Chapter Text
Harry hates surprises. It doesn’t matter whether they’re birthday surprises or Christmas surprises or even surprises of the chocolate variety, Harry simply hates surprises. So, of course, fate goes out of its way to spring them upon him whenever possible.
“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Harry seethes, pacing up and down the tiny living room, hands fisted in his hair.
The morning had been going so well. He’d gotten up late, eaten breakfast in his underwear and spent more than half of the day texting and watching Cake Boss reruns; perfect. It’s now several hours later and Harry has come to the conclusion that the world is ending, no wonder his day had been so good up until now; the universe was lulling him into a false sense of security.
“Would you sit down?” His mother’s voice is firm but her eyes are soft. “You’re being rather dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic?!” Harry comes to a halt in the middle of the room, socked feet stalling on the ancient rug in front of the fireplace. “I’m not the one that’s leaving the fucking country on a whim, am I? I’m not the one abandoning their son because they’re having some sort of middle life fucking crisis!” It’s rare that Harry curses in front of his mum, even rarer that he directs said curses at her, but he’s just so angry, so hurt, that he doesn’t really know what else to do other than yell.
“Language,” His father barks from the overstuffed armchair by the window. Harry should have known something was wrong when his dad showed up, should have sensed it. His dad never turns up unannounced. “Harry, sit down.” This time it isn’t a request, it’s a demand.
Like the petulant child that he is, Harry folds his arms over his chest and throws himself down on the floor. The action hurts his bum, laminate flooring hard on his coccyx. “Happy?” He bites, fixing his dad with the most vicious scowl he can muster; his eyes are beginning to water though so he’s not sure it has quite the effect he’d been hoping for.
“Immensely,” His father drawls, lips pursed as he eyes his son. This is the first time Harry has ever acted out, really, and he thinks it’s time his parents got used to it, he’s sixteen; the perfect age for rebellion. However, the more he dwells on it, the more he realises that really it’s only his dad that has to adjust to New Harry, since he’s the one Harry is going to be stuck with for God only knows how long.
The silence in the room feels heavy. His dad is watching him, one bushy eyebrow quirked challengingly, daring Harry to make his next move. His mum is watching his dad, fingers fidgeting with the gold watch on her wrist, she’s never liked conflict, especially not when it involves her son. Even the cat, perched on the windowsill with its tail curled around itself, is fucking watching him.
“What?” Harry snaps, his facial features contorted together in irritation. He can see his reflection in the shiny metal of the electric fireplace, he looks like a pouty kitten which is exactly the opposite of what he was aiming for; a rage filled wildebeest would be preferable. “What do you expect me to say? ‘Congrats mum, have fun in France, make sure to send me a postcard’? How could you think I’d be happy about this?”
“Harry, love, you like Robin –“ His mum begins and Harry rolls his eyes.
Yes, he likes Robin. Of course he likes Robin, he’s great, honestly the best match for his mum. However, Harry had come to this conclusion before Robin had decided to whisk his mum off to the south of France and leave him behind to fend for himself.
“And it’s not forever,” She says, getting up from her seat and lowering herself onto the floor next to Harry. Her movements are slow, unsurprising really; Harry feels like a volcano ready to blow. They think they’ve seen the worst of the fire but it’s still burning bright inside his chest. “It’ll be a couple of months, if that, and then we’ll be back and everything will return to normal again.”
“So why can’t you take me with you?” He pleads, green eyes wide and pleading.
It’s not that he doesn’t love his dad and cherish the time that he spends with him. It’s just, Harry’s life is here in Holmes Chapel with his mum, Robin, the cat and occasionally his sister when she’s home from uni. His life hasn’t been with his dad in nearly ten years, and his home certainly isn’t in Doncaster.
“Because you have school, and what would you do in France with a bunch of elderly people all day, huh?” His dad says, obviously he thinks light humour is the way to go here. It’s not.
“More than whatever I’ll be doing in Doncaster,” Harry sneers, the word leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He’s only ever been to the southern Yorkshire town once and that was for his dad’s wedding four years ago, suffice to say he’d hated it and had left with the intention of never returning again. His parents were really putting a wrench in those plans.
His mum puts an arm around his shoulders, cradling him to her chest like she used to do when he was seven and scared of thunderstorms. “I promise I’ll be home before you know it, okay? I bet by the time I get back you’ll have fallen in love with Doncaster and be begging me to let you stay.”
Harry snorts, tears still trailing down his cheeks. “Not bloody likely.”
Packing his life into half a dozen cardboard boxes had been decidedly easier than Harry had expected. With his mum promising her return in a matter of months, less if Harry had anything to do with it, there had seemed little point in hauling everything to Doncaster with him. Saying goodbye to his friends had also been fairly easy, most of them more concerned with throwing the biggest going away party they could before Harry left. The hardest part had been climbing into the car with his dad and watching is mum disappear into a tiny speck in the distance the further they drove away.
The two hour drive to Doncaster is mostly silent, his dad had given up on forcing conversation about ten minutes in when he realised Harry planned on doing nothing but staring broodily out of the window for the entirety of their journey. In fact, it's only as they're coming up to the Doncaster By-Pass that his dad finally decides to level with him.
"Harry," he starts, and the sixteen year old immediately notes the change in his tone. Gone is the previous jokey air to his voice, replaced by something firm but decidedly careful. Obviously he doesn't want to piss Harry off ten minutes before they're due to arrive 'home'. "Now, I know you're not happy about this." The boy snorts because obviously. "But I expect you to be polite and respectful to Jay and the kids, okay? It's going to be just as hard on them as it is on you."
"What?" Harry snaps, tearing his eyes away from the outside world for a moment. Despite the offence his words have just caused his dad's focus remains on the road, though the fact that his knuckles have turned white as his grip on the wheel tightens shows Harry that he's very aware of his son's volatile nature. "In what world could this possibly be harder for them than it is for me?"
"I didn't say -"
"They're just getting a new lodger, something they already experienced five years ago. They aren't the ones being forced to move a hundred miles across the country, away from their friends and their family. They aren't the ones changing schools in the middle of the school year, or having to start over from scratch just because their mother -"
"Harry that's enough!" His father barks, and Harry immediately recoils, backing off like a puppy that's just been kicked. It's been a long time since his dad has spoken to him like that, and somewhere in the back of Harry's mind a memory begins playing itself on a loop; sepia tones of screaming parents, crying children and slamming doors. Harry brings his knees to his chest and forces himself to return to his window watching, blinking back any tears that threaten to drizzle down his cheeks.
His dad ignores him and continues on. "If I ever hear you talk about your mother like that again well I - never mind what I'll do. You won't like it either way. Now, when we get home you're going to be polite to Jay and the kids, and then you're going to go to your room and unpack your things until you're called down for dinner. I don't want to hear a peep out of you until then, do I make myself clear?"
Harry nods, squeaking out a quick 'yes' as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He feels like a little kid again, watching his world get torn apart as the people he looks up to and relies upon the most fail him. Only this time it's worse because Gemma isn't here to hold him and tell him that it'll all be okay. He's sixteen going on six, and he's never felt so humiliated in his life.
Five minutes in Doncaster and he's already tearing up. Excellent.
The house is nothing like Harry had expected. The building is red brick and it's accents a pristine white, though upon closer inspection the paint along the outside porch is chipped in places and the wood looks to be rotting. The grass is overgrown, and there's a menagerie of toys splayed across the lawn and abandoned haphazardly in the bushes. It's a stark contrast to Harry's old life.
He remembers being five and being scolded for leaving Gemma's dolls out on the patio when he'd run inside to fetch his colouring book. Back then his dad had been a neat freak of the highest order, a trait Harry now recognises in himself; he can't help but turn his nose up at what appears to be a half eaten tuna sandwich lying forgotten on the garden path.
He's cradling several boxes in his arms as he approaches the front steps, grimacing when he realises he's going to have to rely on his dad to let him in. He's expecting his father to come up behind him, yet Harry still jumps when a hand claps itself on his shoulder and the words 'Home sweet home' are pronounced proudly in his ear.
Before Des can even fumble with his keys to jam them in the lock, the front door swings open and a barrage of young squealing girls come tumbling out. Someone, presumably one of the smaller girls crashes into Harry's leg on her way to his dad, and his collection of cardboard crates goes cascading to the floor, contents spilling out around their feet. There's a girlish snicker as someone spots his journal. Harry can't help but blush.
"Harry!" Before the boy in question can even think about moving to collect his things, he's accosted by his step-mother and hauled over the threshold of the house, possessions abandoned. "Sweetie, hello! I'm so happy to see you."
Despite his disinclination to become a part of the Tomlinson-Styles household, Harry can't help but smile warmly at Jay as she grasps him by the shoulders and holds him at arm's length in order to get a better look at his now matured features. He was twelve and storing puppy fat the last time she'd seen him, and although though his cheeks have remained cherubic, he has changed considerably since then.
"Look how much you've grown!" She exclaims, reaching up to pinch his cheeks and tug his curls. He bats her hand away gently, feeling that if he doesn't discourage the hair touching now it while most definitely become a thing. "Such a handsome young man you've become."
"Thank you," he says, suddenly feeling bashful. Behind him his dad has begun dragging in his things with the help of his step-sisters.
"And polite too!" Jay gushes, yanking him in for a hug so tight Harry's certain she's going to crush his internal organs. "Louis could learn a thing or two from you." There's a snort from his dad which Jay either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore. "Now, Des tells me you're a fan of tacos, yes?"
Harry nods, not really having the heart to tell her he stopped eating the Mexican delicacy after the last time his mum had made them and the entire family had ended up with horrendous food poisoning. His stomach churns in horror as Jay informs him she's made some for dinner.
Once Des has managed to pry his son from his wife's affectionate, if somewhat tight, grip, Harry finds himself being reintroduced to Jay's daughters; Lottie, Fizzy, Daisy and Phoebe. The girls are all welcoming enough, and Daisy and Phoebe, the twins, really seem to love him, each grabbing a hand almost immediately and dragging him through to the dining room where they've been playing 'forts' under the table.
Any other time Harry would have happily stayed and indulged the girls in their whimsical fantasies but his dad reminds him of their conversation in the car, though he's careful with the words he uses, and marches him upstairs to his room.
Like the rest of the house that Harry has seen, the upstairs landing is a mess of clutter, toys and clothes strewn across the floor in a kaleidoscope of colours that Harry has trouble navigating, especially with some of his most precious possessions in his arms. Des leads Harry to the last door down, like the others on the landing its practically begging for a coat of fresh paint and there are about a dozen ugly stickers slapped haphazardly on its wood, each of them a variation of words telling 'trespassers' to 'stay out'.
Harry glances at his dad, who offers only an encouraging nod in response to Harry's own look of apprehension. He knows his dad doesn't know him very well, a hundred miles and nearly a decade of separation tends to make relationships difficult, but surely he should have known better than to saddle Harry's door with these decor eyesores?
Again Des claps his hand on Harry's shoulder and again Harry flinches; he's really not used to this family's brand of over touching, specifically his dad's heavy hands. They're nothing like his mum's gentle one's. "I'll go down to the car and grab the rest of your things." Before Harry has chance to reply, the man is dashing back down the hall, almost as if he can't get away fast enough. Harry simply shakes his head, he's got more important things to do than ponder his dad's weirdness.
Entering the room is a lot like entering an alternate universe. Firstly, the door creaks when he opens it, whining loudly as if it is in pain and Harry cringes at the sound of it. A quick glance towards the floor and Harry feels as though he's entered a minefield; there are clothes everywhere, and the strong aroma that permeates the room is enough to tell Harry that none of them are clean.
Against his better judgement, Harry keeps walking. The walls, he thinks, are supposed to be blue but he can't tell between the array of posters that cover practically every inch of spare wall space. There's an unmade bed to his left, sheets abandoned in a heap at the end of the mattress. Nearly every piece of furniture is overflowing with clutter, there are drawers left open with their insides spilling out onto the floor, and one of the wardrobe doors is open, hanging dangerously on its bottom hinge as it appears the top one has snapped off.
The groan of the floorboards behind him tells him his dad has returned and Harry is off on a tirade before he even has chance to consider their earlier discussion. "You honestly can't expect me to sleep here. There are public bathrooms that are more sanitary than this. How could you think -" whatever other words had been climbing their way out of Harry's mouth are abruptly cut off when he turns to see the receiver of his angry words is not his father.
"How could I think what?"
Harry's face burns with embarrassment, his skin flushing a violent shade of red, even the tips of his ears change colour. Before him stands, the only member of the Tomlinson-Styles clan who hadn't been a part of the welcoming committee. His step-brother, Louis.
"Nothing," Harry mumbles, swallowing the now frog sized lump that has crawled its way to his throat. He licks his lips nervously and struggles to maintain eye contact with the brilliant set of baby blues before him, mirth glittering in their depths.
The boy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him before pushing himself off of the doorjamb where he has been leaning. Louis saunters past Harry, jostling the flustered brunette with his shoulder as he heads towards a set of drawers beneath the window. Harry can do nothing but avert his eyes politely as Louis whips off his shirt and starts rummaging around for another shirt.
When Louis is done, his golden torso now covered by an old Doncaster Rovers football jersey, he turns back to Harry, who's valiantly attempting to pretend he hasn't put his foot in his mouth. "Oh, you're still here."
Harry blinks at him, bottle green eyes wide with confusion. "Of course I am. This is my room."
Now it's Louis turn to gawk. His eyebrows rocket up his forehead and hide behind his soft caramel fringe, and his mouth falls open to release an obnoxious, and obviously forced, laugh. "Excuse me? But I think it's pretty obvious that this is my room, just like it always have been. Now leave."
Harry shuffles nervously, one foot moving towards the door and the other remaining firmly planted in the middle of the room. "No," Harry says, lower lip jaunting out in a blatant act of defiance. He turns to deposit his boxes on the bed, grimacing when one of them topples over and his favourite hoodie lands directly atop a rather suspicious looking stain in the centre of the mattress.
Louis narrows his eyes, nostrils flaring just enough that Harry thinks he sort of resembles an angry bull. When the other boy storms over to the bed and snatches Harry's possessions into his arms, Harry knows his comparison is an accurate one. Before Harry can even consider reaching out to snag his things from Louis' hold, the other boy is marching back over to the window.
"Hey, what are you -" the protest has barely even left Harry's mouth when Louis rips open the window and unceremoniously dumps Harry's things from the second-storey floor. His legs can't move him fast enough and Harry arrives at the other boy's just in time to watch his journal land in the bushes outside. "Why would you do that?!"
Louis doesn't answer the question, merely folds his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow yet again, matching his earlier stance almost perfectly. Though, Harry notes with an odd feeling of disappointment, the mirth in his eyes is now gone. "I won't ask you again. Leave."
There's a shriek of delight from the garden, one of the girl's has spotted his selection of underpants hanging from the branches of a large sycamore tree, Harry's jaw sets. "And I won't tell you again. No."
Louis growls under his breath, and it's only when the hot air tickles Harry's neck that he notices how close they're standing. Fortunately, Louis seems to come to this conclusion too for he abruptly steps back, throwing his hands in the air in a dramatic show of frustration. "Who even are you?" he demands, and Harry finds it hard not to roll his eyes because Louis knows exactly who he is.
Somewhere beneath the window Daisy and Phoebe have began singing a song about a pair of purple boxers and there's no doubt in Harry's mind that they're doing so loud enough to attract attention. He's been here five minutes and he's already going to be the town laughing stock. With this in mind, Harry mirrors Louis previous posture; arms folded over his chest, hip cocked ever so slightly to the right and eyebrow raised just enough to be considered confident. However, this is Harry and he's inherently clumsy and so his hit collides painfully with one of the drawers Louis has left open and his following sentence ends up being said through gritted teeth.
"I'm the step-brother you always wanted."
"Really? 'Cause you look like the ugly step-sister from Snow White," Like his mother before him, Louis reaches up to pull at one of Harry's curls. His grip is tight and Harry swats him away furiously which only encourages Louis further.
"It's Cinderella, you moron," Harry corrects as they wrestle each other to the floor. Louis' grip on his hair is unrelenting, even as Harry digs his nails into Louis' sides. Inevitably Harry is still the one that ends up with his face pressed into the dirty carpet while Louis straddles his back and yanks at his hair like a petulant child.
"I could do this all day, princess," The other boy drawls and Harry can do nothing but squirm against his hold. Evidently Louis has thighs of still because no matter how hard Harry bucks the boy doesn't budge.
Fortunately Des appears at the door, arms laden down with Harry's things. Louis is quick to jump off of him, rushing to his step-father's aid to play the role of perfect son. Harry hates him.
"Are you two fighting?" Des asks, eyebrows pinched together in suspicion and Harry can't help but wonder if his father's eyebrows have always been this bushy or if this family is just opposed to basic grooming. The state of Louis room and the smell of sweat that lingers on the pile of dirty laundry beside his head would imply the latter.
"No, just bonding," Louis answers, his words thick with feigned innocence. Harry doesn't miss the scowl the older boy throws his way. "In fact, I was just telling Harold here how much I've always wanted a brother."
Des chest seems to expand with joy at Louis' words. Though the pleased grin on his face falters some as he watches Harry crawl to his feet and dust himself off, features taut and sour.
"Actually Dad, Lewis, and I were just discussing sleeping arrangements since Lewis seems to be under the impression that we will be sharing a room." With each mispronunciation of his name Louis frown deepens and it takes everything in Harry not to giggle with delight. "Isn't that right, Lewis?"
Neither Harry nor Des miss the snarl Louis lets out, though both choose to ignore it. "Actually," Des begins, placing the boxes he's still holding carefully on the floor. As he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, lips pursed in mild discomfort, Harry's stomach churns; his dad may not know him but her certainly knows his dad. He could recognise that nervous habit anywhere. "You and Louis will be sharing a room." Harry opens his mouth to argue but Des cuts him off. "It's only for a few months while your mum is away and we really haven't got the space for another person and -"
His blood is boiling and Harry can feel his hands clenching at his sides. Everything inside him is screaming out to fight his dad on this, to demand his own space because he's already lost everything else. It's the pleased smirk on Louis' stupid face that stops him. He won't let the older boy see him snap, won't embarrass himself further than he already has and he definitely won't give him any more leverage than he's already gained with the bush of briefs outside.
"Well, where am I supposed to sleep?" Harry splutters, spittle flying from his lips like he's some sort of rabid animal. He pointedly ignores Louis, knowing the other boy is probably mocking him silently. Harry gestures wildly to the space, or lack thereof, around them. There's only one bed and if his dad thinks he'll happily sleep on the floor for the next six months then he's got another thing coming. Harry would sooner live in the garage then spend another second with his nose anywhere near the sea of filth that coats Louis' carpet; he wonders absently if the sleeping in the garage is an option.
"Argos were supposed to deliver it this morning but Jay tells me they've been delayed, so for tonight you'll just have to put up with the blow up mattress from the attic. Then tomorrow when your bed gets here I will personally ensure its construction. Problem solved," Des explains, seemingly surprised by his son's lack of explosion. Evidently he hasn't noticed the way Harry's knuckles have turned white and the way his nails are digging into the palms of his hands. "Now I'm sure you boys have a lot of catching up to do, after all it has been four years. So, I'll leave you to it. Louis will show you where the pump for the mattress is when you're ready."
Once the door clicks shut behind Des, Louis dumps the boxes he'd so graciously offered to hold onto the floor and turns to glare at Harry. "Don't touch my bed. Don't touch my stuff," he instructs, jabbing his index finger into the air to punctuate each individual syllable of his words. Then, without further ado, he spins on his heel and stalks out of the room.
"What about the mattress pump?" Harry calls helplessly after him, looking around the room and wondering how he's supposed to unpack his things if he's not allowed to touch anything.
"Don't care," Louis shouts from the hallway, and Harry scrambles after him because despite their terrible first impressions (or is it second impression since they'd first met four years ago?), there's no way Harry can set up all of his things alone. So, even though the threat of hair pulling and being wrestled to the floor yet again still lingers in the air, Harry scurries after Louis, catching him just as he's reaching the top of the stairs.
"Louis," He says, reaching out to grab the boy's arm, effectively halting him in his steps. "What am I supposed to do about the mattress. I can't inflate it without the pump." His voice sounds far whinier than he had intended and colour flushes Harry's cheeks with embarrassment. This day just gets better and better. Not.
For a moment it looks as though Louis might relent on his cold shoulder, and help Harry with his problem. Instead Louis shirks his arm from Harry's grasp, and drops himself down several stairs so that the other boy cannot reach out for him again. "You have a mouth and lungs don't you?" He says as he brushes his perfectly quaffed hair across his forehead. "Besides, with a mouth like yours I'm certain you have no issues when it comes to blowing."
If Harry's cheeks had been hot before then they're positively burning now. Louis holds his gaze for a second longer before gallivanting down the stairs and disappearing, leaving Harry wondering what the hell just happened and why his heart is now pounding in his chest.