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The fluorescent lights of the Virgin Megastore backroom hum with a low, clinical energy, completely at odds with the frantic Valentine’s Day crowd screaming out on the Champs-Élysées. Inside the makeshift interview space, the air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, hairspray, and the remnants of a hasty catering tray. Harry sits tall in his plastic chair, his long legs folded at an awkward angle, completely captivated by the physics of his refreshments. He stares intently at a pristine, branded Evian water bottle, then shifts his gaze to the clear glass beside it, which is filled to the brim. He looks as though he is trying to solve a complex equation using nothing but sheer willpower and dimples.
Next to him, Louis takes one look at Harry’s profound concentration over a mundane beverage and loses it. He throws his head back, a bright, booming laugh ringing out toward the high ceiling, his entire body shaking with amusement at his boyfriend’s sheer absurdity.
As the French journalist adjusts her notes and clears her throat, the boys lean into each other, instinctively closing the gap between their chairs. It is their routine—the quiet pre-show ritual of getting “ready to rumble” before the cameras fully claim them. Louis’s hand finds the small of Harry’s back, a warm, grounding weight through the fabric of his shirt, while Harry’s shoulder subtly presses against Louis’s, anchoring them both in the middle of a chaotic European press junket.
The journalist looks up from her clipboard, offering a polite but slightly baffled smile at the private world she has just intruded upon. "So you are Lewis and ’Arrie, or ’Arrie and Lewis?" she asks, her thick accent twisting the vowels into something distinctly Parisian.
Louis blinks, shifting instantly from his private bubble back into press mode, though his hand lingers on the back of Harry’s chair. "Louis…" he corrects gently, his northern inflection sharp and clear.
Harry, however, cannot resist the opportunity to play. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. Adopting a theatrical, slightly exaggerated French accent, he leans a fraction closer to the microphone. "’Arrie and Louis…"
The journalist nods slowly, tapping her pen against her pad. "Ok…"
Louis watches Harry with an affectionate spark in his eyes. He rolls the foreign cadence around in his own mouth, trying out the accent entirely to himself in a quiet, low murmur. "Louie…."
Before the next question can be properly launched, Louis’s eyes dart down to the table. The intense focus Harry had placed on his water glass has apparently made it look incredibly appealing. Louis reaches out, his fingers wrapping around the condensation-chilled glass, clearly intending to take a sip. Harry notices immediately. He leans in close, his curls brushing against the shell of Louis’s ear as he drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. It’s a joke, half-daring and entirely unfiltered, born from the exhaustion and thrill of being twenty and eighteen and deeply in love in a foreign city.
"If you drink from my glass on camera," Harry murmurs, a heavy lilt of boyish mischief in his tone, "then I can give you a blowjob when the interview is over."
Louis doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn't flush or pull away; instead, a wicked, challenged light flashes in his blue eyes. He slowly waggles his eyebrows at Harry, holding his gaze with absolute, unblinking defiance. Keeping his eyes locked dead on Harry's face, Louis lifts the glass to his lips and takes a deliberate, agonizingly slow sip. The journalist, entirely unaware of the specific bargain that has just been struck but keenly aware of the sudden, thick tension vibrating between the two teenagers, clears her throat loudly. She looks utterly confused, her gaze darting between Louis's smug expression and Harry’s suddenly very satisfied, dimpled smirk.
Trying to salvage the schedule and refocus them so they can start the interview properly, she raps her knuckles lightly on the table. "Ok?"
Harry pulls himself back, smoothing down the front of his jacket, though the corners of his mouth refuse to drop. "Très bon," he says smoothly, his pronunciation surprisingly decent.
Louis sets the glass down with a soft *clink*, completely unfazed by the unspoken promise hanging in the air. "C’est bon," he echoes, giving a sharp, decisive nod.
The journalist smiles, relieved to have them looking at her, even if it feels temporary. "So, you met each other, thanks to the X Factor?"
"Yeah," Harry answers simply, his voice dropping into that familiar, slow drawl that characterizes his public persona.
But Louis is already restless. The few inches of space separating their chairs suddenly feels like an ocean. Without a word, Louis reaches down and grabs the metal frame of Harry’s chair. With a sudden, firm yank, he starts dragging Harry’s chair closer to his own across the linoleum floor. The metal screeches faintly, a blunt protest against the movement. Harry doesn't resist for a second. He goes entirely willingly, letting out a low, breathy laugh as he slides across the floor until their thighs are pressed tightly together, a single solid line of warmth.
The journalist watches the impromptu furniture rearrangement with a blink, then quickly moves to her next prompt. "So tell me the story after X Factor."
Harry shifts, looking immensely pleased with their new, cramped arrangement. Louis has succeeded in getting them close enough that their shoulders lock, and Harry practically radiates contentment.
"Um…" Harry starts, but the habit of self-preservation kicks in. Almost synchronously, like mirrors reflecting one another, both boys raise their hands to fix their fringes, smoothing down their hair in identical, practiced motions. Harry clears his throat, trying to find the thread of the narrative. "We met…"
He pauses, turning his head. He finds himself staring intensely at Louis, the distance between them so small now that the rest of the room simply fades away. Louis bites his lower lip, a fleeting, heavy gesture, and gives Harry a tiny, private eyebrow raise that speaks volumes.
Lost in the look, Harry falters. "…at boot camp, on the Xtra… on the X Factor…"
Louis breaks the spell, though not by pulling away. He extends his hand, placing it gently, heavily, on Harry’s forearm. The touch is warm and completely natural, interrupting the flow of Harry's sentence. Louis looks over at the interviewer, an expression of exaggerated, comedic confusion on his face.
"Sorry! Are we talking to you or the camera?" Louis asks, his head tilting. It is a valid question, considering that up until this exact second, Louis has spent the entirety of the session talking almost exclusively to Harry, looking into his green eyes rather than at the lens or the woman holding the clipboard. He glances at the camera operator, then back to the journalist. "To you or to the camera? Ok, sorry."
Harry picks right back up where he left off, his voice steadying as Louis’s hand remains grounded on his arm. "…we met at boot camp on the X Factor. Louis was always really quiet at boot camp."
At this, Louis shifts his gaze from Harry to the camera lens, nodding with a faux-serious expression, as if confirming a very solemn historical fact for viewers at home.
"How things change," Harry continues, a fond, teasing edge bleeding into his words. He looks at Louis side-on. "He’s come out of his shell completely…."
Louis immediately goes into performance mode to deflect the sincerity. He nods emphatically, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with quick, sharp movements. He raises his eyebrows, lets out a sharp, theatrical tut, and gives his head a little dramatic shake, silently protesting the description.
Harry chuckles softly, refusing to back down. "He’s lost his shell. Um…."
Louis tilts his head back, his eyes rolling toward the heavens as he lets out a mock-plaintive whisper. "That’s not fair…."
The quiet, breathless sound of Louis’s voice is enough to derail Harry entirely. Distracted by the dramatic display, Harry completely loses the thread of his sentence. The rehearsed media training evaporates. He turns his head, and the two of them just look at each other, a silent, heavy beat passing between them in the cramped room.
Harry swallows, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. "…and… yeah, I dunno… we’re having a great time, really."
The journalist scribbles something down, nodding as she maneuvers toward the emotional core of the boyband narrative. "You are five, and you are friends or like brothers, or….?"
"Yeah, absolutely, yeah," Harry says quickly, leaning forward slightly. "Um, we are friends, but I’d say when we need each other, we’re closer than brothers, ‘cause, y’know, we literally see each other every day."
While Harry speaks, delivering the earnest, heartfelt answer, Louis keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead at the camera. Without breaking his stare, he casually lifts his right hand, curling his fingers into a loose fist and offering it up in the space between them. Harry doesn’t even need to look down to know it’s there. Without missing a beat in his sentence, Harry obliges, bringing his own hand up to press his knuckles against Louis’s in a brief, solid fist bump. As their knuckles meet, Louis’s eyebrow shoots up again, a silent, shared punctuation mark to Harry's words.
"…and, um… y’know, we spend every minute of each day together," Harry concludes, his voice softening just a fraction as his hand drops back to his knee. "So, yeah, I’d say it was more than brotherly."
Both of them nod sagely, their expressions perfectly synchronized in a display of solemn, exaggerated agreement that borders on the comic yet rings entirely true.
The journalist blinks, her pen hovering. "Together?"
"Yep," Louis says instantly.
"Yep," Harry echoes, the answers overlapping perfectly.
Before the next question can even form, the interview draws to its natural, chaotic close. As if on a shared cue, the boys move as one. They throw their arms around each other's shoulders, pulling themselves into a tight, rib-crushing embrace. Looking dead into the camera lens, they break their cool, media-trained composure, pulling identical, goofy, wide-mouthed smiles that crumble into genuine laughter as the red recording light finally blinks out.
The camera operator makes a slight adjustment to the tripod, the small mechanical click cutting through the brief silence. The boys remain tangled together, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders in a lazy, permanent sort of weight that neither seems particularly inclined to shift.
The journalist looks up from her notes, her pen poised. "You always wanted to be a singer?"
The question is general and directed at the collective unit, but Harry doesn't look at the interviewer for an answer. Instead, his head pivots toward the side, his green eyes locking onto Louis, who is already looking right back at him. The corner of Harry's mouth twitches upward.
"Louis?" he prompts, his voice dropping into a softer, more private register, completely deferring the spotlight to his boyfriend.
Louis doesn't hesitate, though his posture relaxes further against Harry's side. "I either always wanted to sing or act…" He shifts his weight, his fingers tapping a light, absent rhythm against Harry’s shoulder blade. "Um, I did my school musical *Grease*, and I played Danny in Grease…."
Before Louis can even finish the sentence, Harry breaks into a wide, proud grin. He lifts his free hand, pointing a finger directly at Louis with a sudden, absolute authority, nodding emphatically at the camera.
"He smashed it," Harry interrupts, his tone fierce and completely serious, leaving zero room for argument.
A faint flush hits Louis's cheeks, and he ducks his head, waving a hand in a small, self-deprecating gesture to brush off the high praise. But the fondness in his eyes is unmistakable as he looks back up. "…and ever since then, I just wanted to do something with… that… kind of approach, if you will." He glances sideways, a teasing spark returning to his expression. "Harold?"
Just as Harry opens his mouth to respond, a sharp, subtle gesture from someone standing just behind the camera operator cuts through the room. A publicist is frowning, making a small, flat motion with their hand. Harry catches the look from the corner of his eye and stiffens slightly. Reluctantly, almost mechanically, he removes his arm from Louis’s shoulder, dropping it to his side. The loss of contact is immediate, leaving a sudden, cold space between their leather jackets where they had been pressed together for the entire first half of the exchange. Louis feels the shift instantly. He tilts his head, his eyes tracking the sudden movement before he looks directly at Harry’s profile.
"What about you?" he asks softly, encouraging him to keep going.
"Um… I…" Harry starts, his voice faltering for a fraction of a second.
Louis glances off-camera too, following Harry's previous line of sight, and spots the lingering, watchful gaze of their management team. With a quiet, barely perceptible sigh, Louis slides his own arm down, removing it from Harry’s shoulder. The physical separation is complete, a small, professional boundary forced back into the space between them. Left without the grounding weight of his boyfriend's arm, Louis's hands become instantly restless. His fingers twitch, looking for something to occupy them, before they instinctively drift toward Harry.
He reaches out, his thumb and forefinger catching the edge of the patterned pocket square tucked into Harry’s jacket, beginning to fiddle with the silk fabric, smoothing and folding it absentmindedly just to stay close. Harry clears his throat, forcing his attention back to the interview, though his eyes keep darting down to Louis’s busy fingers.
"…I think I always wanted to, like, entertain people…." He shifts his shoulders, trying to project a standard, media-friendly energy. "When I was younger, I was quite an attention seeker, and then I got… ah… I sang in a band with some of my school friends… and that’s when I really kind of thought that I wanted to sing and stuff, so I really enjoyed it, yeah…"
As he finishes the thought, the sheer exhaustion of the multi-city promo tour catches up to him. Harry turns his head toward Louis, his jaw dropping as a massive, involuntary yawn overtakes him. "…it was fun," he mumbles around the yawn, his eyes watering slightly.
Louis lets go of the pocket square, turning his head completely away from Harry to bury a sudden, sharp cough into the crook of his elbow, the dry air of the studio clearly getting to both of them.
The journalist, entirely oblivious to the silent tug-of-war happening with management, quickly jumps on the theatrical reference. "And your first single is like a tribute to Grease?"
Louis lets out a sharp, genuine laugh, the tension breaking for a moment. "Um, yeah… the first single does, ah, have a slight resemblance to the start of 'Summer Nights' in Grease," he says, gesturing with his hands as Harry nods sagely beside him, completely validating the comparison. "But that wasn’t done deliberately, but, then again…" Louis turns his head, giving Harry a knowing, conspiratorial look, "…who doesn’t love Grease?"
Harry lets out a low rumble of agreement, a soft smile breaking through his tiredness. "Y’know? Yeah."
"Lovely," the journalist says, ticking another box on her list. "Who is your favourite role model?"
Harry leans forward slightly, his answers always turning a bit more earnest when it comes to music. "Um, I am a massive Chris Martin fan. I think he is incredible. I think, like, the songs he writes, his vocals, I think he is amazing." Beside him, Louis nods along in total, quiet agreement, his eyes fixed on Harry’s profile with an expression of steady support.
"Um, for me," Louis takes over, shifting his weight, "Robbie Williams is just an unbelievable performer, and, yeah, I think he is very, very good."
Harry immediately echoes the gesture, nodding firmly to show complete alignment.
The journalist nods rapidly, her accent thick as she hurries into her next question, the words blurring together under the hum of the store's air conditioning. "So, pop, like your [single]?"
Louis blinks, his brow furrowing into a look of sheer incomprehension. "Huh?" he asks, his northern accent dropping the word bluntly. The room is loud, the phrasing is fast, and Louis's mind immediately jumps to the one thing they are constantly instructed to dance around. He leans his head in close to Harry, his voice dropping to a sharp, anxious whisper that barely registers on the main microphone. "Is she asking if we're single?"
Harry’s eyes widen just a fraction, a sudden tension tightening the line of his jaw as he tries to process the question through the filter of Louis's panic.
The journalist, realizing the barrier, tries again, raising her voice. "So, pop singer of pop, like your [..]" She falters, looking toward the side of the room. A voice from someone off-camera cuts in, clarifying the translation with a loud, clear shout: *"Pop music, you like pop music?"*
The realization hits Louis all at once, the panic evaporating into a wave of slight embarrassment. "Oh, sorry!" he says quickly, a breathless, sheepish laugh escaping him as his shoulders drop.
"….like your first single, and the album?…." the journalist finishes, trying to smooth over the bump in the conversation.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Louis says rapidly, his voice rising a pitch as he looks back over at Harry, seeking the familiar comfort of their shared wavelength. "We both like pop music, don’t we really?…"
"Yep," Harry answers simply, his voice solid and grounded.
Despite the quick recovery, the brief misunderstanding leaves a lingering chill in the air. Louis shifts in his seat, his eyes darting back toward the off-camera space where the management team is standing, his expression still looking a little unsettled, a faint shadow of wariness clouding his face. Harry notices the shift immediately. His brow furrows into a deep, protective frown as he watches Louis, his posture tensing up in response to his boyfriend’s discomfort.
But the journalist remains entirely detached from the sudden shift in atmosphere, too busy flipping through her papers to catch the look, her fingers already rustling the edges of the clipboard as she prepares the next question. She taps her pen against the edge of the clipboard, moving swiftly along to the topic that dominates every single piece of their promotional press.
"The fans, the girls, are crazy?"
"They’re amazing," Harry answers instantly, his voice lifting into a tone of genuine, easy warmth. He shifts in his seat, leaning his shoulder back into the space closer to Louis. "We got in last night, and there…" He hesitates, cutting his eyes sideways to Louis, seeking confirmation on the memory. "…was about ten?"
Louis nods once, his expression soft and validating. "Yeah."
"There were about ten people outside, um, and this morning there are loads of them, and… they really are incredible," Harry says, the familiar, practiced words rolling out smoothly, though his eyes drift back to Louis’s face, anchoring the sentiment. "They just seem to be everywhere, so…"
"They seem to be multiplying," Louis chimes in, his dry, quick wit cutting through the standard pop-star response.
Harry lets out a breathy laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah."
"So you were surprised?" the journalist asks.
"Yes!" they answer in absolute unison, their voices striking the exact same note of bright, unscripted enthusiasm.
Harry nods, his curls bouncing slightly. "Definitely, I was surprised this morning, yeah. They are… they’re great."
The journalist smiles, glancing down at her notes before looking up with a knowing, holiday-appropriate grin. "Today is Valentine's Day."
"It is!" Harry says, his face lighting up with a sudden, brilliant flash of dimples.
"Are you in love?"
The question is a standard media trap, designed to prompt a squeal or a shy, single-boy denial for the magazines. But Harry, exhausted and wrapped in the heavy, comforting presence of the boy sitting right next to him, answers entirely without thinking.
"Very much!" he blurs out, his voice rich and completely unguarded. He gestures slightly with his hands, a wide, dreamlike smile taking over his face. "Valentine's Day, in Paris… the city of looove…."
Louis’s head turns slowly. A remarkably soft, tender smile breaks across his face as he watches Harry get completely swept up in the romance of the moment. In the quietest, most affectionate murmur, Louis repeats Harry’s exact phrase and dramatic, drawn-out inflection right back to him: "…the city of looove."
The journalist, assuming they are just bantering, pivots her gaze directly to Louis. "How about you?"
Louis, matching Harry’s completely unfiltered honesty, drops his guard entirely. The standard, media-approved script about being single or looking for the right girl vanishes from his mind. "Um, I’ve got a boyfriend, actually," he says, the statement slipping out with absolute, casual certainty.
The world inside the small backroom seems to stop for a fraction of a second. Harry makes a strange, sharp little intake of breath, his face instantly twisting into an ironic, slightly stunned expression as the weight of what Louis just said on camera registers in his brain. The journalist blinks, her pen pausing mid-air, genuinely sounding a bit surprised by the sudden, casual revelation.
"Oh. What kind of a boyfriend are you?"
Louis shifts under the weight of the question, a small, genuine shrug of his shoulders. "A nice one, I hope."
Before the silence can stretch, and before anyone off-camera can intervene, Harry jumps right into the conversation. He speaks up unprompted, his voice ringing out with an absolute, undeniable authority. He adopts a slightly showy, theatrical cadence—the kind of deliberate over-acting that makes it look to an outside observer as if he could just be lying or playing along with a joke, while every single word is entirely, devastatingly truthful.
"He’s caring…" Harry says firmly. He takes a thoughtful little pause, his hand lifting to slowly, deliberately stroke the front of his own torso as he switches entirely into the first person. "…he’s caring, and he treats me really well."
Louis lets out a tiny, delighted giggle, looking directly into the camera lens with a bright, flirtatious spark before his gaze snaps right back to Harry, his eyes swimming with absolute fondness. The journalist clears her throat, her fingers scrambling over her papers as she quickly steers the conversation back toward the safe, geographic territory of the junket.
"Is this your first time in Paris?"
Harry’s brain is still completely stuck on the phrase *boyfriend Louis*. He stares blankly ahead for a beat, completely trailing off as the room tries to move on. "…he’s a nice guy…." he murmurs to himself, before his eyes snap wide and he finally catches up to the actual question.
He and Louis look at each other, their thoughts syncing back up in an instant. "No!" they say together.
"We’ve both been here before, actually…" Harry says, his mind completely bypassing any thought of the other three boys in the band. He handles the response entirely as a private, two-person history.
"A few times..." Louis adds, his voice dropping back into a quiet, steady rhythm.
"Do you like the city?"
"Love it!" Louis says.
"Love it!" Harry echoes instantly. "It’s a beautiful, beautiful city."
"Why?"
Harry taps his fingers against his knee, searching for the words. "I think, just, like, the culture…"
"…and the vibe…" Louis supplies smoothly, giving a little nod that practically defines the word.
"…yeah, the whole kind of… y’know, it’s just… it’s quite, like, cool… I think…" Harry fumbles slightly, his eloquence deserting him as he looks at Louis.
"…yeah, yeah…" Louis murmurs in encouragement.
"…..Paris is really, like, cool," Harry pushes on, his voice dropping into a soft, boyish drawl. "Like, the shopping, and music, and, like…. yeah…." He turns his whole body toward Louis, but Louis suddenly hitches, turning his head completely away to bury another dry, sudden cough into his sleeve.
The journalist latches onto the keyword. "Have you done some shopping here?"
"We haven’t really had a chance at the moment, but…" Harry shifts, his green eyes casting a long, hopeful look over at Louis, as if the two of them had spent hours in their hotel room contemplating exactly which Parisian boutiques they would sneak into together if they only had the freedom. "…but… um…."
"I’d love to go shopping here," Louis says, his voice dropping into something raw and almost wistful.
"Yeah," Harry breathes.
"But…" Louis repeats, his tone turning incredibly soft, a quiet acknowledgment of the tight schedule and the heavy security details waiting outside the door. "…we don’t have time…."
For a brief, silent second, both Harry and Louis let their professional guards drop completely, pulling identical, exaggeratedly sad no-shopping faces at the interviewer, their lips pouted in a shared, tragic expression. The journalist lets out a polite, strained laugh, her fingers already rustling through her notes as she searches frantically for the next topic, completely blind to the quiet, heartbreaking reality of the two boys sitting right in front of her.
The journalist adjusts her position, clearing her throat to steer the conversation back toward the grand narrative of their sudden global stardom. "Ok. And the name of your band, One Direction, what’s the direction? Or the direction of your work?"
"One Direction…" Harry repeats slowly.
He leans forward, rubbing his palms together in a rhythmic, friction-building motion as if physically warming up to the most frequently asked question in their media repertoire. Louis tilts his head, a wry, slightly exhausted smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Where to start?…."
"I think…" Harry pushes through, falling back into the reliable, comforting cadence of his media training. "…we just want to keep doing what we’re doing. We want to keep working hard… we want to keep making music that people enjoy, and that we enjoy, and, y’know, hopefully, our fans like it and stick with us." To punctuate the rehearsed speech, he flashes a big, brilliant, theatrical smile, his dimples popping perfectly for the lens.
But the corporate professionalism is entirely short-lived. Completely out of left field, Louis’s attention snaps away from the interviewer. He leans right across Harry’s lap, his jacket rustling loudly against Harry’s shirt as he stretches his arm out to point toward a large, glossy promotional photograph that someone had propped carelessly against the back wall of the room.
"You can see her bum…" Louis says, his voice completely deadpan, entirely distracted by the discovery.
Harry doesn't even blink. He is totally unfazed by the sudden, absurd turn in the conversation. Without skipping a single beat, he readily agrees, dropping all pretense of the serious pop-star interview. "You can see her bum," he says cheerfully. He leans over, helpfully picking up the heavy framed photo from the floor and holding it closer to the camera, pointing directly at the offending section of the print. "You can see this lady’s bum…."
Louis joins right back in, his index finger hovering right next to Harry's as they double-team the critique. "…in the picture…."
The journalist lets out a sudden, startled laugh, entirely caught off guard by the sheer, chaotic teenage energy filling the space. "Ok…."
"…a nice bum…." Harry adds softly, setting the picture back down against the baseboard with a gentle *thud*. Beside him, Louis turns his head toward the off-camera team, offering a loose, palms-up gesture that perfectly conveys a silent *“what can you do?”*
The interviewer smiles, shaking her head as she tries to reclaim her timeline. "And that’s um, a present for me, for Valentine's Day… Can you sing for me, acapella?"
Harry shifts back into his chair, his eyes immediately tracking straight to Louis. "What shall we do?" he asks, a warm, bright grin breaking across his face. He lowers his voice a fraction, dropping a teasing hint. "How about 'Little Things?'"
Louis grins right back at him, a sharp, knowing flash in his blue eyes. He plays along flawlessly, keeping his expression entirely blank and pretending for the sake of the room that the deeply romantic, unreleased acoustic ballad isn't completely, secretly about him.
"A single of your choice?" the journalist clarifies, her pen hovering.
Harry ignores the prompt entirely. He leans his head down, keeping the moment almost entirely private—a quiet, low-voiced conversation meant only for the boy sitting an inch away from him. "What do you reckon?" he asks softly.
The camera operator, sensing the sudden, magnetic shift in the room's gravity, slowly punches the lens in, zooming tight on their faces. Louis looks down at the table behind them, his eyes scanning the clutter of discarded water bottles, papers, and promotional materials.
"How 'bout we make a song up?"
Harry looks down at the table too, his eyes narrowing as the wheels inside his head visibly begin to turn. "Alright?"
"It’s ok?" the journalist asks, a bit hesitant.
"Yep," Harry says.
Louis returns his gaze to the front, his voice bouncing back up to a normal, confident volume as he addresses the room. "We’re gonna make one up."
Moving with sudden purpose, Harry leans his long torso back, reaching over to grab two clear plastic water bottles by their necks. Louis watches the movement, his instinct tracking Harry's thought process before Harry even speaks it aloud.
"These are microphones," he declares, entirely serious.
Harry hands him one of the bottles, and they both immediately turn back to the contents of the table, searching for further inspiration to construct a makeshift backing track. Harry reaches out and grabs a glossy fashion magazine, attempting to roll it up tightly into a baton. He looks over at the journalist, giving a charming, slightly sheepish smile.
"Bear with us," he murmurs.
Louis watches him with fond amusement, already lifting his plastic water-bottle "microphone" to his lips, his eyes cutting to the camera lens with a brilliant, conspiratorial spark. Giving up on the stubborn, glossy pages of the magazine, Harry lays it completely flat across his lap. He lifts his large hands and starts beating out a steady, rhythmic thud-thump against the paper. Louis picks up on the intention instantly. He reaches down, grabs a clear glass from the table, and begins tapping a sharp, complimentary counter-rhythm directly against the plastic of his bottle-microphone. They lock eyes, a pair of wide, completely delighted grins breaking across their faces as the makeshift rhythm locks into place.
Harry leans into his bottle, his deep voice sliding into a slow, improvised melody. "Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day…"
Louis doesn't hesitate, jumping right in on the next beat, his higher register blending with Harry's drawl. "What a lovely day…"
"What a lovely day, Valentine's Day, what a lovely day, what a lovely day…." they sing together, their voices overlapping, completely losing the rhythm by the end as they drag out the final, dramatic syllables. "…Val…en…tines…. day."
Objectively, the performance is really pretty dreadful—completely out of tune, completely ridiculous, and entirely unpolished. But inside the cramped, clinical backroom of the megastore, it is also almost unbearably sweet. They play off one another with an absolute, effortless trust, a total lack of fear that only comes from knowing the person next to you will catch you exactly where you land. As the final note fades into the hum of the fluorescent lights, the journalist sits, frozen for a second, her pen suspended over her pad, utterly unsure what to say next after witnessing the brief, chaotic storm in their private world.
The journalist lets out a soft, breathy laugh, finally putting her pen down on top of her notes as she shakes her head at the sheer spectacle. "Thank you very much! So, you are musicians."
"As you can tell..." Harry says, his voice dripping with a dry, heavy irony as he and Louis begin setting the props back onto the table.
He sets the flattened magazine down, while Louis replaces the water bottles and glass with careful, clicking precision. From the edge of the room, a sharp, forward gesture from a member of the promotional team signals to the interviewer that it is time to wrap it up. The schedule is tight, and the screaming crowd out on the Champs-Élysées is waiting.
"Thank you so much," the journalist says, offering a final, polite smile.
As the camera operator begins to pull the lens away, shifting the angle off-center to capture the final moments of the setup, the physical boundaries the boys had forced themselves to maintain for the publicists completely collapse. Their knees press together under the small table, a solid, stubborn point of contact. They both nod politely toward the interviewer, the professional mask sliding back into place for one last second.
"You did what you did, babe, it was good there, yeah…" Louis murmurs, leaning his head close to Harry's shoulder, entirely under the impression that the audio recording has already cut out.
Harry shifts his gaze down to him, his eyes softening instantly. "Yeah?"
"…yeah," Louis confirms with a small, private nod, his voice dropping into a comforting, domestic register completely separate from his media persona.
"It’s ok, thank you," the staff member off-camera says, the official confirmation that the session is concluded.
"Thank you," the journalist echoes, gathering her clipboard.
Harry pushes his chair back, his long frame unfolding. "Thanks very much."
Before he turns to leave, his eyes land back on the large, glossy promotional photograph leaning against the baseboard—the one with the lady’s bum. With a sudden, mischievous grin, Harry reaches down, picks the heavy picture up, and tucks it securely under his long arm like a prize.
He starts walking toward the exit door at the back of the studio space. "Thank you. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Louis follows along right on his heels, his stride perfectly matching Harry’s.
The camera remains rolling, tracking them from across the room as they reach the heavy door. Harry reaches out to twist the handle, opening it into the slightly dimmer, busier hallway of the megastore’s backstage area. With a fluid, practiced motion, Harry hands the framed picture over to Louis, who takes it willingly, stepping through the threshold first. Just past the frame, Marco, their security detail, can be glimpsed standing guard, his arms crossed over his chest with an expression of seasoned patience. Harry looks back over his shoulder one last time, flashing a quick, bright wave directly at the lens before the door swings shut with a heavy, sealing click.
The hallway is relatively quiet, the distant roar of the retail floor muffled by thick fire doors.
"What a lovely way to spend Valentine's," Louis says quietly, his tone carrying a slight, sarcastic edge as he shifts the heavy photo under his arm.
Harry leans in close, his lips nearly brushing the edge of Louis’s hood as they walk, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "Let's find a nice bistro, and then I'll have you in our hotel bed."
Marco doesn't even turn his head, his eyes remaining fixed on the corridor ahead, though his voice is completely flat. "Wait until your mics are off, boys."
A couple of audio technicians step forward from a side alcove, their hands moving quickly to unclip the heavy battery packs from the boys' waistbands.
"We're giving them more Larry Tomlinson material," Louis mutters, a faint, teasing smirk on his lips as the wires are carefully pulled through the back of his shirt.
Harry lets out a low chuckle, entirely unbothered by the warning. "It's not like I got on my knees and blew him during the interview."
Louis lets out a sharp, delighted giggle, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the hallway. Marco lets out a heavy, long-suffering groan, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he steers them toward the service exit. "Go back to your hotel room where the others are staying," he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Harry ignores the instruction entirely. He catches Louis’s eye across the small space, silently mouthing the word *bistro* with a deliberate, exaggerated movement of his lips. Louis gives a sharp, decisive nod, his eyes sparkling with sudden, rebellious energy. Before Marco can even open his mouth to add a strict stipulation about the schedule or the security risks, the boys break into a sudden, synchronized sprint. They bolt down the remaining length of the corridor, their boots loud against the floor as they run like the wind toward the exit, leaving the management, the security, and the chaos of the press junket completely behind them in the Parisian afternoon.