Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Styles, catch!” Harry heard, despite the echoing cafeteria. Zayn threw him his favorite drink from the cafeteria’s vending machine, blue Powerade. “Thanks, man,” he called back, making his way towards the line. Zayn was artsy and edgy, but “in a cool way” as he claimed, and he was Harry’s best, if only, friend. Being a teenage poet and the only openly gay kid in his small high school, Harry struggled to find friends. His only other friend Liam had moved last spring, so Harry and Zayn were left sitting by themselves at the end of a rather empty cafeteria table.

After he thanked Martha, his favorite lunch lady, Harry walked over to their table and slumped in his seat. Today was a bad day. He’d been feeling so out of place and like his own body was just wrong today. “Hey so, I kind of invited someone to sit with us today.” Harry’s eyes snapped up at that. “Wha-“

“His name’s Louis” Zayn continued. “He’s new and he plays football, but he missed tryouts, moving here this late, so he hasn’t really made any friends yet. Seems cool.” Harry was nervous. He didn’t do well with new people. “There he is,” Zayn said, gesturing with his head behind Harry and waving Louis over. Harry turned, and he isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks his jaw dropped slightly. Louis was fit. Like, really fit. “You didn’t mention he was-“

“Hey Louis,” Zayn said, thankfully cutting Harry off before he made a fool of himself. “This is Harry.”

“Hey mate, nice to meet you!” Louis said, offering a smile. Harry could barely squeak out a “hi” but Louis didn’t seem to notice his nervousness, setting his bag down and launching into a story about his math teacher slipping up and admitting she used to pole dance in college.

…

“Harry!” he heard a familiar voice call down the hall. Harry turned and Louis was jogging a bit towards him. “Mind if I walk with you to class? Zayn said we have the same sixth today.” Harry offered a shy smile. “Sure Louis.” “So Curly, tell me what I need to know about this teacher. Bio definitely isn’t my best subject.”

Harry blushed a little at the nickname. “Well,” he began, “I’m probably not the best person to ask, considering I sit in the back of the class and write most days. Needless to say my grade isn’t very good in here. But Mr. B is nice. Thankfully he gives a lot of extra credit.”

Louis looked at him, a curious grin on his face. “Write? What do you write?” Harry almost didn’t want to tell him. Kids rarely were kind about it, and even those who didn’t make fun typically shied away after he told them. “Um, poems mostly,” he nearly whispered.

Louis just smiled. “My sister Lottie is a poet. She’s not quite a master, being only ten, but writing like that is impressive. It’s vulnerable. I’d love to read some, if you’d be open to showing me. No pressure if they’re too personal.”

Harry just stared, a little starry-eyed. Who was this gorgeous boy who liked poetry and played football and listened to him so openly and without judgement? “Y-yeah,” he finally stuttered out. “I’d like that.” And then after a pause: “You don’t think it’s weird? A teenage boy who writes poems instead of playing footie and partying like a normal person?”

“No, I think it’s lovely actually. That someone my own age is so in touch with who they are and what they feel. No bullshit, you know?” Louis answered. And Harry just walked into the classroom, a smile on his face.

…

Harry had a dream that night. He was wearing an apron over a simple cotton dress and cooking something, dinner, on the stove. He was older, maybe mid-twenties, and his hair had grown out just past his shoulders, the long ringlets tied back out of his face. An older Louis walked in, dressed in a jacket and tie. “Hi honey,” Louis said, a loving smile on his face. “Hey Lou. I’m making dinner.”

“I see that,” Louis responded, “and what is my beautiful wife making today?”

Harry answered “spaghetti” like that was the most normal sentence in the world. “Could you pass me the Parmesan Lou?”

When Harry woke, he was so confused. His dream was so pleasant. He was married to the perfect boy he’d met that day. And yet. He was wearing a dress. And Louis called him his wife. That’s weird. He’s a lad. So why did it feel so good? Why did he want to smile just thinking about it?

He pulled out his notebook.

I was just thinking about who you are
Your point of view
Just thinking about you

When he wrote that, he frowned. It was true, and it was the first thing he had written in months that seemed honest. And yet he didn’t feel like he was quite saying everything. He was thinking about the person in the dream. And he was thinking about the life they led, how they approached the world, to make them wear a dress and smile at the word “wife.” But he was just thinking about them. Not reading into it, not acting on it, just thinking.

Delicate, he thought to himself. It was one of his favorite words, and it was pretty, and it reminded him of the person in the dream. He added it.

I was just thinking about who you are
Your delicate point of view
Just thinking about you

Somehow those three lines said everything and nothing he was feeling. A tear fell down his cheek, leaving a small stain on the paper. Who was he? And who was she? And why did she somehow feel more like Harry than he ever had?

…

On Monday when he went back to school, he tucked his fingers into his pockets. He walked all day like that, hiding them whenever possible. But he sat down at the lunch table and picked up his sandwich, Louis looked at his hands and smiled. “I like your nails Curly,” he said.

Zayn glanced up from his book, inspected Harry’s hand, and agreed. “Yeah H, they look pretty. When did you paint them?”

Harry looked between his friends, shocked. They thought the nail polish looked pretty? Surely they’re messing with him. “Yeah uh, my sister did them,” he lied. Truthfully, he’d stolen the polish from his sister Gemma’s room and then painted them by flashlight under his covers. “She wanted to test a new color on me before she used it herself, but then she realized she didn’t have any remover. So I’m stuck with them.”

He looked down at the shiny blue coat, embarrassed. But Louis just smiled and said, “Well that color suits you.” Harry hoped Louis couldn’t tell he was blushing. “Thanks,” he offered.

…

That afternoon, Harry went to Zayn’s and was shocked to find Louis sitting on his couch. He hadn’t realized Louis was coming over too. He was wearing a tracksuit that accentuated his waist, and when he stood up to grab a drink, Harry realized it accentuated his arse as well. He walked back in from the kitchen and Harry let out a small gasp. “There’s ginger ale?!” he exclaimed, noticing Louis’ can, and popped off the couch to go grab one.

When he came back, Zayn had a bottle of wine. “You lads up for a drink? M’parents haven’t looked in the wine cabinet in years. This won’t be missed,” he said, grinning. Harry didn’t much drink, and certainly not wine, but Louis said something about always being up for a drink, even if it’s just cheap wine, and Zayn went to get a bottle opener, so Harry decided he’d have a glass with them.

He gently grabbed the glass from Zayn, and took a small sip, tasting it. Ew. He quickly grabbed his ginger ale and washed out the bad flavor. Okay, so wine was not his drink. Or maybe just alcohol in general. Harry didn’t want to seem lame in front of Louis, who obviously was not stranger to alcohol, so he forced himself to take another sip, then quickly washed it down with ginger ale. He could just drink it like this, he thought.

The three started playing Fifa, a game Harry was notoriously bad at. Eventually, he put his controller down, content to just watch. When he said this, Louis turned and looked at him for a while, but Harry didn’t notice. He took a sip of his wine and then a sip of his ginger ale, and Louis burst out laughing. “Mate, are you really drinking ginger ale with red wine? That’s nasty!” he said, laughing.

Zayn turned and saw, and laughed with him. Harry smiled a little awkwardly, too often the butt of the joke. But Louis noticed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to poke fun, it just seems like a weird combination to me. But to each their own, to each their own,” he apologized, smiling sincerely. “It’s okay,” Harry responded, “I honestly just don’t like the taste of the wine.” Louis smiled and turned back to his game.

…

When Harry got home that night, his glass of wine making him sleepy, he pulled out his notebook.

I was just thinking about who you are
Your delicate point of view
Just thinking about you

Your track suit and my ponytail
You hide your body under those layers
Red wine and ginger ale
But you would make fun of me for sure

He added the new bit and shut the page, sleepily dreaming about this perfect boy.

Chapter Text

It’s two weeks after the night at Zayn’s, and they’re sitting at lunch when Louis brings it up. ”Harry, I’m taking my sister to this poetry reading thing tomorrow night and I thought you might wanna join?” 

Harry freezes. Is Louis …asking him out? Surely not, he doesn’t even know if Louis likes boys. He just knows Harry likes poetry. That’s all it is. 

“Erm, sure! I’d love to go!” he finally answers. 

“Great! I’ll text you the details and pick you up?”

Pick him up??!

”Yeah sounds good! Thanks Lou”

Harry isn’t sure if he imagines it, but Louis’ cheeks turn a faint blush shade at the nickname. 

…

Tomorrow night rolls around, and Harry is more nervous than he’s been in a long time. He wears a white button up, with the top three buttons undone, and black pants that flare just a bit at the bottoms. When he looks in the mirror, he notices his hair is getting longer. He can almost put it up, but not quite. He wants to feel as pretty as poetry, so he goes in Gemma’s room and steals a few squirts of her rose-scented perfume, rather than his typical cologne. While he’s in there, he notices a glittery palette of makeup. Louis reacted so well to the nails, maybe he wouldn’t mind if Harry wore some of that? Not like, a lot. But he puts some of the highlighter on his cheekbones and in the corners of his eyes. 

When Louis arrives, Harry feels pretty, but his stomach churns in anticipation for Louis’ reaction. He answers the door and is scared to even look up at Louis’ face. But when he does, all he sees is a smile. 

“You look pretty,” Louis says, and Harry full-on swoons at that. “Y-you really think so?” he asks. 

“Yes. I really think so. Now come on, or we’re gonna be late.” Harry grabs his notebook-just in case-and heads out the door.

…

“One afternoon when he was seven, rocking

on the porch-rail spelling out words about stars,

his hooked-in heel slipped, and he pitched back

into the grass. When he could look, the lawn's

low clover was like something in his book:

a vast reach thick with clusters, sweeps of stars,

he thought, and winged things tending stars,

carrying bright dust the short way between

the stars' white tremors. It was only

the usual thing, pain, which told him

he wasn't dead, that these were not

angels (which he knew about from Sundays)

touching stars into shine. Only hurt

whispered to him that this world

was his world, that these were bees

not angels, that the yards all white

with clover were not the fields of heaven.”

Lottie read, standing at the podium at the front of the room. “That was “The Fall” by Catherine Carter.” The room erupted into a chorus of snaps, and Lottie smiled and sat back down. The small room was packed with amateur poets and poetry enthusiasts. Harry knew poetry readings existed, but he didn’t think any went on near him. And for being such a young girl, Lottie had a remarkably advanced taste. Harry was impressed. Even Louis seemed immersed in many of the poems, despite acting like he was only here for Harry and Lottie. 

As the readings drew to a close, the host asked for any last volunteers, and Louis nudged him in the shoulder, eyeing him curiously. Not tonight, Harry mouthed. Louis nodded and Harry thought how wonderful it was that Louis put no pressure on him. 

After the readings ended, Lottie went to catch up with a friend, leaving Harry and Louis alone. “Thank you for bringing me, Louis. I really enjoyed this.”

”I’m glad you came too. Made tonight a lot more bearable,” Louis said back, smiling. 

“Oh shut up, you enjoyed a lot of those poems!”

”True, but I’m still glad you came.”

Harry smiled sheepishly.

”Why didn’t you wanna read tonight?” Louis finally asked. Harry thought for a moment, then said, “I haven’t really written anything in a while, not that’s been very good. I-I guess I’ve had a lot to think about, but not a lot of words to express it.” 

Louis nods understandingly. “Does it have anything to do with the nails and the glitter?”

Harry glances up at him, startled, and Louis continues. “It’s okay, believe me I think it’s wonderful that you express yourself so freely, I’ve just noticed your hesitancy around it like, like you’re scared of it or something.”

”Yeah. It’s got something to do with that, but I’m just not quite ready to talk about it if that’s okay.” Louis’ eyes bore into Harry as he speaks, and Harry notices just how attentive Louis really is. He’s really listening to him. Maybe, he thinks, he’ll be able to talk about it with Louis some day. 

“Absolutely, yeah. Just know I’m always here, if you do. And I’ll never judge you, for like, what you wear or how you express yourself.” Harry doesn’t have anything to say back, can’t put into words what that means to him, so he just leans over and gives Louis a hug. It’s a little awkward with them both sitting, but Louis hugs him back and Harry can’t help but think how wonderful he is and how right it feels to be wrapped in his arms. 

…

Lottie goes home with a friend that night for an impromptu sleepover, so Louis asks Harry if he’d like to get ice cream, so the pair find themselves in the drive thru of a McDonald’s, ordering cheap ice cream cones and fries to share. Louis takes them to a park, and they sit on the swings, in the dark, eating their ice cream. It’s perfect. 

They’re in the middle of a game of twenty questions when he says it. “Yeah my ex-boyfriend was a right areshole. We went out for a couple months, and he was just so rude to people that I finally broke up with him. Like he’d just chew out a waiter over something stupid, just shit like that, and I finally just got fed up.” Harry inhales a sharp breath at the word boyfriend though, so he struggles to know what to say next. “Yeah,” he mumbles “boyfriends can be shit sometimes.” And Louis giggles. Giggles. 

A beat later, Louis slaps his hands down on his thighs. “Well Styles, this has been fun, but if I don’t get you home soon, your mum may wring my neck,” he says, and tugs on Harry’s earlobe playfully. Harry full-on blushes at that, and they both stand up to go home. 

…

When Harry was young, he had a friend who went to church, and when they had Saturday night sleepovers, Harry would go with their family. The only religious thing he learned that stuck with him was a name. Jezebel. He barely remembers the story of Jezebel, but it was something to do with a princess and a false prophet. Harry just loved the name. 

And when he dreams that night, it’s of Jezebel. Jezebel who has long, curly brown hair and emerald green eyes. Jezebel who has a tiny little waist and is delicate in the way she moves. Jezebel who paints her nails and wears soft dresses and glittery makeup. Jezebel who smells like roses. 

When Harry wakes up, he sees his notebook on his nightstand, from where he set it after his night out with Louis. He opens it up to his page with the poem, and writes, right at the top, Jezebel. 

He still doesn’t know what any of it means, he just knows that there’s an ache in his chest for Jezebel and who she is. 

Jezebel

I was just thinking about who you are
Your delicate point of view
Just thinking about you

Your track suit and my ponytail
You hide your body under all those layers
Red wine and ginger ale
But you would make fun of me for sure

Chapter Text

On Friday afternoon, Harry walks through the halls to his fifth class, staring down at his feet and counting his steps. A few books in his arms, he keeps his head down to avoid the other kids in the hall. Louis is absent, home sick, so Harry is stuck walking by himself again.
Without warning, a large figure runs straight into him, knocking him to the ground and the books out of his hands. Wow, he thinks, I must look like a stereotype out of some stupid high school rom-com right now. He looks up at the figure. The boy is older than Harry, and much bigger, and sneers down at him. Some other boys in the hall laugh at Harry on the ground. Harry shakes his head, then scrambled to collect his books.

Then the older boy spots his nails. “Lads, look at this,” he calls to the cackling boys. “We’ve got ourselves a little freak.” The other boys come and see what he is referring to, then laugh even harder. Harry feels tears well up in his eyes, so he stands up and takes off running in the opposite direction.

…

Twenty minutes later, Zayn finds him in the bathroom, crying in the handicapped stall. “H?” he asks timidly. “It’s me babe. Someone told me what happened. Can you come out here so I can give you a hug?” Harry sniffles, then slowly stands up and walks to the lock. His hands shake as he unlocks the door and pushes it over. Once he reveals himself to Zayn, he is scooped up into a hug.

“Can you tell me what happened, babe?”

Harry sniffles, trying to calm his breath. “I- I got pushed over by this guy in the hallway, and- and he saw my nai- nails and he- he called me a little f-freak,” Harry said through sobs. “Oh, baby,” Zayn whispered, pulling him close. “Shhh. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you. It’s gonna be okay.”

…

“Haz, can we talk about earlier?” Zayn says that afternoon, the two of them sitting on Harry’s couch playing FIFA. “Erm. Yeah, i guess,” Harry responds, worried about having to explain to Zayn what he had been feeling.

“Why did that guy upset you so much? I mean, normally when kids say mean things, you just brush it off, so why was this so different?” Zayn asks, looking at Harry with concern.

“I- I guess normally the things people say aren’t true. But this was, and so it hurt because I am a little freak and so-“

“H, no. No you’re not,” Zayn said, cutting Harry off. “You’re perfect because you’re you. You’re just so unapologetically you and I love that about you, mate.”

Somehow Zayn’s words were of little
comfort. Because he said ‘mate’ but Harry didn’t want to be called mate. Mate was for a boy. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I just. I’m going through something right now, and I don’t know if I’m quite ready to talk about it. But I promise, when I am, I’ll tell you,” Harry says, staring at the floor.

“Okay, H. Take your time. But just know I love you no matter what. You’ll always be my best friend.” After that, Zayn dropped it and they went back to their game, laughing and playing like normal.

…

The next day during Harry’s last class, he gets a text from Louis. Wanna come over this afternoon? Lottie told my other sister Fizzy about how long and curly your hair is and now she wants to braid it. Or we can just hang out, I miss you Curly

And oh. Louis misses him. Yeah they haven’t hung out outside of school for a couple days, but Louis misses him? That doesn’t even make sense. Why would he miss him?

I’d love to let Fizzy braid my hair, and I guess I can put up with you too, he sends, trying to be cheeky. Then a winky face, in case Louis took him seriously. Oh god, Harry thinks, fiddling with the hem of his button down. Today was the first day in a while he’d felt like himself when he put it on, not like he was pretending to be a boy. It’s just going to be us and his sisters. I’m going to Louis’ house. God, he was nervous. But also excited. But also nervous?

…

Harry walks slowly up the path to Louis’ house. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and hits the doorbell. “Coming!” he hears from inside. Soon, the door opens, and Louis stands there with a small grin on his face. “Curly!” he starts, “I’m so glad you’re here, Fiz has been driving me crazy about inviting you.”

Harry offers a small smile at that, and Louis invites him in. “Harry! You’re here! I’ve got a new poem to show you!” Lottie exclaims, looking up from where she sits on the couch, scribbling away in a notebook. “No! I was promised hair braiding!” came a voice from the kitchen, and Harry spun around to see a girl he thinks must be Fizzy, with features just like Louis and Lottie.

“Fiz, be polite. I’m sure Harry would love to get his hair braided, but let Lottie show him her poem first,” Louis reprimands. “Sorry Lottie. Sorry Harry,” Fizzy replies. Harry offers a smile and makes his way over to Lottie.

…

Later, after Harry has read several poems, each very good considering the author is ten, and had his hair braided by Fizzy, he and Louis are in the kitchen and he’s showing Louis how to cook. “Okay. Now you grab the seasoning and just sprinkle it all over the chicken,” he instructs, demonstrating how one sprinkles seasoning, even though it seems painfully obvious to Harry.

“Wait! Let me do it!” Louis says, excitement in his voice. He grabs the seasoning shaker from Harry and starts shaking. Harry hoists himself atop the counter, smiling to himself at how cute Louis was seasoning chicken.

“Okay, what now?” Louis asks, turning around. “You put the chicken in the oven, at 190 degrees,” Harry explains, slowly, but his eyes drift to Louis’ lips, bitten red from concentrating. “O-okay,” Louis stutters, following Harry’s eyes. But he makes no move towards the oven.

Instead, Louis walks up to Harry so slowly Harry feels like he’s watching him walk through syrup. He stops right in front of him and gazes into Harry’s eyes. “You know,” he says, leaning in just slightly. Harry’s lips are parted, his eyes boring into Louis’. “Woah. Your eyes,” Louis says suddenly. “They’re so green. I never noticed how vibrant they are. But then there’s little shines of blue in them. Like you’re standing in blue light.”

“Y-yeah I guess they’re pretty green,” Harry mumbles. He glances back down at Louis’ lips, and Louis leans in closer. Louis’ eyes dance between Harry’s eyes and lips. Then he leans in and speaks in a low, sultry voice. “Don’t freak out, but I’m going to kiss you now.”

Harry nods slightly, and his lips are captured in a kiss. It’s warm, and it’s soft, and it’s perfect, and it’s over too soon. But when their lips part, Harry looks at Louis like he hung the stars. Then he leans forward, and kisses Louis, much more sure than the last one.

After, Harry turns to Louis, sheepishly. “We should probably finish the chicken.”

…

When Harry gets home that night, his head is spinning. He’s light, having been kissed by the most perfect boy on the planet. And he pulls out his journal.

Little freak, he adds, thinking about this morning and how Zayn made him feel like it was okay that he was a little freak.

Jezebel

Jezebel was him, right? And Louis made him feel the most like himself. You sit high atop the kitchen counter. Stay green a little while, you bring blue lights to dreams.

Because that’s what Louis did. He kept Jezebel green, but he reminded her that she has blue, too.

Little freak
Jezebel
You sit high atop the kitchen counter
Stay green a little while
You bring blue lights to dreams

I was just thinking about who you are 

Your delicate point of view

Just thinking about you

Your track suit and my ponytail

You hide your body under all those layers

Red wine and ginger ale
But you would make fun of me for sure

Chapter Text

Over the next couple of days, Harry and Louis act like normal. Harry still walks Louis to class, they sit together at lunch, they laugh and joke, and everything is normal. Except for one change.

Except now Louis kisses Harry sometimes, when they’re alone, and Harry reaches out and grabs Louis’ hand when they walk down the hall, and Zayn flits his eyes between the two of them at lunch, trying to figure out what’s going on between them.

Today is one of those ‘except’ days, and Harry is batting his mascara-coated eyes in Louis’ direction almost unconsciously, his infatuation written all over his face. Zayn looks at Harry with a strange look, not for the first time. But today, he decides to say something. “Is there something going on with you two?” he asks, his voice coming out slow and careful. Harry feels his cheeks heat, and his eyes drop to his lap. “Uhm-“ he starts, and Louis finishes his sentence with a sheepish “maybe” a second later.

Harry glances up at that. He thought Louis would flat-out deny it. A small smile dances on his lips. “Y-yeah. Maybe,” he confirms.

…

“So there’s this party tonight,” Louis says, as the two of them walk towards his next class, “and I was wondering if you wanted to go? Feel free to say no, I know it’s not really your scene.”

Louis was. Asking him. Out. To a party. He wanted to go to a party. With Harry.

Oh.

Oh.

Okay deep breath, Harry thought, I need to answer. “I’d love to,” Harry says finally, offering Louis a smile. And Louis reaches out and grabs Harry’s hand as the two walk to class.

…

Harry had never been to a party. Not this kind at least. Not the kind with alcohol and loud music and vulgar dancing. To say he was nervous was an understatement. He tore through his closet looking for something to wear.

But it wasn’t just nerves keeping him from selecting an outfit. Every time Harry found something he thought might be suitable, his brain jumped back to Jezebel and his dream of her. With her simple dress that flowed down from her waist, stopping just below her knees. With her beautiful curls, long eyelashes, soft jaw. None of these outfits felt right because none of them made him feel like her.

Eventually he settled on tight grey jeans, liking the way they accentuate his hips and thighs, and a blue babydoll top of his sister’s that made his waist look smaller than his hips. He didn’t feel like her in it, but it was the closest he could get.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He walked, slowly and carefully, to Gemma’s room. Fortunately she had already gone out for the night. He put on the makeup he’d been wearing recently: highlighter, mascara, blush. Just enough to accentuate his features, to feel more feminine, but not enough that people would notice.

But then something caught his eye. A small, slender golden tube. He picked it up, staring at his reflection in the mirrored top of the tube. Slowly, carefully, his fingers gripped the cap. He gently pulled it up, revealing the crimson shade, the waxy cylinder’s top shaped to fit the curve of his sister’s lips.

His hand shook just slightly as he brought the tube to his lips. He just dabbed it on, touching it to a single spot on his bottom lip. He spent a good minute just staring at the color adorning that one spot on his lip. Synapses in his brain fired, filling his mind with colors and light. He moved the stick back to his face and carefully smeared the color onto his lips. He stared, pouting his mouth just slightly.

He looked pretty. He felt pretty. She felt pretty.

The second Harry thought it, he froze. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was a little freak, just like they said. What kind of person feels like a boy on Monday but a girl on Tuesday? He isn’t normal. He’s just a little freak.

Harry brought his hand up to his face and smears the lipstick off onto the back of his hand. The tears stream down his face, mascara streaking down his face.

The doorbell rings.

“Shit, shit!” Harry mutters, frantically looking for something to wipe his face. He finds some wipes on Gemma’s dresser and does his best to wipe the ruined makeup off his face.

“Coming! Coming!” he shouted, looking in the mirror. The makeup was gone, his face rubbed a bit raw, but it was painfully obvious he had cried. Breathing in deep, he ran downstairs.

When Harry opened the door, he watched the smile etched on Louis’ face fall. “Haz…” he began, concern evident in his eyes. “Have you been crying? What’s wrong?” he asked, his hand coming up to touch Harry’s shoulder.

“I’m okay,” Harry breathed, “I’m okay.”

Louis just stared at him for a minute. “Can I hug you?” he finally asked. Harry nodded, and Louis pulled him in close. In Louis’ arms, Harry felt incredibly safe. He sobbed into Louis’ shirt, and Louis just held him, not saying a thing about the tear stains Harry was surely leaving.

After a few minutes, Harry pulled his face away from Louis’ shoulder. “Haz…” Louis began, his eyebrows crinkling together, “please tell me what’s wrong. I wanna help.”

“I just,” Harry glanced down at his shoes. “I put on lipstick,” he said cautiously, “and it made me cry.”

“Did you want to wear lipstick?” Louis asked. Harry sniffled. “I-I think so, yeah.” “Then let’s go put some lipstick on,” Louis finally said with a reassuring smile, slapping his hands against his thighs.

…

They sit across from each other on the bed, gently sinking in, and Louis picks up the tube. He carefully removes the cap and brings it to Harry’s face, his other hand coming up to cup Harry’s cheek, stabilizing his jaw. He paints the vibrant stain over the fullest part of Harry’s lip, dragging the color all the way to the corners, then carefully paints along the fine line of his cupid’s bow.

Louis sets the tube down, but his hand lingers, and he draws in closer. His eyes hooded, his lips part slightly, and then-

Then Louis places the most gentle kiss to Harry’s lips, the brush barely there, yet sending sparks up Harry’s spine.

…

At the party, the music roars, an electrified beat coming through on cheap speakers, static making any words indecipherable. Bodies move everywhere: dancing, pushing past one another, touching, groping. Plastic cups and empty cans litter any flat surfaces nearby, the overpriced McMansion successfully trashed.

Harry looks around, dumbfounded. Louis, though, just grabs him by the wrist and drags him past the foyer into the kitchen.

They stop every couple steps, and Louis says hello to friends, clapping their backs and fist bumping.

Harry grabs an unopened can of soda out of a cooler on the floor, and Louis grabs a beer.

“Wanna dance?” Louis asks, and he leads Harry toward the living room floor. The music pulses in his ears, but with Louis dancing next to him, everything seems possible.

…

A couple songs in, Harry sees a hand clap Louis on the shoulder. “Heyyy maateee,” the boy slurs. “I didn’t know you’d beee hereee.”

“Hey, Nick,” Louis said, his voice devoid of emotion.

“And who’s this pretty little thing you brought?” Nick slyly spoke.

“‘M Harry” he mumbled in reply.

“Wow Lou. I knew you were a filthy little fag but i didn’t take you for someone into cross-dressers,” Nick snarled.

Harry glanced worriedly at Louis. The flash of anguish that came over Louis’ features unlocked something primal in Harry. He reached to the end table to his right and grabbed Louis’ half-empty beer. Before he could think twice, he had dumped it right onto Nick’s face. Louis looked at him, shocked.

When Harry saw the look of horror on Louis’ face, he bolted out the back door. He ran inside a small shed in the backyard, hiding under an old workbench. His lip trembled. Louis had looked so upset. Harry upset him. How could he? Harry choked out a sob, and tears cascaded down his cheeks, one by one.

…

Harry was hysterical by the time Louis found him, curled up in a ball under that little workbench, crying so hard he was struggling to breathe.

“Haz!” Louis rushed to his side, “What’s wrong baby?”

“I- I- I- hu-hurt you,” Harry stutters through his tears.

“Baby, what do you mean you hurt me? You didn’t hurt me,” Louis cooed, gently stroking Harry’s back.

“I- I- just got s-so fed up an-and I j-just snapped. I’m so-sorry,” Harry sobbed, his head buried between his knees as he cried, “Y-you looked so upset and- and- I’m j-just so so-sorry.”

“Oh, baby. Baby, you’re not who I was upset with.” Louis stuck two fingers under Harry’s chin and pulled his head up. “Look at me baby. Look at me. I was upset because of what Nick said to you. It was just so mean and I couldn’t stand that he said that to you because–“ Louis paused–“because you’re perfect Haz. And how dare he say that to you.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “But he-he’s your fr-friend. I sh-shouldn’t have-“

Louis cut him off: “Yes. You should have. I don’t want to hear you apologize again. You shouldn’t be sorry, he deserved it. And for the record, he’s not my friend anymore.”

Harry leans in with sudden urgency and pulls Louis into a hug. “Th-thank you,” Harry stutters, his crying slowing.

They sit like that for a while, curled up against each other under the shitty little workbench. When Harry’s crying stops, Louis speaks. “Haz, do you want to get out of here? We can go somewhere else and hang out, just you and me.”

Harry nods into Louis’ shoulder. Louis helps him to his feet and gives him a quick kiss on the nose. “You look pretty, Haz. Not very many people can pull off tear-stained cheeks, you know,” he says, and gently kisses Harry’s temple.

…

Somehow, they end up in the same park as before. They sit next to each other on the same swings, each dragging their feet in the gravel beneath them.

“You know,” Louis began, “I meant what I said earlier. You looked beautiful tonight. And- And I’m sorry Nick made you feel otherwise.”

He looked over at Harry, but Harry held his eyes sternly on the ground. “It- He-,” Harry stuttered, choosing his words carefully. “What he said didn’t hurt. ‘M used to comments like that. It’s just-,” he took a deep breath, “you looked so hurt, like what he said hurt your feelings, like you felt like- like what he said was true and- and-“

Louis jumped up out of his swing at that. “Haz, listen to me,” he said, placing his hands on either side of Harry’s face and moving his eyes up to meet Louis’ own. “What Nick said did hurt my feelings. But not because I’m embarrassed of you. I couldn’t be prouder to be seen with someone as beautiful as you. It hurt my feelings because I knew it hurt you. And the thought of you seeing yourself as any less that perfect tonight, after you were just so brave to wear lipstick and come to a party and be yourself, that hurt me inside. But listen to me carefully. You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.”

When he finished his rant, Louis pulled Harry into a tight hug, holding him close like he was scared of Harry drifting away.

After what felt to Louis like too brief a period, the two separated, and Louis wiped the tear stains off of Harry’s cheeks.

“Now,” Louis said, his hand still cupping Harry’s arm, “what do you say to ice cream?”

…

Harry knew the second he pulled out his notebook that writing tonight would be a challenge. But he knew he had something to say.

He thought about what he’d felt, when he first applied the lipstick versus when he smeared it off: like a little kid on Halloween, dressing up as someone they’re not, and suddenly feeling like themselves. He writes a new line right below the last:

Did you dress up for Halloween?

He thought about Louis, and how he validated his feelings all night, how he didn’t care and even supported Harry spilling a beer on his best friend’s head. Another line:

I spilled beer on your friend (I’m not sorry)

Because Louis had told Harry it was okay to not feel sorry. And for once in his life he was proud that he stuck up for himself. There would be more, Harry knew. But tonight was not the night. Tonight all he wanted was to fall asleep and dream about the beautiful boy who accepted Harry as he was.

Little freak

Jezebel

You sit high atop the kitchen counter

Stay green a little while

You bring blue lights to dreams

I was just thinking about who you are


Your delicate point of view


Just thinking about you

Your track suit and my ponytail


You hide your body under all those layers 


Red wine and ginger ale


But you would make fun of me for sure

Did you dress up for Halloween?

I spilled beer on your friend (I’m not sorry)