Work Text:
thinking out loud — ed sheeran
Highschool! AU.
Problematic Fighter! Louis.
Nurse-in-practice! Harry.
“Don’t you have class, Mr. Styles?” Asks the school’s nurse, Megan, again.
“How many times have I told you; call me Harry,” Harry huffs, “and I do. But we both know that I don’t care unless it’s art class.”
Megan sighs, placing back the bandages into their drawer. “You do realise I have the authority to send you back? And put you in detention?”
“I do,” Harry winks, grinning as he takes a bottle of medicine out of the bandage drawer and places it into its original place, “but do you realise you enjoy my company way too much to let me go and waste my time on pointless lessons? Besides, you’ve been messing up way too much, lately. God knows how many kids would’ve died if it wasn’t for me.”
The fifty-five-year-old woman snorts. Maybe she is trying to laugh or something. She definitely needs to retire soon, because why would a rich, almost-sixty-year-old woman even work as a nurse in a public high-school that would never pay her enough?
“The only kid that comes by is that punk child and his victims, Little Harry, and I doubt his punches were strong enough to cause more than bruised knuckles for him or scratches and bruises to the so-called victims,” Megan points out, “this boy can punch stronger if he wanted to and judging by those biceps and tattoos, he wouldn’t be too scared to break bones and ribs.”
“You have a point,” Harry shrugs, blushing slightly at the mention of the “punk child,” as Megan would call him.
“But he never does it. However, he does ask for you every time he ends up here, doesn’t he? He never has serious injuries and he barely needs anything— but whatever he needs, he refuses to get it from me, or anyone beside you,” Megan smirks , laughing weakly as she leans across the counter, while toying with a bandage in between her fingers, “suspicious. Always seemed like he has a thing for you, Little Harry.”
“Oh. God. Um, I don’t think—“
Olive, the Spanish teacher, suddenly barges into the nurse’s room. She looks worried, but her expression instantly makes Harry realise that oh, it’s the usual. Who is it with, this time?
“Tsk, tsk. I heard some yelling in the corridors and turned out it was Louis, again, fighting with Lucas Salloum. He was instantly suspended for his heavy use of homophobic language while Louis has detention for one week,” he pauses, glaring at the boy whose hair is a mess and eyes are set on fire, “right after he finishes his two-month worth detentions. Please send him to my room once you’re done examining him.”
“Of course, Olive,” Megan says with a soft smile at the younger woman, “he looks fine, I’ll sterilise his cuts and bandage up his knuckles. Afterwards, I’ll accompany him to your class.” Or send Little Harry to do so, Megan thinks.
“No,” Louis interrupts, rather loudly. Harry’s eyes light up; it was the first time he heard him speak ever since he walked into the room— which was a bit unusual because he was always a loud-mouth. “Har— I want Styles to do it.”
OHMYGOD. He almost called me Harry. He literally said he wanted me to nurse her instead of Megan, right in front of our Spanish teacher. Yay. Lovely. :) What’s new, though?
“Um, of course,” Megan nods, winking at Harry. She tried to do it discreetly, without letting anyone notice but Olive coughing awkwardly while staring at the floor and Louis’ eyes widening before he blinked, twice, and started trailing his eyes all over the room proved otherwise.
“I’ll leave. You know where to find me,” Olive says before she turns around and leaves the room. Megan waves at him before going to her desk. “Take your time, Little Harry, and be careful,” she says, her eyes fixed on whatever she is searching for in the drawer of her desk. She pulls out some files. “I’ll take these to the principle and be back, soon! Take care!”
And then, she left. She is gone. She disappeared. Disapparated out of the room, which is now empty of any people other than Harry and Louis. Who are alone. Together. Alone in a room.
“So,” Harry starts, rather awkwardly as he draws out the ‘o.’ “What happened, today?” He walks across the room, so that he is standing right beside Louis.
“Oh,” Louis bites his lip, “nothing. Salloum was saying some shit to my mates, and I just— I couldn’t stay silent and watch him, okay?”
“You could’ve, but you are a trouble magnet,” Harry says under his breath as he turns around and grabbed a clean cloth. He turns on the tap and wets the cloth.
“Trouble isn’t the only thing I can attract, babe,” Louis winks, and Harry tries to not blush— and laugh, because this line is simply hilarious. Why is Louis so damn good at talking? —when he holds Louis’ hand and starts to clean away the dirty blood. His hands are small, and tanner than Harry’s, but while the inside of his palm felt so soft and smooth, his knuckles were sharp and scratchy, edges and corners, blood and bruises and Ohmygod, why is this so pretty? It’s a hand, for fuck’s sake! A small, soft nice hand. Hm. The contrast between our skin colours is so beautiful. Louis is beautiful. (Harry doesn’t think about how, usually, Louis’ punches and fights don’t end up with that much blood smeared anywhere.)
So, Harry ignores him and focuses on cleaning up the blood remains with the wet cloth. “Why do you either call me Mr. Styles or summat like ‘babe’ and ‘love’? Call me by my name.”
“I’d call you anything, anytime but I still don’t have your number. It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Louis winks ‘flirtatiously,’ but he suddenly stops and his eyes comically widen when Harry throws away the dirty cloth before grabbing some cotton along with a bottle of sterilising alcohol.
“This happened over a hundred times already, Louis, so how about we make a deal?” Harry says, waving the alcohol bottle, “I’ll give you my number and let you call me whatever you want if you promise to not push me away?”
“But it’ll hurt,” Louis pouts, trying to casually take back his hand out of Harry’s soft, careful grip. “I’m sure a nice evening out this Friday will make up for the pain this will cause me? Uh, for the pain I went through during all these times I’ve passed by?”
“Hmm.” Harry raises his fingers to his chin, the alcohol bottle still in his other hand, as he pretends to contemplate things, “and if it doesn’t make up for it?”
“Nah, I’m sure it will. There’s a carnival and if you win me that pirate panda with the eye-patch and bandana, you’ll win my heart,” Louis winks. Hesitantly, he adds, “not that you haven’t achieved that already, Little Harry.”
And yeah. Okay.
Harry could have reminded Louis it was his fault for punching that homophobic kid in the first place (although that kid deserved it), and he could have mentioned how the sting of the alcohol on open wounds can never amount to the pain of slamming your knuckles into hard abs or bony faces. Louis could have asked Harry to not do anything, since his mother was already a nurse and he knew that the bruises on his knuckles would fade in a couple hours and the blood would wash off after three seconds of washing his hands.
But fate likes to take the long way to her goal, even if it was as simple as getting a phone number from a cute boy who always skipped class to hang out with a sixty-year old nurse, or a Friday evening at a carnival with the boy who liked acting like a punkass and always defended his friends and himself through violent ways.
Harry settles on, “I can’t play carnival games to save my life, Lou.”
And Louis settles on making it clear that the soft ‘Lou’ already made up for any pain from the alcohol.
(On Monday, Megan does not question the fact that there is a stuffed panda— with an eyepatch and a pirate’s tricorn on its head —poking out of Harry’s backpack. She knows. She is fate.)