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When Louis sees him at the Alpha Sig/Carter date party, his first instinct is to kick him out and send him home.
Well, his first instinct is to melt into a puddle of goo on the floor because holy shit that’s just objectively the best-looking human he’s ever seen, but the instinct to quash that instinct has become even stronger in the past three years he’s been in Alpha Sig.
The theme of the party is pop-punk, which is just as good as it sounds. It was Louis’ idea, actually, and he had been surprised when the rest of the Alpha E-Board had gone for it. Louis’s always had friends, always been well-liked, but he’s still adjusting to having the kind of influence he has in college. The kind of power.
So “My Friends Over You” by New Found Glory sets the (a bit too on the nose) soundtrack to this life-changing moment.
Life-changing because he’s just seen the guy of his dreams and now he has to approach him not to ask him on a date but to kick him out of his frat. It’s his least favorite part of being social chair, but the benefits of the job outweigh these downsides. Usually. Or so he tells himself.
So he approaches the hot guy, who was somehow managing to pull off an unhinged combo of scene girl and emo band boy, dramatic eyeliner (decidedly not guyliner), starkly, artificially straightened hair, and a Forever the Sickest Kids t-shirt that had not only been cut into a muscle tank but also further embellished with dramatic slits down the sides and the front, some of which have been elaborately and deliberately knotted back together. He’s paired this with the skinniest jeans Louis had seen this side of 2010, thigh muscles bulging from them obscenely, and high-top vans.
“Hey,” Louis says, but he doesn’t say it with the sort of menacing air that would befit a social chair who was serious about kicking out a random, uninvited guy from the frat. He says it more like he’d say it if he were approaching this dude for . . . other reasons. “Are you . . . what are you doing here?” Which is an idiotic thing to say at a party.
To his credit, the dude just smirks, revealing a hint of a dimple, before gesturing to his outfit and saying, “There’s a party going on.” He gestures to Louis’ outfit too, and Louis feels for the first time self-conscious about his old XL Paramore t-shirt, bright blue, which he’d begged his mum to buy him from Hot Topic as his sixth grade back-to-school outfit and immediately cut into a deep v-neck, only further encouraging his mom’s disapproval.
“Lou, that shirt doesn’t fit you,” she’d said in the store, frowning at his small but growing frame, “And it’s a bit. . . . you don’t want to stand out too much at your new school, do you?”
“I like to stand out, Mum,” he’d assured her, scowling, “You don’t want me to be just like everybody else, do you?”
“No,” she’d admitted, chastened. But Louis knew his mum well enough to hear the unspoken, But I’d prefer it if you stood out in a shirt that actually fits. And doesn’t get you sent to the office for fighting when kids twice your size use it as an excuse to call you slurs.
But Louis hadn’t been worried. He’d had plans to join the footie team that year, and he'd always charmed the lads in his classes before, even if he was a little . . . different from them, so he knew he’d be fine.
He hadn’t been fine. He should’ve listened to his mum.
“Yeah, it’s my party, mate,” Louis says now, charmed but determined.
“Oh, your party, is it?” Louis is scandalized to see that there are actually two dimples on this guy’s face, and they’re out in full force now. “Here I thought it was my party.”
“Listen, mate, I know you’re not in Alpha Sig, and it’s kind of my job to make sure nobody who isn’t supposed to be here comes in. I'm not trying to be a dick but this party’s just for Alpha and Carter.”
“I know I’m not in Alpha Sigma,” the guy says with a meaningful look and a haughty little laugh that should offend Louis, but doesn’t really. He's not Alpha's biggest fan either, these days.
Louis’ view of reality rearranges itself, and he peers at the guy. “You’re in Carter?” he says, not comprehending. “But you’re a guy?”
“Membership is gender-expansive this year, douchebag,” the hot stranger Louis’ probably been misgendering in his head says. Their eyes are so green. Are they contacts? Surely that can’t be natural? “Also fuck you for assuming I’m a guy.”
Louis feels his face turn bright red. The song has changed to "Teenage Dirtbag," which isn’t even properly pop punk, and it’s too loud. He wants to give them a real apology, but he can barely hear himself think. “I’m so sorry,” Louis says, “So, so fucking sorry. I swear to god, I didn’t mean—I swear I’m not, like, transphobic.” He feels like—a dirtbag, and not in a cute way like in the song. Not even a teenage dirtbag, but an old-enough-to-know-better, young adult dirtbag. A college-aged, toxically masculine, frat boy dirtbag. “God, that’s definitely what a transphobic person would say. Fuck.” He makes himself stop talking, and resigns himself to a slow, painful death at the hands of the hottest person he’s ever offended.
But when he looks at the hot stranger’s warm green eyes, they’re not angry anymore, just mildly amused. “Oh my god,” they say, probably just as shocked by Louis' embarrassing and rambling apology as he is.
“I really am sorry. You’re just—I wanted to talk to you, and I really fucked it up.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s okay,” the hot stranger says, which is much more than Louis deserves. Their dimples are out again. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I am a guy. Sort of."
And Louis is so grateful that he’s not being chewed out or beaten up that he sticks out his hand like he’s at a job interview, because this feels like a second chance, and it feels important to try to get it right. “I’m Louis,” he says, “I promise I’m not always such an asshole.”
“Harry,” Harry says, reaching out their hand and enveloping Louis’ in a warm embrace, broken up with bits of cold metal where their rings meet the places between their joined fingers, “And I think I actually believe you.”
And it’s definitely not his best pick-up line, but Louis keeps hold of their hand, smiles, and asks, “So, uh, what are your pronouns, Harry?”