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Harry’s sweaty and sticky and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t smell like roses exactly, but it’s Tuesday night and he refuses to end up on the Late Board on Liam and Zayn’s fridge.
Tuesday nights are family dinner nights at the Malik’s place, after all. A night for a lovingly married couple and their two friends who are, in fact, of no familial relation whatsoever. It’s tradition, and has been since Zayn had that emotional breakdown halfway through his grad program that led to Liam organising at least one day a week where Zayn was not allowed to grade any undergrad term papers and was required to eat an entire hot meal.
Harry appreciates the hot meals. He spends most of the year working in buildings without any actual electricity, and there’s only so much hot pot ramen on a bunsen burner that he can tolerate.
Adjusting his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Harry pushes the buzzer and then lets himself in. If Zayn and Liam wanted him to actually wait to be greeted at the door, they’d get better at locking. Plus, it’s raining cats and dogs outside and Harry doesn’t want to have to get his outfit dry cleaned. A bottle of air freshener a week sprayed directly onto his clothes is all he can afford.
“Hi Haz!” Liam calls from another room as Harry closes the door behind him.
“Hi Liam!” Harry yells back. He can smell curry. Fuck yes.
Liam sticks his head around the corner and his face goes through a funny mix of emotions when he spots Harry’s get-up. “Will the jester be joining us for dinner?” he asks.
“Ha-ha,” Harry tuts. “The jester is no longer getting paid, so he will be donning regular clothes in your loo.
“Just don’t leave that funny little hat on the floor,” Liam says. “Bruce might eat the bells off of it.”
Harry inclines his head, setting the little bells jingling. “Noted,” he says.
He makes his way down the familiar hallway to the loo and does a quick change, stuffing the whole multi-coloured jester outfit into the duffel after donning oversized neon sweats. They’re eye-catching in a different way.
By the time he emerges, the voices he hears alerts him that everyone has arrived. Going back through to the kitchen, he finds Liam, Zayn and Louis all gathered around the, frankly, too-small dining table.
Liam, whose arm is around Zayn’s waist. Zayn, who’s trying to dish out curry without jostling said hand.
And Louis, who smiles at Harry as he reclines in his chair. Louis, whose soulmark is visible thanks to his low-cut top.
Louis, Harry’s soulmate, who seems to either be blissfully ignorant of that fact or maliciously ignoring it.
Harry would really like to know which.
—
Zayn and Liam say that their soulmarks are both flowers.
Zayn’s is a bluebell on his shoulder, and Liam’s is a sprig of lilac splayed up the side of his neck. They haven’t chosen to get their soulmarks tattooed — or at least not yet — because they like the privacy of it. The sentimentality of having marks that only the two of them can see.
Soulmarks, as a concept, Harry has always found terribly romantic.
The idea that the first person who sees your soulmark is your soul mate. The fact that you can’t even see your own soulmark until your soulmate touches it, points it out to you. The fact that no one else in the world can see them. It’s peak romance. He spent his whole childhood dreaming of what that moment would be like, when his soulmate announced themself and proved it by revealing his own mark to him; something that has always existed on his own skin, but that he wasn’t able to see. He loved the idea of it. Has giddily awaited it.
Then reality happened.
Harry and Liam have been a packaged deal since primary school. Growing up in houses just four apart, constantly living in each other's pockets, it wasn’t a question in Harry’s mind that they would always be best friends. So when Liam found his soulmate just two years into university, Harry accepted Zayn into his life just as fast.
And with Zayn came Louis.
Louis, who is everything. He’s loud and brash and shy and quiet. He’s charming as hell to people he doesn’t know, and as soon as he knows you, he’s quieter. Content in a way that radiates through a whole room. There’s not been one day with Louis that Harry hasn’t enjoyed.
They had only known each other for eleven days when Harry spotted Louis’ soulmark.
Louis’ go-to tops of choice are either incredibly high turtlenecks or incredibly low v-necks. He seems to waffle between a desire for fashion and a hatred of the cold. It had been autumn, but a warm autumn, and Harry had joined Liam at the terribly shitty pub just off campus for drinks. Zayn had also joined Liam. And Louis had joined Zayn.
The low cut of his v-neck had revealed a smattering of chest hair and, after Harry had done a double take, a beautifully detailed design of two spreading vines flourishing just below his collarbones. Like a crown of laurels atop his chest.
Harry had always wondered how people could tell the difference between tattoos and soulmarks, but having seen this, he realised they were nothing alike. This was so lifelike, almost as if the vines were shifting across his skin.
Holy shit.
And Harry… didn’t say anything.
He didn’t say anything that night, chalking it up to nerves. He’d only known Louis eleven days, after all. He was in the middle of a degree he wasn’t even sure he wanted to finish, and he was suddenly faced with forever (and okay, he wanted forever. He wanted forever more than anything in the world, he knew so in that very moment, but fear is a deadly poison).
Oh, plus… Louis was seeing someone.
That complicated things.
Some people didn’t care about soulmates. Some people actively resented them. Harry had been too scared to ask, that night, what category Louis found himself under. Had he seen Harry’s mark and not commented on purpose? Did he already know?
Louis broke up with that boyfriend less than a month later, their relationship so short lived that Harry never bothered to remember his name (that’s a lie; his name was Calvin and Harry hated him). But the question still lingered. Why had he been dating him in the first place? Did he know about Harry? If he did, did he care? If he didn’t… would he care?
So Harry hadn’t said anything, and it was out of pure cowardice. But Harry’s let fear rule a lot of his life. He ended up three years deep in a degree in astrophysics he didn’t care for rather than tell his mum he wanted to switch. That’s just who he is.
And if he lost his chance at love — because six years on is a bit late to admit to seeing someone’s soulmark — well. At least Louis is a packaged deal with Zayn, and Harry’s got Liam, so they’ll always be some sort of connected.
At least Harry quit his degree after three and a half years.
At least he managed to put one thing right.
—
“The jester arrives,” Zayn says, mock-bowing to Harry.
“I didn’t get this much fanfare when I was the king for a month,” Harry grouses, taking his customary seat between Liam and Louis. “But no, I put on one jangly hat and you all think it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“To be fair, you usually left most of the king costume at work,” Liam says. “Harder to make fun of a man in a shirt and tights. That’s half of Camden.”
“Speak for yourself,” Louis says. “I saw the codpiece.”
“You saw it once because you came to see me perform,” Harry says. “That was on you, and anyway I banned you from all future performances because of it.”
“It was a very nice codpiece,” Louis muses.
“Ew,” says Zayn. “Eat your curry.”
“You put vegetables in it,” Louis says. “I hate veg.”
“You subsist on Pizza Hut,” Zayn says. “Eat your curry.”
Harry can’t help but glance over as Louis leans forward to eat (avoiding veg in favour of rice and meat). His shirt gapes whenever he does and Harry gets a good look at those beautiful laurels. It’s a wild thing, the way the sight of them still makes his heart dance after all these years.
They make small talk, because this is family dinner and Liam, at least, grew up in a household where every night, each person around the table was asked how their day was, and Liam is a stickler for routine.
“A student told me today that I have no rizz,” Louis says. “So I’m considering leaving the teaching business entirely.”
“You teach six year olds,” Liam says. “You teach six year olds art. I think rizz doesn’t matter in art class.”
Louis makes an offended gasp. “Liam,” he says. “You’re supposed to reassure me that I do have rizz.”
“Also, rizz matters very much in art class,” Zayn says, turning to Liam. “You ever try to grade thirty paintings of snowmen and none of them have rizz? Saddest day of my life.”
“You shouldn’t have let Louis bully you into helping him grade in the first place,” Liam says. “I don’t think your degree in archaeology is much help in finger painting.”
“I have an eye for what will survive a few thousand years and end up in a museum,” Zayn argues. “And none of those snowmen will, I can tell you that.”
Louis snaps his fingers. “Oh, also that same kid ate half a crayon.”
“That’s rizz for you,” Harry says.
“Truly future world leader material,” Zayn says drily. “Speaking of which, Liam’s application for that position on the Board went through this week, and has not as of yet been rejected.”
“To be clear, I did not submit that application,” Liam says. “Zayn submitted it, and somehow I don’t think they’re going to elect someone with zero experience.”
“You have lots of experience,” Zayn says. “And if they’re smart they’ll recognize that.”
“Lots of experience in evil soul sucking corporations,” Liam says. “I don’t think nonprofits appreciate that.”
“Don’t worry,” Louis says. “They’re all really the same underneath.”
Liam deflates. “I knoooow,” he sighs. “I just want to make a difference.”
Harry pats him on his very well muscled shoulder reassuringly. “You make a difference to me,” he says.
“Yeah,” Louis backs up. “You make a difference to Harry!”
Harry sighs.
Liam sighs.
Zayn points his fork at Louis’ uneaten vegetables and glares until Louis guiltily takes a bite.
—
Family dinner night ends the way most family dinner nights end; sitting around the telly with four pints of ice cream watching Come Dine with Me .
“I really should go home,” Harry says. “We have three groups of schoolchildren scheduled for tomorrow, and the jester routine is not as good when I’m sleep deprived.”
“For you or for them?” Louis asks.
“For either of us. You ever see a grumpy jester?”
“Yeah, last week when you snagged your hair in one of those bells.”
Harry pouts at him and Louis grins as he tucks into his pint. The telly is speed-running some horror movie that Harry is happy to ignore.
“It’s still pouring outside,” Liam notes. “Maybe you should stay here. Didn’t you take the bus? That’s going to be miserable.”
“Nah, I can drive him home,” Louis says. He shoots Harry a thumbs-up. “You up for that? I just gotta finish my ice cream first.”
A personal ride does beat the bus in this weather. “Yeah, I can deal with that,” Harry says. “You’ll get me home about an hour earlier than the bus anyway.”
“Make sure you watch for flooded roads this time,” Zayn warns. “I remember what happened with your old car.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes yes, I will not drown my second car. It was a flood! That wasn’t my fault!”
“You did drive straight into the flooded area,” Liam says. Unhelpfully.
“You’re not making me feel better about this decision,” Harry says.
“They’re being dramatic,” Louis argues. “That car was as old as the hills anyway. I learned to drive in that thing.”
“You learned to drive when you were twenty,” Zayn points out.
“Okay actually I’m done with my ice cream, I have no more time for being attacked,” Louis says, putting the pint down on the coffee table and standing. “You ready, Harry?”
“Let me just grab my bag,” Harry says, getting up and taking the empty pint Louis just put down to deposit with his own in the kitchen.
They say their farewells and Harry waits until Louis’ unlocked his car before racing out the door towards it. The rain does seem to have only gotten worse, and it’s cold. That cold slimy wet sort of rain he hates the most, that slides under your clothes and makes your skin clammy.
Louis is kind enough to crank the heat in his puttering little Jetta, at least.
“Thanks for the ride,” Harry says, settling into the passenger seat as Louis puts the wipers on full blast.
“Of course,” Louis says. “Can’t have you ending up like a wet rat out there.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but as Louis turns the radio on he takes the time to look at the way the streetlights flash across Louis’ features, his sharp angles and soft skin, his deft hands at the wheel, the soulmark draped across his collarbones.
I could just tell him, Harry thinks, as he so often does. Right now. Just get it over with.
But he doesn’t. Because he’s still a coward.
They run into their first traffic cones halfway to Harry’s flat.
“Shit,” Louis says, turning down a side street. “That one’s flooded. Guess we’re detouring.”
They run into their second set of traffic cones not three minutes later.
“Curly, I’m not sure you’re not still going to end up like a wet rat,” Louis says as he detours yet again.
“Try the back way,” Harry says. “Around by the big Tesco.”
The big Tesco, it turns out, is where they see the third set of traffic cones.
“I’m a little concerned my street is underwater,” Harry says at this point. His flat is on the third floor, so at least that’s safe, but… getting home is seeming more difficult.
Louis grimaces. “I don’t think I want to chance it,” he says. “I was joking before, but also serious. Like, I lost one car to a flood, I’m not keen on it happening again when I’ve barely started to pay it off.”
“Yeah no, absolutely,” Harry says. He watches the rain pounding against the window. “Actually, if you pull into the Tesco I can hop out and walk home from the back route. It’s just a few streets, I can make it.”
“Fuck no,” Louis says. “That would be like making a kitten swim across a river, I’m not that inhumane. You’re staying the night at mine, it’s not too far.”
Harry’s been to Louis’ plenty of times, and it’s true it’s not too far, but, “I really don’t want to be a bother. You can just drop me off back at Zayn and Liam’s, I’ve slept on their sofa more than a few times.”
“As have I. But we’re practically at mine. Come on, Curls, you afraid of my place? I’ve even done the dishes in the past week. …Or the past two weeks, at least.”
Harry laughs. “I’ve never seen your sink clean, that’s not going to be a shock. Fine, if you really don’t mind.”
“Course not.” Louis puts on his turn signal at the last moment and slides into a right turn that’s a bit too fast for Harry’s tastes. “Hell, you can even take the bed. I know how bad your back is, old man.”
“Shut up,” Harry says. “You’re literally older than me.”
“Only numerically.”
“The only kind of old there is.”
“In spirit I’m much younger. I have to be, I teach six year olds.”
Harry snorts. He watches the rain slide down the windows like melted butter and thinks about telling Louis everything.
He doesn’t, of course.
—
Louis’ flat has one major downside, and that’s that the street parking is nearly nonexistent.
“Well,” Louis says, finally pulling into a spot. “This is… not the greatest.”
“Don’t suppose you keep umbrellas in the back seat,” Harry says, looking around.
“What do I look like, a real adult?” Louis snorts. I have a blanket in the boot. Think that will help?”
“I know how much other stuff you have crammed in there,” Harry says. “I think we’d get wetter trying to unearth it. It’s fine. I can see your building from here.”
“Can you?” Louis asks, squinting at the windshield. “That makes one of us.”
“Race you? I’m leaving my bag in your car, it’s just got my work costume in it and I don’t want to have to dry it.”
“Fine. First one to the door gets first rights to shower.”
Harry would like to say that running through the rain with his soulmate at his side is invigorating and like something out of a movie, but in actuality it is cold and soggy and slippery and he can’t see very well. So what actually happens is that Louis outpaces him very fast, and then Harry ends up skidding through some mud and landing on his ass in a flowerbed. Or what he suspects is a flowerbed. There’s bricks digging into his hip and plant-filled mud coating both his arms.
Ugh, and Louis winning the race means Harry’s going to have to wait to shower, too.
He gets up and winces at the blooming pain in a few different places, before pathetically hobbling the rest of the way to Louis’ building, where the door thankfully opens before him, spilling warm light into the rainy street.
“I lost track of you— holy shit,” Louis says.
“There was an incident,” says Harry, limping through into the entryway. Here in the light, the amount of mud caked on his lower half is almost comical. He’s sure his muddy footprints will stain the stairs here for weeks to come.
“Are you okay to walk up the stairs?” Louis asks, looking concerned at the way Harry’s favouring one side (the side that didn’t end up in the bricks).
“I’ll be fine,” Harry says. “I mean, specifically I will be fine because I don’t think there’s another option. But I’ll still be fine.”
“I could give you a piggy back,” Louis suggests.
“Up three flights?”
“Young at heart, remember.”
Harry scoffs. “You broke your arm twice in the last two years. Come on. I’m cold and gross.”
They make their way up the stairs, with no particular haste, and when they finally arrive at Louis’ flat, he graciously holds the door open for Harry to go in first.
“Go ahead and get your shower on,” Harry says, beginning to undress in the entryway, sliding off his shoes before he can dirty up any more of the space. “And don’t take too long, I want some of the hot water.”
“We’re tankless,” Louis says. “And also Christ Harry of course you’re showering first, look at the sight of you!”
Harry frowns. “You won the race,” he argues.
“And I forfeit to the one who got injured,” Louis says. “Shoo, go shower. I’ll scrounge up some sweats that will fit a giant like you.”
Harry’s not going to argue with that. He limps to Louis’ bath and turns the water on as hot as it’ll go before getting under the spray with all of his clothes still on (sans shoes), watching mud and bits of greenery swirl down the drain. He strips off slowly, wringing out his clothes and throwing them out of the shower to hang up later in the hopes that they’ll be dry by morning.
After taking a long, luxurious shower (and making an account of the bruises, along with a shallow but bleeding scratch on his hip), Harry steps out and realises too late that there’s only one towel in the room. Usually he wouldn’t feel particular qualms about stealing it, but Louis’ still planning on taking a shower after him.
Cracking the door open, he calls, “Lou? Extra towel anywhere?”
“Ah shit, yeah,” Louis calls back. “Give me a second!”
“Plasters too, if you have them!”
Louis shows up moments later with a fluffy green towel and a first aid kit. “Plasters?” he asks. “Your fall get you that good?”
“Fell into some bricks,” Harry says, taking the towel through the partially opened door and slinging it around his waist before opening it wider and taking the first aid kit. “It’s not bad, it’s just right on my hip, like, where the fucking bone is, you know?”
“So it is bad,” Louis says. “Lemme see.”
Harry snorts. “Alright mum,” he says.
“I teach six year olds,” Louis argues, stepping into the steamed up room. “I know a thing or two about plasters.”
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry says. He shifts the towel around his waist so that the opening is at his side, and cocks his hip like he’s wearing a fancy dress. “RIght here, and sort of bleeding on your towel a bit now, sorry.”
Louis squats down, grabbing the first aid kit back from Harry and unlatching it. Harry suddenly feels the intimacy of the situation and is thankful for the heat from the shower already dyeing his skin pink, so hopefully his blush isn’t visible.
Louis reaches out and presses his thumb just next to the scrape. “That’s nasty,” he says, and then pauses.
Frowns.
Then he does something that Harry would find very questionable if this were anyone else, and he pushes the edge of Harry’s towel to the side, just an inch.
“Do you— do you have a tattoo?” he asks almost in disbelief. “Right above your happy trail?”
Harry’s brain shuts down. “Uh,” he says.
Louis looks up at him. “You do, don’t you?” he says, and Harry cannot in this moment interpret his tone of voice.
“No,” says Harry. “Uh. I don’t.”
“Then what’s—” Louis pushes the towel a little further before Harry can think to stop him because hey isn’t that a little close, and—
His fingers graze a dark line that snakes across Harry’s skin.
Oh.
“Uh,” say Harry. “I need to sit down.”
He stumbles back a step and sits down hard on the lit of the toilet.
Then, he pulls down the top of the towel around his waist as far as it can go without being indecent.
(He’s a bit past that now, honestly).
There’s a phrase there. In that same sort of almost breathing sort of soulmark ink.
“I can’t read that,” Harry says.
“You can’t read your own tattoo?” Louis asks, walking over to him. “Did you get a concussion?”
“No,” says Harry, looking up at him like Louis is veritably insane because my god he is. “I can’t read that because It’s in a fancy loopy script and I didn’t know that existed until just a moment ago when you touched it.”
Then he breathes in a little sob, because he is very overwhelmed and oh god he’s too much of a coward he was never meant to have to actually deal with this.
When he manages to look up again, Louis is staring down at him, looking almost stricken. “That’s—” he breathes. “I— You—”
Harry pulls the towel back up, protectively.
“It is what it is,” Louis says, which is a very scary thing to say.
“What?” squeaks Harry.
“No, I mean, the soulmark! That’s what it says!”
Harry looks down. The towel covers the whole thing now. He’s afraid to look at it again. “Oh,” he says.
“Is that—” Louis reaches out a hand and then drops it again. “I mean. Is that okay?”
“What, the soulmark? It doesn’t hurt or anything.”
“No, I mean. I mean that it’s me,” Louis says, and Harry looks him in the eye and realises for the first time that he sees that familiar fear, familiar insecurity.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “Of course it’s okay with me, I’ve been okay with it for years.”
He blames it on the rain and the fall and the mud and the scape and maybe Louis’ right maybe he does have a concussion.
Louis steps back. “Years?” he asks.
“I’m sorry,” Harry gets out, shrinking in on himself a little. “I— yes. I was afraid to tell you.”
“You mean you’ve known?”
Cringing, Harry nods.
“What the fuck, Harry?”
“You were dating someone at the time!” Harry argues weakly. “I figured you weren’t into soulmates!”
“Dating— Calvin? The last person I dated was five— six years ago!”
“Yeah! And you never mentioned seeing my soulmark! I thought that was on purpose!”
“Well sorry I didn’t know your soulmark was going to be so low on your hips that it would take an injury and a towel slip for me to find it!”
“Well I didn’t know that, did I?” Harry yells, throwing up his hands. “And I’m a coward, okay! I was scared! It seemed like you didn’t want this and I didn’t want to ruin what we had going!”
Louis sits down hard on the tile floor in front of Harry. “Where is it?” he asks.
“What?”
“Where’s my mark?”
Harry reaches out and touches where he’s never allowed himself to touch, the laurels across Louis’ collarbones. They look different somehow, after he touches them, but also exactly the same. Louis looks down with wide, fascinated eyes.
“Oh,” he says.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees.
Harry realises in this moment that he is exhausted. A bone-deep tired weighing him down. He rubs at his eyes, feeling tears springing to the corners.
“You’re not a coward,” Louis says.
Harry looks up at him. Louis’ tracing the leaves on his chest, stretching out the V of his shirt.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Louis says. “I— maybe would’ve done the same thing.”
Harry scoffs. “No you wouldn’t have,” he says. “You’re too decisive for that. Too… in charge of your own destiny.”
Louis shrugs. “Nah,” he says. When you met me I was definitely going through a phase. I did try dating because I thought my soulmate might never come. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had announced yourself while I was still dating Calvin.”
“I didn’t like that guy,” Harry mutters.
“I didn’t either, it turns out,” Louis says. “He stole my Super Mario game, too.”
He looks up, reaching over and brushing his fingers over the towel where it’s covering Harry’s mark. “Did you tell Liam?” he asks.
Harry shakes his head.
“Zayn?”
Shakes his head again.
“I knew they would tell you immediately,” Harry says with a shrug.
“That’s the opposite of a coward then,” Louis says. “That’s a big secret to carry for so many years.
Harry deflates. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“I’m sorry too,” Louis says. “I should’ve, I dunno, made you strip sooner.”
Harry snorts.
“How about this,” Louis says. “I still need to shower because I smell like wet dog, but then afterwards we can… share the bed? Watch one of those bad rom coms you like and figure out how to be soulmates?”
“I’m going to be honest,” Harry says. “I love that idea, but I am about to pass out and I will not get through even the opening monologue of Love Actually.”
“I did not say it was going to be Love Actually.”
“It was, though.”
“Yes it was. Okay. I shower, you pass out on my bed, we talk about this when we have had decent sleep and aren’t running on anxiety crashes?”
Harry yawns. “Deal,” he says. “Did you find sweats that would fit me?”
“SInce we’re soulmates does it matter?”
Harry smacks him lightly. “I don’t denude on the first date,” he says.
“Fine, sweats are on the coffee table.”
Harry gets up, wobbling a little either because of his injuries or because of the comedown from the adrenaline. “I am definitely going to be asleep in ten seconds,” he says.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Louis says.
—
The morning is characterised by clear skies and bright sun and when Harry rolls over, he lands squarely on Louis, kneeing him in the balls and cuddling into him even as Louis is still cursing.
Louis Tomlinson, Harry’s soulmate, who knows and accepts this fact and who kisses him on the nose after he’s regained his breath, and traces the words on his hips while Harry traces the laurels on his chest.
It’s a good day.
Or at least, it is until Harry has to crawl out of Louis’ bed and don his jester costume and act like his life wasn’t just changed forever.