Work Text:
“Fucking stupid apprentices.”
Harry huffed in annoyance as he put his truck in park, taking the key out of ignition and running a hand over his face. The day should have gone like any other– wake up at 5 sharp, drag himself out of bed, wash down his Zoloft with whatever was left in the beer can on his bedside table, get ready for work and leave, welding plane parts all day and driving home to pass out and do it all over again the next. If it were a Friday, maybe heading to the strip joint the next town over– Kitty’s House. He wouldn’t call himself a regular, but the bartender knew he took his whiskey neat and tended to tip at the rack, never buying private dances. He always tipped well, made conversation, bought the girls drinks, but he wasn’t there for the reasons most people stereotype about men in those clubs. He didn’t try anything with the girls, he didn’t jerk off in his car shortly after leaving, he never tried the whole, “so what’s your real name, baby?” shit he heard from all the other dirtbags in there.
Harry was there to forget.
It made the weekends go by easier, being able to talk with a sweet-voiced young thing and feel like she really wanted to listen to him, though he knew she wouldn’t if he weren’t dropping bills every few minutes while they spoke. He hadn’t felt the touch of a woman in years, the comforting lilt of a soft voice, the surge of pride upon making her laugh and seeing her perfectly-lined eyes crinkle in amusement.
Not since Kendall.
They were supposed to get married. Have kids. Her dad already called him son, her mom nitpicked every detail of him, it was nearly perfect. She was gorgeous– tall, tan, almond shaped eyes and a smile that radiated in every room. She had a dry sense of humor and could out-drink him like no one else– at least back then. He always told her she should model. When he proposed with his grandmother’s ring, sliding it onto her finger with tears in his eyes, he’d said– “Ken, baby, you’re gonna be a star someday.”
He hadn’t meant to prophesize the future. Hadn’t meant for her to be spotted by a talent agency while stopping at a beauty store to pick up a last-minute makeup essential the day before the wedding.
He certainly hadn’t meant to be left at the altar.
“You’ve only ever held me back, H,” she’d said over the phone, her voice devoid of emotion, “All you do is work and drink. I want to travel the world, I don’t want to work my corporate 9-5 just for the sake of having health insurance. I know I deserve more.”
She was probably right, but she could have waited until the honeymoon or something, he mused. The wedding was a disaster, he’d stormed out, refusing to meet the eyes of his family and never speaking to any of them again.
Harry just wanted to forget, and that’s exactly what he did every weekend.
But today wasn’t a weekend. It was Tuesday, and work should have been like any other mundane, grimey day, but today he’d been stuck with a stupid college-age apprentice who clearly thought this was going to be a lot easier than finishing medical school.
That was exactly how it happened– the apprentice, Ryan or Ron or something, Harry didn’t care– had accidentally knocked Harry’s hand straight into a line of sparks, and burned his knuckles near raw. He’d been sent home after filling out a worker’s comp form and given a week of paid leave.
Fucking stupid apprentices.
He didn’t know what to do with himself once he got home. It was too quiet. He drank, napped, ate some leftover pizza, watched a rerun of Dexter . But with the silence came memories, and Harry hated memories.
Sighing, he got up from his recliner reluctantly. He showered, changed into a loose-fitting tee and brown Carhartt pants, pulled on his boots and headed out the door, grabbing his keys and usual trucker hat. It was late, but Kitty’s House was probably still open.
He sat behind the wheel for another twenty minutes or so before making a move, staring at the dim light outside his trailer home door, flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to die or not.
He inhaled deeply and started the engine, pulling out and heading to the only other place he went besides work and the grocery store.
Kitty’s House was a dump, but it had lights, music, warm skin and noise and bodies. A place where people didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer, where he could just exist there, in the half-dark, illuminated by pink LEDs, the heavy bass of the third play of “Unholy” that night numbing him.
The neon glow of the familiar sign came into view and he pulled into the parking lot, composing himself and putting his hat and amber-tinted thick framed glasses on. The sun was long since set as he entered, the black of night engulfing him as he nodded to the bouncer– Ricky, he remembered– and headed in.
He never came on weeknights. There was something just a push over the edge too embarassing about being a regular at a strip club on a Tuesday. But fuck it, he was already a cliché. What difference did it make?
The place was half-empty when he walked in, the scent of heavy cologne and desperation clinging to the walls. The music was low, pulsing with bass but subdued, and the usual crowd of horny men and tired girls was… different tonight. There was a honey-skinned man on stage in nothing but a jockstrap and pleasers twisting around a pole, two women kissing each other in the corner booth, various bodies in contrasting aesthetics drifting by.
“All Inclusive Night,” read the neon chalkboard behind the bar, surrounded by glittery stars and rainbow letters. Harry squinted at it, then shrugged. Not that important.
He slumped into his usual barstool farthest from the door and ordered a Jack Daniels neat and a beer chaser. The usual bartender was gone, replaced by a tall, sparkling drag queen wearing gold hoops and a sculpted auburn wig. Her nametag read Babs, and she spoke with a sweet voice and had a rainbow tattooed on the inside of her arm. The kind of person who’d probably avoid him at all costs in public. Regardless, she smiled at him and poured his order, taking his card with long red nails.
He knew how he looked, how he was perceived. He was the kind of guy mothers warn their daughters about– unshaven, eyes hollow, jaw clenched with quiet anger. The kind of guy who drank like he was trying to forget something that haunted him, who spoke in small grunts and smelled like smoke and regret.
He was halfway through his second beer when the music changed. Slow. Sultry. Low synth with a bassline you could feel in your chest. He looked up to the stage, disinterested at first, until he saw the figure stepping out from behind the curtain.
“Gentlemen, Ladies, and all others, please give a warm welcome to… Lex, ” the DJ, a man with olive skin and raven-black hair announced over the speaker.
Lex.
Powder blue lingerie. High-cut matching panties and garter straps hugging toned thighs. Warm, golden tan skin, a soft, lithe shape with curves that made his mouth go dry and a confidence that carried like the dancer was floating. 6-inch white pleather pleaser heels, straps wrapping up and around smooth legs.
She– no, they, he guessed– looked like a dream. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Or him? His brain was too foggy to split hairs on the matter. And those eyes. Baby blue and framed by fluttery lashes, twinkling unde the lights. They found his from across the room and winked as the dancer walked to the pole, wrapping a dainty hand around it.
Harry stiffened. He downed his drink and stood up, tossing bills onto the bar-top and moving toward the stage like a man possessed. There were only a couple other people sat nearby, no one at the rack. He took a seat right front-and-center, nothing to lose.
“Hi, handsome,” the dancer’s voice came out, dripping with sweetness and low with warning. “Thanks for coming over. I’m terribly lonely tonight.”
Harry nodded in response without a word, pulling out his wallet and tossing a few bills onto the stage. He watched as he was winked at again, before Lex moved back to the pole and the music started.
Harry recognized it. Lust by Boy Harsher. A slow, synthy goth track with whispering vocals. It fit Lex perfectly.
Lex moved like water. Harry watched the slow twist of hips and the slide of fingers down smooth thighs right in front of him. Every movement was pacticed, intentional, but it still felt natural. Like Lex wasn’t performing at all. Like they were simply existing, and the world had no choice but to watch. The soft lingerie clung to their body like it was made just for them, the soft lighting glinting off delicate rhinestones along the seams that traced their curves. The dancer’s legs were strong, defined, cinched by lace garters that Harry couldn’t stop staring at. The heels pushed their ass up hgih, an impossible curve Harry hadn’t realized he could still be stunned by, and he thought he’d seen everything in this kind of club. He wanted to bite the inside of his cheek, to ground himself, but he couldn’t feel much of anything, so why bother?
But he felt this.
Lex dropped into a perfect split as the song reached its chorus, arching back with a flick of their wrists, and Harry exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding– sharply.
“God damn,” he whispered to himself.
He wasn’t even hard or anything. Not yet. It wasn’t about that– it was the feeling, the way something seemed to swell in his chest, his skin prickling with nerves. That blue gaze found him again and held tight. And this time, Harry didn’t look away.
Lex swung their legs back together and crawled forward toward Harry, smiling sweetly as the man tossed another few bills onto the stage. When he reached the edge, he bent low, cheek resting against the low gold barricade bar, one manicured hand sliding over the cool metal and resting on the edge, just inches from Harry’s chin.
“First time seeing me?” Lex purred, lips glossy and curled into a smirk.
Hary cleared his throat. Nodded. Swallowed.
“Well, lucky you.” Another wink. “Tuesdays are my favorite nights.”
The dry burn of whiskey stung Harry’s throat. “You got a favorite song to dance to?”
Lex chuckled– light, breathy, almost amused. “You’re hearing it, baby.”
Harry huffed out a small laugh through his nose, surprising even himself. He reached back into his wallet, then paused, pulling out a fifty and laying it on the stage.
Lex’s brows lifted. “How generous of you.”
“You earned it.”
The dancer tilted their head, a strand of soft chestnut hair falling loose from the glittery barettes holding it in place. “You planning on watching from there all night? I’d love to offer you a private dance,” they said softly, almost gentle. “If you’re looking for something… quieter.”
Harry stared up at him, the neon pink lighting painting his face and casting deep shadows over his eyes. The buzz in his brain slowed just enough to register the question. Something lit up inside him– curiosity, craving. Want.
He nodded once, as the song came to an end. Lex smiled. “Follow me.”
And Harry did.
His boots thudded softly against the leopard printed carpet flooring, Lex’s heels clicking ahead of him in a soft pattern. The music faded behind them as they walked down the hall, lights getting dimmer, the scent of whatever perfume Lex had on leading Harry like a ghost– amber, vanilla, lavender. His breath caught in his throat as Lex pushed open the curtain to a private room and gestured for him to sit on the velvet bench lining the wall.
“You nervous, cowboy?” They teased with a giggle, stepping into the room and letting the deep purple velvet curtain fall behind them.
Harry’s fingers flexed over his knees. “Not really. Just… not used to this– to… to people like you. Not sure what I even call you.”
“You can call me anything you want, darling,” Lex said softly, “as long as you call me pretty, too.”
Harry drew in a sharp breath as the music started again, another thumping darkwave track, and Lex slowly walked toward him, like a predator eyeing its latest conquest.
“Here’s the rules, babe,” they said as they leaned down and softly braced their hands on Harry’s shoulders, “no touching, no kissing or licking, and I use any pronouns. I charge fifty for one song, a hundred for three. But since you already tipped me so well, we’ll just call this fifty, yeah?”
“Any pronouns?” Harry questioned, watching with hooded eyes as the dancer straddled him, thick thighs bracketing his own.
“Yes, babe,” Lex chuckled, beginning to roll their hips to the beat. “What are yours, then?”
“I don’t… I don’t do that kind of stuff,” Harry gruffed.
Lex rolled their eyes, arching back and continuing to roll against him. “Yeah, sure,” they– he? What the hell did any mean?– scoffed. “So you’d be fine with it if I called you her?”
“Would you?”
Lex’s mouth curled up into a smirk, tilting their head back down to look at Harry again. “Oh, I’d love that. Maybe I’d even let you call me a dirty little girl. Would you like that?”
“ Jesus, ” Harry choked out, swallowing thickly as Lex stood back up and turned with the music, back facing him and displaying their ass in all its round glory.
“Yeah? I’ve been so naughty. Maybe I’d wear a skirt in front of you, let you pull it up and spank me.”
“I–I”
“Or maybe,” Lex continued, slowly bending over, perfectly folding in half and stroking their hands down their legs as they went, tilting their head to look back, “I’d let you watch me play with my pussy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do,” he stammered, voice caught between a growl and a confession. HIs hands were fists beside his thighs, white knuckled and trembling slightly.
Lex straightened up again, straddling him once more with a slow, deliberate grace. Their hands ghosted up their own thighs, a show of temptation that required no contact at all. “That’s alright,” their voice purred into Harry’s ear, breath hot against his skin, “you don’t gotta do a damn thing. Just sit back and let me be your fantasy.”
Harry exhaled shakily, eyes locked on the dancer’s flushed chest, rising and falling with every breath, the light catching on the glitter dusting their collarbones and shoulders and making their skin look like liquid gold. Their scent was intoxicating this close. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening– this wasn’t like him. He didn’t do private rooms. He never let anyone this close. But Lex didn’t seem to be just anyone.
“You got a name?” Harry asked gruffly, immediately internally cursing himself. He sounded like all the other losers he hated who lurked around this place.
Lex gave a sultry smile, rolling their hips in slow figure-eights. “Already gave you one. It’s Lex, baby.”
“I mean your real name.”
Lex paused their movements, gaze narrowing slightly. “What’s your real name?”
“Harry,” he answered quietly, voice shaking slightly.
“Well, Harry,” Lex leaned in, brushing their soft lips against the shell of Harry’s ear and making him shiver, “my name here is Lex. That’s all you need to know. Got it?”
Harry swallowed and nodded. “Got it.”
༺♥༻
Harry started going to see Lex every week. He’d get home from work at 3, take a nap, wake up at 8 and drive to the club, like clockwork. Lex was beginning to get more comfortable with him, talking with him when the club was empty of other customers and letting Harry tell them bad jokes and compensate them with as many fruity little cocktails as they wanted.
It was another Tuesday at the club. Lex had their legs swung over Harry’s where they sat at the little metal tables on the back patio, passing a cigarette to each other.
“You must drive something fancy,” Lex mused, blowing out a plume of smoke in a thin stream, “what with how handsomely you like to tip me.”
“Not too fancy,” Harry shrugged, “I mean, it’s a nice truck. Good quality. Carries a lot, can go up a steep incline. But I don’t need some shiny Mustang or whatever.”
“What do you do for work, anyway?” They asked, passing the cigarette to him. Harry took a slow inhale before speaking.
“Welding. Plane parts, mostly, but I also do some other work here and there. Typical blue collar dirtbag shit.”
“Hot,” they said with a smirk, “bet you get all rugged and sweaty and dirty.”
“Mmm?” Harry hummed, reaching over and pulling their legs closer on his lap, “You wanna see, sometime?”
“Maybe I do,” they answered with a wink. “I like you. You’re nice to talk to.”
Harry scoffed. “You’d say that about anyone.”
“No, I mean it,” they said, softer this time, serious. “At least you’re not spending the whole time asking me what parts I have under my panties and only tipping a couple dollars, if anything. You actually want to talk to me.”
“I like talking to you,” he said, taking another drag of the cigarette and flicking ash into the dish on the table. “You actually listen. Remember things about me.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Harry,” Lex chuckled, stealing the cig back from him with nimble fingers.
“Yeah? Why did you start dancing to Arctic Monkeys whenever I’m here, then?”
Lex’s cheeks flushed. “Whatever.”
“Lex,” a voice interrupted them from the doorway. It was the club’s DJ, Zayn. “c’mon, man. You’re up.”
“Don’t call me man, ” Lex said with a roll of his eyes, but sighed and pulled his legs off Harry nonetheless. “Going to come watch?”
“I’d love to, doll, but it’s getting pretty late. Gotta be up for work in 4 hours,” Harry sighed. Lex pouted.
Lex took another drag of smoke, breathing it out sharply. “Lame. You should take Wednesdays off, or something.”
“Not how this whole blue collar worker thing works, babe,” Harry chuckled. “Next week, then?”
“Actually…” Lex said, a reluctant tone to their voice, “I won’t be here next week. Have to go out of town for a few days. Family thing.”
Harry’s face fell. His heart sank. Lex was his only joy he’d felt in years, and it was already hard enough depriving himself of it for an entire week each time. “When will you be back?”
“The week after,” they said as they handed the cigarette back and stood, stretching their arms above their head, “but, if you like… well, no, it’s stupid.”
“What? What is it?”
Lex seemed to contemplate it for a moment. “Okay,” they huffed, “I don’t normally do this with customers. But, if you want, you can, like, have my Insta? We could talk on there.”
“I don’t really use social media like that,” Harry said with a raised eyebrow, “can I just have your number instead?”
Lex scoffed. “I’m not that easy.”
“I didn’t mean–”
“It’s SexiLexi28. With an i. Follow it if you want,” Lex shrugged, heels clicking as they walked back into the club, Zayn giving them an annoyed glare.
Harry watched them go, the soft fog of cigarette smoke curling around him as if trying to hold Lex there just a second longer. His beer had gone warm, and the laughter and bass from inside felt like it belonged to a different dimension. For a long moment, he just sat there, fingers fidgeting with the edges of the cigarette butt, still warm from Lex’s lips.
SexiLexi28.
The name sounded ridiculous, but also them. Glittery and sweet, with bite. Harry had never followed anyone on Instagram in his life– didn’t even think he had the app on his phone. But now, sitting alone on a metal patio chair while the warmth of Lex’s thighs slowly faded from his lap, it suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world.
༺♥༻
Harry hated going back to his trailer on Tuesday nights. Hated the fantasy ending, the cruel way life reminded him the moment he walked through the door that he was still a loser. The beer cans that littered the floor, stubbed out cigarettes on the coffee table, the sight of the decaying houseplant he’d barely kept alive, straining to be nurtured in its dry pot. Sun-starved. He tossed his keys into the little dish beside the door, sitting in his usual spot on the old brown leather recliner after kicking his shoes off. He sighed to himself, dragging a hand down his face and standing back up after letting his thoughts run rampant for a minute too long. He went to his small bathroom and showered the stench of the club off his body, but Lex still clung to him anyway– in the hardness between his legs, in the soft, burning desire behind his eyes.
He sat back on the edge of the recliner in only a towel, phone in hand, hesitant.
He downloaded the app, made a burner account with no name, no profile picture, no bio. HStyles94 as a username. Nothing more, nothing less. Then, he searched.
SexiLexi28.
There they were. The profile was private, but the tiny circular icon– Lex in a cropped mesh top and bubblegum-pink lip gloss, lips parted and eyes bright– stared back at him. As if daring him.
He hesitated, then tapped follow before he could think better of it. A minute passed. Then another. He was just about to put the phone away for the night when the screen lit up–
Lex🩷 has accepted your follow request.
Harry’s stomach flipped. Seconds later, a DM arrived.
Lex 🩷 :
sooo… u found me 😊
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. Gave his account a name. Typed back with shaking fingers.
Harry:
You told me to, didn’t you?
Lex 🩷 :
lol yeah but still.
i didn’t think u actually would
ur like… old school. all rough n grumpy. no offense 😇
Harry:
Thanks for calling me old.
Lex 🩷 :
ur like 32 right
that’s ancient in gay years
anyway why are u texting me so late u have work in the morning
Harry:
Wanted to talk to you.
And I'm not gay.
Lex 🩷 :
🤨 sure ur not
i wanted to talk to u too
next week is going to be boring af without u coming in
🥺🥺🥺
Harry stared at the screen for a long moment. Something deep within him seemed to soften. Something that hadn’t felt soft in years.
Harry:
Can I see you before you leave?
Lex took a little bit longer to respond.
Lex 🩷 :
maybe
Depends if ur brave enough to see me outside the club :p
i look different without the heels and glitter
Harry:
I don’t care about that. I just want you.
The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared. Lex must have been thinking about it.
Lex 🩷 :
i get off work at 4 on friday. strawberry street café.
u could… pick me up?
Harry:
Text me the address. I’ll be there.
God, he was whipped. He was meeting a stripper outside of work just to spend time with them. Was he that desperate?
Yeah. Yeah, he was.
༺♥༻
Every second between Tuesday night and Friday afternoon dragged by antagonizingly slow. A quiet kind of torture, a dull buzz beneath Harry’s skin that made work unbearable and sleep a joke. He went through the motions– sparks flying in his face at work, the weight of equipment in his hands– but his mind was elsewhere. With Lex. Their glossy lips, their voice, the way they called him grumpy and old school with a teasing fondness.
Finally, it was Friday.
He practically slammed the door to his trailer behind him, adrenaline rushing hot through his veins. He tossed his boots off and bee-lined to the shower, scrubbing himself raw even though he hadn’t broken a sweat all day. He shaved around his mustache, ran a comb through his hair three separate times before giving up and raking his fingers through it instead, sprayed himself with what was left of his nice cologne.
He stood in front of his tiny closet, towel low on his hips, staring at the limited options before him with growing panic. A flannel? Too farmer. A band tee? Too desperate. He finally settled on a forest green button-down that didn’t smell like cigarettes and a pair of black jeans with only one visible hole. Clean socks. Semi-clean boots. One of his tattoos peeked from under his rolled sleeve, and he liked the way it made him look in the mirror—tough, but like he cared. Just a little.
He paused as he got ready to head to his truck. Should he pick up flowers on the way?
Was it stupid? Over the top? Lex wasn’t his girlfriend. Boyfriend? …Theyfriend? Jesus, Harry was bad at this.
Flowers would be stupid, he decided. After all, they weren’t dating. Harry was just a regular that Lex danced on to make money. He was being delusional. He knew he was being delusional.
Still, he found himself at the little corner shop on Main, awkwardly hovering near the refrigerated case of bouquets until a clerk asked if he needed help. He almost said no, but the thought of Lex’s face brightening up at the gesture made him sigh and go through with it.
“Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something pink. Or sparkly. Maybe… both?”
He left ten minutes later with a small bouquet of pink roses with a glittery ribbon tied around them. He felt ridiculous. But hopeful.
He pulled into the lot at Strawberry Street Café at exactly 4:02 pm. It was one of those artsy little indie joints with chalkboard signs and rainbows in the windows, people sitting on the patio sipping iced chai and matcha lattes. Not the kind of place Harry ever found himself at. He parked in the back, hands gripping the steering wheel, palms sweating.
This was real. Lex was going to walk out at any second, without makeup, without the revealing pastel lingerie, just them.
Before Harry could psych himself out even further, the door opened, and they stepped out into the light.
They were wearing straight-legged blue jeans and a green oversized sweatshirt paired with baby pink converse high-tops, their pixie-cut hair feathery and light. Aviator sunglasses covered their eyes and they had a white tote bag slung over one shoulder with a hand-painted sunflower on it. They looked… normal. Ordinary. Beautiful in a way that made Harry question himself even more than before, somehow.
They looked around, spotted his truck, and gave a little wave.Harry smiled back and unlocked the door, watching them walk over and open it to climb in. He held back a fond chuckle at the 3 attempts it took for the apparently very short without heels person to get up into the thing.
“Stupid fucking bigass American truck,” Lex huffed, setting their bag down on the floor. Then he looked over and noticed the flowers in Harry’s lap. “Are those… are those for me?” they asked, lips parted.
Harry shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I dunno. Thought you might like them.”
Lex beamed, reaching over and taking them, turning the bouquet in their hand to inspect it. “You’re such a sap. I love it.”
Harry turned his cheek to hide the blush spreading on his cheeks. “How was work?”
“It was fine,” Lex answered with a smile, resting the bouquet on their lap and leaning back into the seat. “You look good. You clean up nicely, cowboy.”
Harry laughed under his breath. “You ready to go?”
“Ready,” Lex grinned, buckling their seat belt. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
༺♥༻
The drive to the restaurant was filled by Lex’s warm voice and the soft background of some Rolling Stones CD Harry had in his stereo. He smiled fondly as he pulled onto an exit ramp while Lex’s sweet voice rambled on about work.
“...And then this one customer kept calling me ‘sweetheart’ while he kept changing his mind about what he wanted in his stupid fucking latte. And then had the nerve to tell me to remake it because it wasn’t hot enough! I mean, can you believe?”
“What an asshole,” Harry said with a soft laugh. “Did he tip at least?”
Lex snorted. “The fucking Rolex on his wrist said he could’ve, but he didn’t. Jerk.”
“Jerk indeed,” Harry commented, adjusting his grip on the wheel.
“So, where are you taking me anyway?” Lex asked, pulling their knees up to their chest.
“A diner, and– don’t do that,” Harry said with concern, reaching over to push their legs back down, “that’s dangerous, if we got in a wreck you could get seriously hurt.”
“Jeez, alright,” Lex giggled, settling back into a relaxed position, “don’t have to lecture me, dad.”
Harry swallowed back the lump that formed in his throat at Lex’s words. “Anyway, a diner. Real food, instead of shitty bar fries and pastries from the cafe.”
“I do feed myself outside of work, y’know,” Lex chuckled.
“Mhmm,” Harry hummed as he pulled into the parking lot of the place, “what did you have last night, then?”
“I’ll have you know, I do cook,” they scoffed. “Nothing too fancy, just some pasta and veggies. But I made the sauce myself.”
“Did you now?” Harry smiled, putting the truck in park and taking the key out of ignition. “You’re better than me, then. Don’t typically bother with more than instant ramen and takeout from whatever’s closest.”
Lex frowned as they unbuckled their seatbelt. “That’s sad. You’re making me sad, Harry.”
“Just the truth,” he shrugged as he unbuckled his own. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, anyway. You ready to eat?”
Lex seemed to pause in thought for a moment. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
They walked into the place, arms awkwardly hovering near each other. Harry wanted to hold their hand but didn’t want to push the boundary. They were seated in a booth in the window. Harry’s pulse throbbed in his veins as he watched Lex pick up the laminated menu with their dainty, nimble fingers, french manicure gleaming under the light.
“Any coffee I can start y’all with?” The voice of the waitress startled Harry out of his trance. He cleared his throat and smiled.
“Yeah, coffee. Just black for me.”
“Typical,” Lex giggled. “Can I just get a glass of iced tea, please?”
The waitress smiled fondly at them and nodded, walking away to prepare their drinks. Lex scanned through the menu.
“See anything you like?” Harry asked nervously, hoping he didn’t come off too shaky.
“Hmm,” Lex hummed, twisting their lips in contemplation. “I’m quite partial to breakfast food any time of day.”
“Me, too,” Harry said, his tone brightening. “Sometimes after a hard work day I come here just to get blueberry pancakes.”
Lex looked over the menu at them, blue eyes sparkling with intrigue. “Blueberry pancakes it is, then.”
Harry hummed and winked at them. “I’ll do the same.”
They made simple conversation, Lex rambling on about their different annoyances between jobs, how the café got super busy that day, how one of their usual customers at the club this week had tried to pull their panties down during a dance.
“Why don’t you just quit the club?” Harry asked softly, brow knitted with concern, thanking the waitress with a curt nod as she brought them their drinks and took their orders for the pancakes.
Lex was silent, their eyes cast downward as they stirred the ice in their drink with a straw. “It’s… complicated. I definitely prefer being at the club than the café, anyhow.”
“Then just dance full time,” Harry shrugged like it was the easiest answer in the world. “You're amazing at it, you're gorgeous, you hate the café– dancing seems better for you.”
Lex looked up at him, the warmth in their eyes replaced with a cold, icy stare. “Yeah. I’m sure that would be so much easier in your head, Harry. Gee, why didn't I think of that?” They said with a bite of sarcasm to their voice.
“Lex, I didn't mean–”
“In case you haven't noticed, I don't look like the girls that dance there full time. I'm different. Tuesdays are the only night I can dance and actually make money from it, let alone not get called slurs by disgusted truckers all night. Tuesdays are the only night I get to be me. Does that answer your question?”
Harry was silent. He took a slow sip from his coffee and sat for a moment without saying a word. “I’m sorry.”
Lex’s chest rose and fell with slow, uneven breaths, the ice in their drink clinking against the glass as they swirled it absentmindedly. They didn’t respond right away. Just kept their gaze focused down, lashes casting long shadows across their cheeks.
“I didn’t mean to put it like that,” Harry tried again, softer this time. “I just meant… I see how much lighter you look when you're dancing. How happy you are. And I want you to have more of that. That’s all.”
Lex looked at him then, really looked– eyes flicking between his, searching for any trace of condescension or pity. Whatever they found there seemed to ease something tight in their shoulders. They paused, taking a sip of their tea and swallowing, stirring it with the straw as they looked down at the table. “It's not your fault, you didn't know. No one knows what it's like unless you live it.”
“Then help me understand,” Harry pleaded gently, setting his mug down on the table with a soft clink.
Lex studied his expression, biting their lip to think. “I don't know why you'd want to understand.”
“I’m not asking you to relive shit you don't want to talk about,” Harry added, fingers drumming on the surface of the table. “But if you ever want to tell me, I'll listen.”
Their face softened slightly at that, a flicker of surprise behind their eyes. “That's… rare.”
“What is?”
“A guy wanting to understand. Usually they just want to fuck. Or use me for some kind of fantasy, or to figure out something about themselves. I'm not used to someone actually… wanting to know what I think.”
“I'd love to know what you think,” Harry spoke softly. “Lex, I… I’m a broken man. I haven't known who I am for years, haven't cared to try. But something about our talks these past couple of months… it's made me want to.”
Lex stared back at him with a tentative face, lips parted like they wanted to speak but couldn't. The waitress came back to their table, setting down their plates in front of them with a smile. Lex didn't look at her. They just kept looking at Harry.
“Thank you,” Harry mumbled to the waitress, who nodded and left their table.
“It's Louis,” Lex said, voice so quiet it was barely more than a whisper.
Harry cocked his head sideways like a confused dog. “What?”
“My name,” they said behind a shaky breath outward. “It's… it's Louis. My real name. You should still call me Lex in the club, but… to you, I can be Louis.”
Louis. The name rolled around in Harry's head, filling the cracks in his mind and seeping into his skin like rain on a dry day. His skin prickled with goosebumps as he looked back at them, taking in their blue eyes that seemed to plead with him for an answer.
Harry's own eyes widened, blinking a few times to make sure the sight in front of him was real. The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile. “Louis, then.”
༺♥༻
Harry had never been to hell. He imagined he was destined for it, couldn't dream of any reason he'd be allowed into the pearly gates above. So, while he'd never been there himself, he could only describe the week that followed the diner date with Lex– Louis– to be nothing short of comparable.
They texted daily. Harry thought of nothing but blue eyes and pink lips as he worked, the sparks flying in front of his face only doing good to remind him of the way Louis' face lit up at a good joke, a compliment, a treat.
Louis. He'd said the name to himself so many times it was like it belonged on his lips. He murmured it like a prayer behind his welding mask, whispered it with aching need while pulling himself off in the shower. The name glowed in his mind when he closed his eyes.
Tuesday came, regretfully so. Harry felt a hollow pain in his chest when he left work for the day, knowing he had to go home and couldn't go be someone else for the night at Kitty's House again.
He hated going home these days, more than ever before.
He tossed his keys into the dish by the door and kicked his boots off, hanging his work coat on the coat rack and tossing his hat onto a chair nearby. He looked around, taking in the appearance of the trailer.
This was no home. Louis would be appalled. He grimaced as he examined every empty beer can, every stubbed-out cigarette and crumpled takeout bag. It was disgusting. Harry was disgusting.
His phone vibrated. He scrambled to grab it from his pocket.
Lex🩷:
i’m so bored save me
my baby nephew is driving me fucking crazy
if i get thrown up on again i’m gonna crash out fr
Harry smiled fondly, settling into his recliner to text back.
Harry:
‘Crash out’?
Lex🩷:
i forget ur old
means im gonna freak the fuck out
Harry:
Ah, got it. Thought you were gonna crash your car or something.
Lex🩷:
lmfao no
just crash emotionally. collapse. perish
u doin anything rn cowboy?
Harry glanced around the trailer again and sighed.
Harry:
Just got home. Was about to clean a bit, actually.
Lex🩷:
ew
why
Harry:
Because if you ever came over, I’d want this place to not smell like beer and cigarettes.
Lex🩷:
omg that's so lana del rey core tho
Harry:
What?
Lex🩷:
dw about it
u’d let me come over??
Harry stared at the message, a slow heat crawling up his neck.
Harry:
Of course I would.
If you wanted to.
There was a pause. A full minute passed. Then another.
Lex🩷:
i’d like that
Harry’s heart gave a dangerous thump.
Lex🩷:
but not today lol
i look like a gremlin rn
and my sister just handed me a diaper. a full one.
save me pls
Harry:
I can swing by and kidnap you. Just say the word.
Lex🩷:
👀
tempting
Harry:
You’d have to pretend not to hate my truck again.
Lex🩷:
i don't hate ur truck it just smells weird and makes me sad
but fine
i’ll suffer for the aesthetic
Harry let out a quiet laugh, running a hand over his face, heart lighter than it had been all week. Just seeing Lex– Louis– type like this, so themself, made something bloom inside him. Something stupid. Something warm.
Harry:
You free Friday again?
Lex🩷:
yeah. what’s up?
Harry:
Wanna hang out? Nothing fancy. Just… me and you. I can cook. Sort of.
Lex🩷:
omg ur gonna cook for me?
who are u and what did u do with grumpy harry
Harry:
Grumpy Harry is making spaghetti.
Lex🩷:
omg
domestic
i’ll bring dessert
Harry:
You don’t have to.
Lex🩷:
i want to
don’t ruin this for me
Harry:
Wouldn’t dream of it.
Lex🩷:
friday it is.
don’t poison me pls 🩷
Harry:
No promises.
Lex🩷:
i’ll have u know there will be a very pissed off irishman coming ur way if anything happens to me
Harry frowned. Another man in Louis’ life shouldn't have made him feel a spike of jealousy so quickly, but it did.
Harry:
Irishman?
Lex🩷:
my roommate niall. he's an idiot but he'd happily kill anyone for laying a finger on me. he's like a big brother
His shoulders sagged in relief.
Harry:
Noted.
Lex🩷:
see u friday cowboy 🤠
Harry sat back in the recliner, phone resting on his chest, a smile tugging lazily at his lips. The trailer still smelled like smoke and spilled beer. The floor was still cluttered with trash he hadn’t gotten around to tossing.
But for the first time in weeks, maybe years, he didn’t feel so alone.
He closed his eyes and whispered the name again– Louis– softly to the ceiling, like a secret only he knew. Maybe he did.
He looked around and sighed. Since he wasn't going to see “Lex” at the club tonight, he couldn't pretend he had no time to clean. He got up out of his recliner and went to the kitchenette, bending down to open the sink cabinet and search for some kind of cleaning spray and trash bags.
Under the sink was a sad graveyard of half-used bottles– an old, half-empty bottle of bleach, an almost-empty multi-purpose spray, a crusted sponge that had clearly seen better decades. Harry grabbed what he could salvage and stood, shaking the can of spray to see if it had any life left in it. A faint rattle answered him.
Good enough.
He yanked open a drawer, found a crumpled roll of trash bags, and got to work. The process was slow at first, his movements sluggish, like his body had forgotten how to care. But once he got going– collecting beer cans, tossing out crumpled napkins, clearing the coffee table of cigarette butts and the sad remains of takeout containers– it started to feel… purposeful.
He opened a window, letting the evening air drift through. It smelled like dust and ozone and the faint burn of the scrapyard just a few blocks away, but it was better than the stale air that had settled inside. He stripped the couch cushions and shook out crumbs, wiped down the recliner’s cracked arms with a damp rag, and swept dirt out the front door. He stood back to admire his work. It was missing something.
He went back to the sink cabinet, digging around for what he was searching for, when he found it.
A candle. Perfect. That should spruce the place up.
As he dug into his pocket for a lighter, he turned the jar over to inspect it. It was new, never burned before. Vanilla scented. The label was a fancy looking gold color and it had a wooden lid. It seemed… familiar.
Too familiar.
“Fucking Kendall,” he murmured under his breath.
It all came back to him now. The candle has been a gift from one of Kendall's older sisters, an engagement present. Kendall had said she wanted to wait to burn it until their first night of honeymoon when they planned to conceive a child. That it would make it special.
None of that mattered anymore when she left him at the altar with nothing more than a hastily written apology on a napkin in her bridal suite and a rushed phone call.
He stared at the candle like it had personally insulted him.
The memory wasn’t just sharp– it was jagged. He remembered standing in the back room of the church, tie halfway done, checking his watch every minute, wondering why the music hadn’t started. Wondering why the priest wouldn’t meet his eyes. Why his own mother’s face had gone pale.
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, running his thumb over the candle’s unlit wick. He should throw it out. Smash it, even. But instead, with a quiet sigh, he set it on the windowsill and lit it anyway.
The soft scent of vanilla slowly filled the air, curling into the corners of the trailer like a ghost that refused to stay buried. He stood there for a moment, watching the tiny flame flicker, feeling it burn deeper than just wax. The candle still reminded him of the man he used to be– hopeful, open, naïve. The kind of man who made plans, who smiled in pictures, who believed in forever. He wasn’t that man anymore. He hadn’t been in years.
Until Louis.
The thought caught him off guard. He leaned back against the sink, arms crossed, staring down at the cracked linoleum floor. Louis. The kid had wormed their way into his brain like a splinter, impossible to ignore. Their laugh. Their stubbornness. The way they tilted their head when they were curious, like they wanted to figure him out– like he was worth figuring out.
Harry shook his head slowly, a sad smile pulling at the edge of his lips.
“Thanks for the candle, Ken,” he mumbled.
He turned off the overhead light, letting the glow of the flame fill the room. It flickered across the freshly cleaned surfaces, made the old recliner look almost dignified, made the place feel, just for a moment, like it could be something resembling home.
He glanced at his phone, checking for a text from Louis. Nothing yet. Still babysitting, probably. Still surrounded by the chaos of family.
Still coming back to him eventually, if he was lucky.
He walked to the bedroom and stripped the sheets from his bed, tossing them into a pile and pulling out the only clean set he had– simple grey cotton, slightly wrinkled but fresh. He made the bed with more care than he wanted to admit, smoothing the corners like he expected company. Like someone special might see it.
When he finished, he sank down onto the edge of the mattress, rubbed a hand through his hair, and looked around.
The trailer didn’t look good. Not really. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t look hopeless.
༺♥༻
Friday finally came, after what felt like an eternity. Harry got home from work and immediately ran to the shower, scrubbing himself near raw, shaving, debating shaving his mustache off clean entirely, but then– Louis might not call him “cowboy” anymore. He put the razor down.
He was just finishing getting dressed when he heard a rhythmic knock on the trailer door.
“Shit,” he sighed, “early.” He pulled his navy sweatshirt the rest of the way on and checked his hair once more in the little mirror above his dresser.
He nearly tripped over his feet as he walked towards the door, swinging it open, and–
“Fuck,” he mumbled before he could stop himself.
There Louis was. Somehow looking the most radiant they ever had even dressed just in a cream colored cable-knit sweater, acid-washed jeans and those baby pink converse again. Same white tote bag with a sunflower painted on it. Same sparkling blue eyes. A pearl-covered barrette pinned in their feathery hair.
“Nice to see you, too,” they giggled, eyes crinkling at their corners and Harry could just die right then and there and that would be okay. “Can I come in?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Harry sputtered, stepping back to let them in the doorway.
Louis raised their eyebrows at him with a grin as they walked in, dropping their bag by the door as Harry closed it behind them.
Louis took in their surroundings. The wallpaper was faded and peeling slightly. The linoleum floor in the kitchen area was worn. The carpet everywhere else was freshly vacuumed, but stained. They walked through to the living area and examined the single recliner, its brown leather peeling at the edges, a frumpy green cushion resting in the corner of it. In front was a low coffee table, something that looked handmade and well-loved, a heart-shaped decorative hole on either side of it. The window was covered by pink curtains with a floral pattern and a cheap TV sat on a short stool, a stack of vhses beside it. Old, comforting titles, like The Notebook and Toy Story.
“Just the one recliner?” Louis questioned, turning to face the chair and cocking their head to the side.
“I, uh… haven’t expected company in a long time,” Harry murmured, running a hand through his hair.
Louis hummed, continuing to scan the area around themself, eyes alight with that signature blend of curiosity and quiet amusement that Harry was beginning to find himself adoring. Their expression was unreadable at first, lips pursed slightly, head tilting to the side. Harry knew the place wasn’t nice , exactly, but it was clean, and it smelled faintly of vanilla.
“So… bachelor pad, then? One throne for the king. What’s the plan for dinner tonight, then? Squeezing in together?”
“Guess I sit on the floor and let you be royalty,”Harry said with a shrug, making his way to the kitchenette and pulling down a pot off the rack hanging over the sink.
Louis turned to smirk at him, plopping down onto the recliner dramatically. They pulled each of their laces loose and kicked off their sneakers, curling one leg underneath themself on the chair and beaming. “Damn straight. You’re a good host, cowboy.”
Harry turned his head to hide the flush that rose to his cheeks, swallowing a stupid grin and taking a moment before turing back to the sink to fill the pot with water and set it on the stovetop. “Told you I’d make spaghetti. You got here a little early.”
Louis stifled a giggle. “I thought you were kidding about that.”
“You wound me,” Harry muttered dryly, drizzling some olive oil into the water as the burner heated up. “I only own, like, two real plates and zero serving utensils. But I’ve got a box of pasta and a bangin’ sauce recipe that never fails.”
Louis chuckled softly and leaned back into the chair to survey him. “You know, I expected your place to be… I dunno. Filthy. No offense.”
“None taken,” Harry said, pulling open a cabinet with a creak and rummaging around for a pan. “It was filthy. Spent the last two days scrubbing the place top to bottom.”
Louis blinked. “Really?”
He didn’t look at them as he drizzled the same olive oil into the pan. “Yeah. Figured if you were gonna see the place, I didn’t want it to look so depressing. Shit was an episode of Intervention waiting to happen.”
The laugh that tumbled out of Louis then was bright and sudden, echoing off the tin roof. “Well, then, consider yourself intervened.”
Harry gave them a wink before returning to his work, duping garlic and onion he’d already chopped earlier into the pan from a little glass dish, listening to it sizzle in the oil.
“It’s not bad, you know,” Louis said softly, looking around once more. “I like it. It’s lived-in.”
“Yeah?” Harry questioned. He stirred the pan’s contents as the water in the pot began to boil, using his free hand to shake salt into it, then reaching for the box of pasta.
Louis nodded. “It feels like… I don’t know. Honest. Not pretending to be anything you aren’t.”
Harry swallowed hard. “Stopped doing that a long time ago.”
They didn’t say anything to that, but he could feel their gaze lingering on his back, blanketing him. Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful, present– like pauses between verses of a song.
“You play?” Louis spoke again after a while. Harry looked over to see them stroking the neck of his guitar where it leaned against the recliner.
He huffed a small breath through his nose. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “Not in a long time.”
“I bet you sound lovely,” Louis said with a twinkle in their eyes that Harry had to force himself to looka way from lest he burn the whole place down due to distraction. “I’m loving this whole ‘rugged cowboy tortured man’ thing you’ve got going on.”
“Every day you say more words that I don’t understand the meaning of,” Harry snorted, “and I fear I never will.”
Louis stuck their tongue out at them and curled deeper into the recliner, pulling their phone out to scroll through something aimlessly. “Let me know when dinner’s ready, then. Ta-ta,” they said with a dismissive wave of their wrist. Harry smiled wider than he had in the longest time.
He busied himself with the pasta, humming softly as the trailer filled with the scent of sauteing garlic and onion. He grabbed a jar of basic sauce from the fridge and added it to the pan. So his recipe wasn't so much as from scratch– it was still better than the bottled stuff.
“Got any music lying around here, grumpy?” Louis' voice came after a while of stirring and adding spices.
Harry smiled. “Record player in my bedroom. Pick out whatever you want.”
“Ooh, vintage,” Louis giggled, getting up and padding down the hall. After a few minutes where Harry presumed Louis was flipping through his vinyl collection, the first few notes of Second Hand News by Fleetwood Mac rang softly through the space.
Harry's chest clenched. Rumors was an album that he clung to like a lifeline when Kendall left. He'd listened to I Don't Want to Know over and over again as he took a hammer to the walls of what had been their bedroom, torn the sheets off their bed and ripped them to shreds, played Go Your Own Way on repeat as he drove for miles on a half-tank of gas and three beers too many, hoping my some miracle he'd hit a tree and be done with it all. But he didn't. Unfortunately, life goes on as it does, and he found himself using what they'd saved together to buy the trailer and pay off his truck. It was the least she could do for him.
He swallowed the lump forming in his throat as he heard Louis' footsteps returning. “Stevie Nicks fan?” He asked with a small smile.
“Who?”
Harry spin around, spatula in hand like a weapon ready for use. “Please tell me you're joking.”
“I picked it out ‘cause the girl on the cover was pretty, I like her shawl,” they shrugged, trying and failing to hide the mischievous grin threatening to spread over their face, lips twitching.
“Oh, Louis,” Harry said with an overdramatic mock sadness, other hand coming to his own chest. “You're gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
Louis just raised their eyebrows menacingly with a smirk and ran back to the bedroom to turn the volume up, dashing back and starting to dance, swaying their hips to the beat. Harry shook his head with a laugh and turned back to the stove.
The song ended and Dreams began. “Ooh, I know this one!” Louis exclaimed with glee, slowing their movements to match the tempo of the track.
Louis swayed around the small living room like it was a ballroom, arms out like wings, lips mouthing along to whatever pieces of the chorus that they knew. They looked like something out of a dream themselves– like sunlight through a stained glass window, refracting into something softer, stranger, and more beautiful.
Harry watched in bewilderment from the kitchenette as they twirled in their socks on the worn floor, managing to do a couple pirouettes on the small space. Something in his chest twisted too. Longing, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
“Can I ask you something?” He said carefully as he lowered the pan to a simmer and picked up the pot of pasta to pour it into a strainer in the sink.
“You just did,” Louis giggled.
“Clever,” Harry muttered. “I'm serious, Louis.”
“Yeah, yeah, shoot.”
Harry took in a small breath as he opened the fridge to pull out a small tub of parmesan shreds. “Do you… normally do this? Go on dates with your regulars? It's fine if you do, I was just curious. But if you don't want to answer that's completely fine, I totally understand–”
“Harry,” they said with a soft laugh, “it's fine, that's a fair question.” They went to the bedroom to lower the volume slightly and came back, sitting down in the recliner again. “I guess… no, not really. Not unless they're paying me for my time.”
“Should I be paying you?”
“Not you,” Louis said, eyes on the floor. “I wanted to come over. See you. It's not like you're using me as arm candy for an event or a wedding date. You… you're different.”
“Different, how?” Harry mumbled, pulling down two plates and wincing at a chip on one of them. He served Louis' portion first on the non-chipped plate. “I look like most of the guys in there. I’m just as desolate, just as empty.”
“You're not,” they argued, playing with a loose thread on their jeans. “You think you are, but you're not. I know you're not.”
Harry sighed, picking the two plates up and bringing them to the small coffee table he'd cleared space up on earlier that day. “You don't know me,” he said quietly as he settled down cross-legged on the floor across from them.
“I’d like to.”
Harry looked up at him, his eyes mournful and wide with confusion at their words. He didn’t know what to say to that. His mouth opened, then shut again. The record spun softly in the background, the gentle twang of Songbird weaving through the space like a whispered promise. Louis’ words sat between them on the table, more intimate than the dinner he’d plated.
“I’m not really that interesting,” Harry said after a long beat, ducking his head as he fiddled with his fork. “You’d get bored.”
Louis took their plate and scooped up a bit of spaghetti, shrugging. “Maybe. But I still wanna know what your favorite color is.”
Harry blinked, glancing up. “What?”
“Or your favorite song,” Louis went on between bites, casual, but not unkind. “What you wanted to be when you were a kid. If you still talk to your parents. If you believe in ghosts. What your first tattoo was. That kind of stuff.”
Harry stared at them, stunned into silence.
Louis caught his look and huffed a breathy laugh, cheeks flushed faintly pink. “Sorry, I’m being weird. I’m like this sometimes. Ask anyone, I overshare. Or overshoot. I don’t know how to–” they waved their fork vaguely in the air, “ pace myself.”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “No, it’s… it’s nice.”
Louis perked up, looking at him through their lashes. “Yeah?”
Harry nodded slowly. “It’s been a long time since someone asked me anything like that.”
“Guess we’ll start simple, then.” Louis stabbed their fork into another bite of pasta and pointed it at him like a sword. “Favorite color. Go.”
Harry hummed in contemplation for a moment. “Yellow. It's like… a happy color, you know?”
“Yellow suits you,” Louis said with a grin, “this sauce is ‘bangin’’ , by the way, you weren't kidding. Okay, okay, me next. Ask me anything you wanna know.”
Harry paused to think. “What did you wanna grow up to be when you were a little kid?”
Louis' smile seemed to falter just a bit. “I wanted to be a singer. Silly, I know. Definitely not very realistic of a career, but… yeah.”
“Nonsense,” Harry said with an encouragement smile, “and besides, you're so young still. What are you, 21? You've got so much time to try all of that out. I'm sure your voice is lovely.”
“22, yeah,” they hummed. “I suppose.” They seemed to dwell on it for a moment, taking another bite of pasta. “Ok, my turn. How many siblings do you have?”
They went on like that until the record finished, and further. The silence in the trailer didn't dull their conversation, the space filled with Louis' soft laughter and Harry's dry responses. They learned about each other even after their plates were clean– Louis' favorite color was baby pink, their favorite season was spring, they had 4 little sisters and 2 nephews, and their preferred coffee order was an iced lavender oatmilk latte with a pump of vanilla syrup. This had made Harry wrinkle his nose and respond that he drank real coffee, the black stuff that wakes you up in the morning. Louis had rolled their eyes and giggled, teasing, “it's not a crime to enjoy things, cowboy.”
In turn, Harry gave his own answers to Louis' questions– his favorite meal was minestrone soup, he had one older sister, and no, his truck didn't have a name, but according to Louis, it was now “Olivia.”
“Olivia?” Harry deadpanned. “For a truck?”
“Yes,” Louis answered matter of factly, “it fits. Every car needs a name, it's an absolute crime yours doesn't.”
“And what's yours, then?” He asked, looking out the window at Louis' silver Prius parked next to his truck, little pink flame decals over the tires and an array of stickers all over the back.
“Priscilla,” they said with a grin. “Ooh, I almost forgot! I brought dessert,” they said as they got up to dash over to their tote bag, pulling out a pink-lidded Tupperware container and opening it to show Harry.
“You made me cookies?” He asked, his voice trembling slightly.
“Of course,” Louis shrugged. “Told you I would. Nothing fancy, just chocolate chip. But it's my own recipe.”
“Really?” He asked, reaching in to grab one.
“No,” Louis giggled, “found it on Pinterest. Fucked up the first batch, Niall had to help me with these. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”
Harry laughed, full and sudden, as he bit into the cookie. Warmth bloomed in his chest, slow and sure. “Don’t sell yourself short. These are really good.”
Louis beamed as they sat back down across from him, tucking one leg beneath them again, the Tupperware sat on the low coffee table. “Yeah? Worth my near-death experience with the oven?”
Harry nodded, finishing the cookie in two more bites. “Definitely. I might have to keep you around just for the baked goods.”
Louis smirked. “Oh, so now I’m your live-in pastry chef? Bit forward, don’t you think?”
Harry looked down with a crooked smile, cheeks flushed again. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t complain.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It settled around them– soft, worn in, a little frayed around the edges, but safe . Louis picked up another cookie and took a bite, brushing a crumb off their lap. Harry watched them, every casual gesture branded into memory before he even realized he was memorizing it.
“Y’know,” Louis said, licking chocolate from the tip of their finger, “this whole thing… tonight. It’s nice.”
Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. It is.”
Louis looked over at him. “I was nervous. Coming here.”
“Why?”
They shrugged, lip caught between their teeth. “I dunno. Thought maybe I made it up. That thing between us.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t.”
“Good,” Louis said softly. “I think I needed to hear that.”
Harry swallowed, throat tight. “You could’ve asked.”
“Didn’t want to ruin it.”
They stared at each other across the low table, the lamp beside them casting shadows against the trailer’s walls. Outside, the night had grown thicker, the crickets louder, the stars beginning to glimmer through the dusty windowpanes.
Louis stood up and walked over to the record player again, lifting the arm gently to reset the album. The soft crackle of vinyl filled the space before Second Hand News began again, looping them back to the start.
Harry smiled faintly. “You like it?”
Louis turned to him, arms crossed over their chest like they were hugging themself. “Yeah. I think I do.”
He smiled warmly, getting up and gathering the plates to take them to the sink. He listened to Louis humming along to the songs and felt his heart push against the confines of his ribcage, threatening to burst out of his chest. He washed the dishes and joined their humming.
He nearly dropped the dishes and could have shattered them when he felt a dainty hand lay on his back. He swallowed and felt himself tense, turning the sink off and resting the dishes on the rack. He couldn't look back at them right now. He couldn't.
“Thank you for dinner,” he heard them say softly, always softly. Louis was just soft that way. Light and gentle and pretty. Harry's knees buckled and threatened to drop him.
“It was my pleasure,” he mumbled. His hands clenched at the edge of the sink, knuckles white. He felt the hand on his back slowly stroke upward, smooth over the well-loved fabric of his t-shirt.
“Harry,” Louis whispered, “can I ask you something serious?”
Oh God. Oh fuck. No. No, they couldn't. Whatever it was, no. Absolutely not. “Yes, of course.”
“I need you to look at me,” they said with gentle tentativeness Harry could feel charged in the air, surrounding him like wind.
Harry screwed his eyes shut and took in a small breath, but nodded, turning to face them. He summoned all his strength and brought his eyes up to meet theirs and nearly passed out from the sight. They were wide, somehow seeming bluer than they ever had, soft brows drawn together in clear concern. He nodded once more for them to continue.
Louis licked their lips and blinked a few times. “I need you to be honest with me, Harry. Whatever answer you give me I'll be okay with, but I need it to be the true one. Okay?”
Harry flicked his eyes between both of Louis' own. He reached forward with trembling hands and picked up Louis' smaller ones where they dangled at their sides, threading their fingers together. “Is this okay?” He murmured. Louis nodded, eyes not leaving Harry's. “Then yes, I’ll be honest with you. I swear to you.”
Louis squeezed his hands slightly as if to anchor themself. “Okay,” they breathed, closing their eyes for a moment before opening them once more and forcing themself to hold Harry's gaze. “I… I need to know what this is to you. What I am to you. I don't want to be a hookup, I don't want to be an experiment.”
Harry swore his heart stopped beating for a few seconds. “What do you want to be to me?”
Louis let out a small, bitter laugh, blinking back the wetness that blurred their vision. “You really don't know?”
“I think I do,” Harry said, “but I… I'm scared to say it.”
“Then don't say anything,” Louis pleaded with their eyes, squeezing Harry's hands again. “Just… just tell me if you don't want it.”
The record stopped playing, the final song fading out. The air was silent between them, accompanied only by the faint humming of the heater in the corner of the room and the cicadas outside.
“I want it,” he whispered shakily, feeling somehow smaller and weaker in the moment despite towering over Louis. “God, Louis, I want it. I want you. ”
“Are you prepared for what comes with that?” Louis asked with a detached sadness to their tone. “I don't want to stop dancing, ever. I want to dress the way that makes me happy and comfortable in my skin. I don't want you to fix me. Do you understand that, Harry?”
He smiled weakly, sniffing back tears that ached to spill. “There's nothing to fix.”
“So?” Louis asked, voice coming out raw, croaking, almost.
“So,” Harry sighed, “we try. I'm scared, but not for the reasons you worry about. I… I've been burned before, Louis. I don't let just anyone in. But these past couple of months, you've shown me you're not just anyone. I'm not perfect, I’m gonna fuck up sometimes, but I swear to God,” he let go of one of Louis' hands to bring it up to their face, softly cupping their cheek and thumbing over the warm skin there, “I will never hurt you. I promise you that.”
Louis leaned into the touch like they were starving for it. Their eyes fluttered shut and a single tear slipped down, catching on Harry’s thumb. They let out a shaking breath and Harry wiped the tear away with gentle hesitation.
“I believe you,” Louis whispered, barely audible.
The heater hummed a little louder in its corner, a subtle whoosh that didn’t break the spell between them. Harry stepped closer, slow and tentative, until they were chest to chest in the quiet little kitchen.
“You can still back out,” Harry said gently, voice rough like gravel from the weight of the emotion in his throat. “If you ever want to, if it ever feels wrong, if you’re ever unhappy. You can walk out and I won’t stop you. Ever.”
Louis opened their eyes, wide and shimmering and unflinching. “You keep acting like I don’t know what I want.”
“I don’t mean to,” Harry admitted. “It’s just… no one’s ever stayed long. After so long with only my own company, I can’t really blame them.”
Louis dramatically huffed and rolled their eyes despite the tears blurring them. “Alright, cowboy, if this is gonna work, you’re gonna knock that self-deprecating shit off this instant. It’s not cute.”
“Oh, yeah?” Harry asked with a sniffle fused with a small laugh. “Any other improvements you suggest?” He leaned in closer.
“Well,” Louis sighed, wrapping their arms around Harry’s middle and pulling them impossibly closer, Harry’s warmth making their skin prickle, “for starters, this place needs a makeover.”
“Does it, now?” Harry smirked, stroking over their cheek absent-mindedly.
“Mhmm. We can start with that dead plant on the floor. Either put it out of its misery or we’re re-potting it, and you’re going to take proper care of it, okay?”
“Hey,” Harry protested behind a grin, “I tried my best. It just didn’t want to live no matter what I did for it.”
“Your plant is dying because it’s on the floor, Harry,” Louis deadpanned with narrowed eyes. “Of course it’s going to want to die if you’re not giving it any sunlight.”
Harry felt his heart skip at least 3 beats. “I want it to live. I do.”
Louis’ smile faded, their expression softening as they searched Harry’s eyes. “Prove it, then.”
Something broke open in him. Like a dam giving way to everything he’d spent all these years trying to hold in. Hope. Want. Tenderness so strong it scared him.
Harry dipped his head slowly, giving Louis every chance to turn away. But they didn’t.
Their lips met softly, sweet and warm and a little uncertain, as if asking each other a question they already knew the answer to. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest. Louis exhaled softly against him, mouth parting slightly as they kissed him back with timid need, their fingers tightening in Harry’s shirt. They kissed with no pressure to move anything along, slow, gentle, like nothing outside of the trailer mattered and the rest of the world could fade into the background for good. Just them. Just Louis and Harry. Their mouths moved together like they’d been waiting for this moment through every lifetime, and perhaps they had.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and dazed, Harry rested his forehead against theirs, eyes closed.
“Stay,” he murmured. “Tonight, I mean. You don’t have to– I don’t want to make you feel pressured, but I–”
“I want to,” Louis said immediately, hands coming back around to rest on Harry’s chest, palms flat and feeling his heart beat.
They moved together in quiet understanding. Harry dug through his dresser to find a shirt for Louis to sleep in, rooting through his medicine cabinet for a spare toothbrush. Louis texted their roommate to let him know they wouldn’t be home that night.
As Harry pulled his worn pajama bottoms on, he heard Louis stifle a giggle behind him on the edge of the bed. “What’s so funny?”
“Niall says he called it,” Louis said with a fond smile and an eye roll. “He’s been telling me to ask you out ever since that first dance you bought. I came home drunk from the club and raving about this hot cowboy I met at work.”
Harry let out a low groan and covered his face with his hands. “God, please tell me you haven’t been calling me ‘hot cowboy’ to your friends.”
“Almost exclusively,” Louis said,grin wide, legs crossed neatly on the bed as they fiddled with the sleeves of Harry’s shirt that came down past his wrists, the hem of the shirt itself hitting him at mid-thigh. “I’m pretty sure I also told DJ Malik that I wanted to ride you like a horse. Or something. I was pretty drunk.”
“A horse ?” Harry said as he peeked from behind his eyes, face twisted in horror. “I can’t look him in the eye ever again.”
“That’s pretty tame compared to what I told Niall I wanted to do to you,” Louis said with a mischievous look, sitting up and crawling forward on the bed toward where Harry was standing, slow and deliberate.
Harry dropped his hands and cocked his head with raised eyebrows, intrigued. “And what was that, then?” He took a step forward so they were only inches apart.
Louis sat back on their heels on the bed, kneeling before him, eyes at Harry’s chest-level. “Well, if I tell you, that would spoil things, wouldn’t it? I’m a stripper, Harry. It’s not often I can maintain such a level of modesty.”
Harry barked out a laugh, low and rich in his chest, but it faded quickly into something more breathless when Louis placed a hand lightly on his hip, fingers curling around the waistband of his pajama pants.
“You’re not real,” Harry mumbled, voice gone rough again, the way it always did whenever Louis touched him, when they looked at him like that .
Louis tilted their head, biting back a smirk. “And yet, somehow very real. Right here. In your bed. In your shirt.” They toyed with the drawstring of Harry’s pants, tugging gently, like testing how much give it had. “Kind of poetic, don’t you think?”
Harry’s hand came up slowly, brushing a loose strand of Louis’ hair behind their ear, knuckles grazing their cheek. “You keep saying things like that and I will start writing poetry. It’ll be terrible. Rhymes and shit.”
“I think I’d like that,” Louis said with a sparkle in their eyes. “Even if it’s shit. Especially if it’s shit.”
“Careful with your words,” Harry said, lowering himself slowly until he was kneeling on the edge of the bed himself, level with them now. “I might get attached to you. I’m hard to get rid of.”
Louis’ breath hitched at his sudden closeness. “Won’t be an issue. You’re kind of stuck with me now.”
Harry looked at them for a moment before smirking and sitting on the bed, reaching forward to grab them by their hips and pull them into his lap. Louis let out a startled giggle, straddling him without question and bracing their hands on his shoulders.
“You're trouble, you know that?” Harry said with a smirk, thumbing over Louis' hips.
“Me?” Louis said with an offended gasp, “I’m completely innocent here.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, squeezing their hips just a bit tighter. “Are you now?”
“Mhmm,” Louis purred, leaning in and pushing at Harry's shoulders slightly. Harry took the hint and laid back, hands coming up under their shirt to rest on the warm skin of their waist. Louis shivered at the touch, their hands coming to rest on Harry's chest.
“I think you're gonna be my undoing, Louis,” Harry breathed, staring up into their eyes with his own uncertain ones. “You've turned me soft.”
“Have I?” Louis smiled. “I think that was all you, Harry. I think…” they whispered as they brought a hand up to thread into his short curls and cradle his head, “you've always been soft. But no one's let you be before. You're like… that plant in the living room. You need sunlight to grow. You know?
Harry didn't answer. He just squeezed their waist softly and tilted his chin up to kiss them once more, their lips enveloping each other's in warmth.
He pulled away slowly, sparks dancing behind his eyes, and looked back up at them.
“I think you're my sunlight, Louis.”
༺♥༻
From there, the two of them were inseparable. They texted day and night, Harry continuing to come to the club Tuesday nights just to watch them dance, Fridays becoming their weekly night for dates. Movies, dinner, coffee, even just a walk in the park. Cold, crisp air and dead trees turned to blooming shrubbery and pollen that made Louis sneeze adorably, days melted into months.
Louis had left their mark on everything. Their favorite body mist– vanilla and cashmere, of course– was kept in the door of Harry's truck for all necessary touch ups (and also, though he wouldn't ever admit it, so Harry could remember their scent whenever they were apart). They brought over things to spruce up the place, insisting on helping Harry rearrange things and brighten up the trailer. It started small– the little table with carved out hearts on its sides moved to the wall under the window to put the plant on so it could thrive in the sunlight, which it did. The stack of vhses by the tv was moved to be neatly organized in the shelving on the table, and Louis had shrieked in horror when they were going through the various titles to alphabetize them up on discovering what one of them was.
“Harry!” They'd cried out. Harry burst in from the bedroom with a panicked expression, expecting to find Louis injured. What he found was them holding up a tape with their fingers, dangling it like it was a horrifying item that had offended them.
“What? What happened, baby?”
“Why the fuck do you have porn on vhs?!” Louis grimaced, staring at him with daggered eyes.
Harry paused, then stifled a laugh. “Lou…”
“Is this what's important to you?” Louis questioned, picking up another tape, “weird 80s porn and fucking– is this Shrek? What is wrong with you?”
“So much,” Harry laughed, coming to sit down in front of Louis and take the offending tape from them, inspecting the cover. It was some voluptuous woman with big poofy blonde hair and cherry red lips, covering her sensitive parts with the cord of a telephone that she held to her ear, lips parted erotically. “I’ll throw it away if you want.”
Louis snatched it back. “No.”
“Why?”
“For research.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You're ridiculous.”
The place slowly came to life, then. A pretty blue carpet Louis got off Facebook marketplace, a pink chair to compliment Harry's recliner, several new plants that Louis demanded Harry actually take care of. His guitar, once abandoned and dusty, now hung proudly on the wall.
It finally looked like a home.
And much time later, Harry would come home, and sit on his recliner as usual. But instead of cracking open a beer to drink the day away, he'd be greeted by Louis, dressed in Harry's sweatshirts and pajama pants that dwarfed them, sitting in his lap and bringing him a glass of whiskey on the rocks.
“You're my sunlight,” he'd always say the moment he saw them.
“And you're mine,” Louis would always answer with a kiss to his temple.
Home.