss me.”
“I can do that,” Harry ducks in close, breath hot.
“I wasn’t finished,” Louis pulls away. He hooks his hands behind Harry’s neck and grins. “You kiss me, at least once a day, for the rest of our lives.”
“You want forever,” Harry slides his hands down to Louis’ hips. He licks Louis’ bottom lip.
“I want forever,” Louis nods. “But for now—I just want tonight.”
They kiss, mouths open and eager for each other. Harry touches him everywhere, tastes like gatorade. By the time they part, the lights have shut off. Even in the darkness, Louis can see the whites of Harry’s eyes, the glint of gold within them.
Harry takes his hand. They stumble to Louis’ car, the night cooling around their necks. On the way to Liam’s, Louis holds Harry’s hand in his, children again in their happiness, top 40 radio blasting with all the windows down.