Chapter Text
Knitting was supposed to help with drinking, and not drinking was supposed to help Louis control his anger and stop being a complete twat 24/7. Turns out, though, all those smug bastards preaching about knitting were liars and scammers rolled into one itchy wool jumper.
He really had tried. Properly tried. Tried so fucking hard.
He’d sat on his sofa with the knitting needles clutched in his hands, definitely holding them wrong, and followed some dodgy YouTube tutorial filmed by a woman old enough to remember the invention of sliced bread.
At first it seemed manageable. Loop this. Pull that. Don’t tighten too much.
Then she started throwing around terms like cast off and BO.
BO? What the fuck kind of hobby used abbreviations?
“Just knit two together—”
“No.”
“—then purl through the back—”
“Nope.”
“—and once you’ve completed the row—”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
By the time the granny cheerfully announced, “Now for the beginner-friendly rib stitch,” Louis was ready to launch his laptop through a fucking window.
The yarn hit the bin seconds later. Because you know what? Fuck you, Brenda.
Honestly, he got more furious trying to knit than he ever did sitting in a pub. Which only made him angrier because he’d wasted a perfectly good evening trying to become someone who owned hobbies instead of just going out drinking or getting high like a normal person.
So, naturally, the second the bin lid slammed shut over the satanic little ball of yarn, he had his keys in hand and was out the door.
The whole reason he picked up knitting in the first place was because Liam swore alcohol made him unbearable. Made him an absolute dickhead.
Liam’s words not Louis’.
But Louis had believed him. Stupidly.
Then he saw some advert on the telly about knitting helping with addiction and stress management, and suddenly there he was buying yarn like somebody’s widowed gran.
He told himself he was doing it for Liam.
Which somehow made this even more pathetic.
So now he was a thousand tequila shots deep in the pub, knocking back another with a grimace as it burned down his throat. The sting settled warm in his stomach, harsh and familiar and good.
It’s exactly what he needed after the knitting shit show.
The pub had been exactly what he expected from Friday night. To many bodies. Sticky floors. With even a shitty local band in the back, singing songs Louis and about every one else in Britain would know. Right now they’re on a killers frolic, singing a horrible cover of Mr. Brightside.
The lead singer missed half the notes and still acted like he was headlining Wembley.
But nobody else seemed to care. The crowd moved anyway, drunk and frantic beneath flashing lights that looked one faulty wire away from causing seizures. Bodies shoved together on the tiny makeshift dance floor, people grinding against strangers they’d probably never speak to again after tonight.
The crowd comes together to shout the chorus to Mr. Brightside, one loud sloppy shout.
“Jealousy, turning saints into the seas.”
Fuck, that band really sounded like shit. Whoever the lead singer is, he needed to rethink his life choices, because a singing career was not in the cards for him.
Thankfully, the bar itself wasn’t quite as packed. Still busy enough that people were practically throwing notes at the bartenders to get served, but Louis had managed to snag a stool before anyone else could fight him for it.
He glanced down at the empty shot glass in front of him.
Then at the ones already stacked together neatly in a little tower.
Five.
No. Seven.
Actually maybe nine if he counted the ones the bartender had already taken away.
Louis stacked the glass onto the tower carefully, watching as it tilted a tiny bit to the left.
Occupational therapy for alcoholics.
Cute.
“That’s probably concerning,” the bartender, the fake blonde one that is always here, said while wiping down a glass.
Louis looked up lazily. “You’re still serving me, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Then mind your business.”
The bartender snorted and was called off again.
He was definitely drunk now. He could feel it buzzing through him like static electricity under his skin. Loose and warm and dangerous.
He’d probably go home and get high after this. Properly crossfaded until he couldn’t tell where one feeling stopped and the other started.
It wasn’t like he had a drinking problem. He could stop whenever he wanted. Which, admittedly, sounded exactly like something an alcoholic would say.
Still.
He only drank because… why not?
He got one life. And judging by the first 25 years of it, he’d already done enough damage that a few drinks here and there probably weren’t tipping the scales much further.
Louis got pulled from the haze in his head when he felt warmth brush against his arm. His hand instantly snapped toward the packet of fags he had resting on the bar. Someone had nicked a pack off him once before. Never again.
But when he looked up, it wasn’t a thief. Well. Not a thief he couldn’t handle with a punch or two.
A blonde woman stood far too close to him for it to be accidental, her side brushing lightly against his forearm as she leaned onto the bar.
“Where the fuck is that bartender?” she muttered.
Not really to herself.
Louis could tell immediately she wanted him to hear it.
She shifted back slightly, and Louis’ eyes dipped downward before he could stop himself. Blue jeans that were far too tight and then—bare feet. On the pub floor. Louis nearly gagged.
Jesus Christ.
What sort of psychopath walked barefoot through a sticky pub?
The woman noticed where he’d looked and smirked immediately, clearly misunderstanding.
“Like what you see, handsome?” she asked, words slurring together.
Louis blinked once before dragging his gaze back up to her face.
Right. She thought he’d been checking out her arse.
Because he was definitely not silently judging her disease covered feet.
He studied her for a moment, considering every possible outcome of leaving with her tonight. Honestly, he hadn’t been looking for a hookup tonight. Tempting, sure. But he couldn’t really be bothered with the effort. Didn’t fancy dragging himself home only to discover he was too drunk to get properly into it anyway.
Plus Liam would absolutely never shut up about it tomorrow.
“Straightforward, aren’t you?” Louis said with a crooked smirk, leaning slightly closer.
His breath probably smelled horrific. Tequila and smoke. The woman didn’t seem remotely bothered.
She shrugged. “Depends who I’m talking to.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Mhm.” She grinned. “What’re you drinking?”
Louis briefly considered telling her about the Red Bull and Jägerbomb phase he’d gone through 30 minutes ago, but decided that probably wasn’t attractive.
“Tequila,” he said.
“Dangerous.”
“So am I.”
The woman laughed loudly at that, like he’d said something genuinely charming. Louis finally loosened his grip on his cigarettes, fingers brushing lightly against her wrist instead.
So much for not fucking tonight.
The woman caught onto the touch instantly, pressing back just enough to tell him she was interested too.
“You got a name?” Louis asked.
“Maybe.”
“That’s not very useful, is it?”
“Depends what you plan on using it for.”
“Oh, she’s smooth,” Louis muttered dramatically, hand against his chest.
“Shut up,” she laughed.
Before Louis could answer again, a heavy hand suddenly landed on his shoulder. Hard. The room tilted unpleasantly for a second.
“Eric, stop,” the woman snapped immediately.
Ah, fuck.
The hand had moved to tighten roughly in Louis’ hoodie collar, yanking him halfway off the stool.
Eric didn’t listen to her at all.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he barked.
Louis stared at him blankly for a second.
Louis Tomlinson. Who the fuck are you?
The bloke leaned in too close, hot breath sour with beer. Louis felt irritation flare instantly in his stomach, sharp and familiar. His fists tightened automatically at his sides. If this prick thought he could grab him like that without consequences, he had another thing coming.
At first Louis didn’t answer, which only seemed to piss Eric off more. “What, you deaf?” Eric snapped, fist bunching tighter in Louis’ hoodie.
Then Louis noticed what the other hand was holding.
A pair of silver heels. Tiny silver heels. Eric wasn’t fitting in those.
Louis closed his eyes briefly.
For fuck’s sake.
A boyfriend.
“Eric, leave him alone,” the woman groaned. “I was talking to him, not marrying him.”
“Oh, brilliant,” Louis muttered dryly. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Eric glared harder. “You think you’re funny?”
“Not especially, no, but I have my moments.”
“You chatting up my girl?”
Louis looked between the two of them.
Then at the shoes. Then back at Eric.
“And if I was? You’re the one carrying her heels around the pub like Cinderella’s bodyguard?” Louis quipped. “Bit romantic, mate.”
The woman choked trying not to laugh. Eric looked seconds away from exploding. “Say another fucking word.”
Louis smiled lazily despite the warning, tequila making every bad idea feel clever. “Another fucking word.”
Eric clearly wasn’t pleased with that answer, because the next second Louis was being shoved hard into the bar, the wooden edge digging painfully into his back hard enough to force a grunt out of him.
The glasses in his little tequila tower rattled violently.
“Eric—” the blonde started.
“Shut up,” Eric snapped without even looking at her.
Well.
That was charming.
Eric crowded closer, all heat and fury and cheap lager breath. Before Louis could properly catch his balance, Eric yanked him forward by the hoodie only to slam him right back against the bar again.
The impact sent the tower of shot glasses toppling sideways. Glass clattered across the bartop, one even shattered on the floor.
Now Louis had really fucking had it.
At first it’d almost been fun. Some puffed up boyfriend acting territorial while carrying around silver heels like a disgruntled bridesmaid.
But this?
Nah.
Eric had crossed the line from annoying to asking for it.
Louis shoved hard against the bloke’s chest. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
Eric barely budged. “Oh, what?” Eric sneered. “Got something to say now?”
“Several things, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“First,” Louis said, voice tight with irritation. Then, with a sharp smirk still hanging stupidly on his face, his fist went swinging. The punch cracked against Eric’s cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways.
“Oh, fuck!” someone shouted nearby.
The entire mood around the bar shifted instantly. People loved a pub fight the same way seagulls loved chips. The second violence appeared, everyone suddenly developed a deep emotional investment in it.
Eric stumbled back half a step, more shocked than hurt. Louis flexed his aching hand once.
Right. Probably should’ve expected punching someone to hurt him too.
“You little prick—” Eric lunged forward again, but this time Louis was ready for it. Years of stupid decisions and even stupider nights out made reacting almost automatic. He shoved Eric hard before the bloke could grab him again.
Unfortunately, being drunk meant balance had become more of a fun suggestion than an actual skill.
Eric crashed sideways into the bar. Louis crashed into Eric.
The blonde woman screamed something that got swallowed immediately by the band that has moved on and was now butchering Wonderwall in the background.
Honestly impressive commitment from them.
Eric recovered fast, grabbing a fistful of Louis’ hoodie again and dragging him forward. His knuckles slammed roughly into Louis’ shoulder instead of his face, mostly because both of them were too drunk to coordinate properly.
Everything around Louis rang with that sharp, horrible pinch that came after getting hit too many times too hard. The noise of the pub warped into something distant and underwater, the awful local band suddenly sounding like fucking angels compared to the chaos unfolding around him.
Eric kept coming at him, throwing half arsed punches while Louis blocked what he could and took the rest straight to the face and ribs. They weren’t fighting properly anymore. It had dissolved into something messy and ugly. Shoving, swinging, stumbling over chairs and spilled drinks while strangers hollered around them like this was peak entertainment.
And somewhere in the middle of it, something in Louis snapped.
The tequila fog burned away little by little, sobering him in all the worst ways. What had started as annoyance curdled into something hotter. Meaner. A deep, ugly rage that rooted itself beneath his ribs and climbed upward like fire.
His punches started landing harder. Not drunken swings anymore. Real hits. The kind that bruised.
Eric grunted as Louis’ fist slammed into his side again.
“You fucking coward!” Louis spat, blood slipping from his split lip. “Can’t even fight like a real man, you pathetic piece of shit!”
“Fuck you!” Eric snapped back instantly, shoving him hard enough that Louis nearly lost his footing again.
The crowd around them had doubled at some point. Bodies circled tight around the fight, people shouting over one another while phones appeared in the air like vultures spotting roadkill.
Louis barely even registered when his back slammed against the floor. One second he was swinging, the next Eric was on top of him, knees digging painfully into his ribs while his fist pulled back again.
The blonde woman was somewhere nearby yelling.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Eric shouted down at him.
Louis thrashed beneath him violently, fury giving him fresh energy. “Get the fuck off me,” he snarled. “You’re nothing but a pathetic little bastard who can’t keep his girl satisfied!”
A loud collective “OHHHH” rippled through the crowd.
Eric’s face twisted instantly. Eric slammed another punch toward Louis’ face.
Louis jerked sideways just enough to lessen the impact, pain still exploding across his jaw hard enough to make his ears ring again.
“You’re a fucking joke,” Louis hissed, breathing hard now. “A goddamn joke. Can’t even win a fight with a drunk man.”
“You started this!”
“No, mate,” Louis barked out through blood and laughter, “you started this when you stormed over carrying fucking glass slippers.”
Even Eric looked briefly furious enough to lose words. Then Louis planted one hand into Eric’s dark hair, twisting, as the other one shoved with everything he had left at Eric’s chest. The momentum sent them both rolling violently across the filthy floor.
Louis scrambled upright first, dropping onto one knee while his chest heaved greedy for air. His entire body buzzed with adrenaline and rage, vision blurry around the edges as he locked eyes with Eric again.
Pure hatred flashed between them. “Get up,” Louis growled, voice low and dangerous. Eric wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, glaring. “Get up,” Louis repeated, harsher this time. “So I can finish what you started, you son of a bitch.”
✮
“Yes, ma’am,” Harry muttered, his hip bumping the side of the dishwasher with a loud metallic thunk.
One hand shifted the phone tighter between his shoulder and ear so he could free both hands. The move nearly sent the mobile slipping straight into the sink.
“Again—no, what?” Harry groaned softly.
He dried his hands quickly on the black apron hanging off his frame before tugging on another pair of gloves with far more aggression than necessary.
Like maybe if he shoved his hands into them hard enough, they’d somehow block out his mother’s voice too.
Unfortunately, rubber wasn’t noise cancelling.
“I think I know when Christmas is, Mum.” His mother continued talking anyway. Not even talking to him, really. Talking at him.
Harry plunged both gloved hands into the sink full of disgusting grey water, immediately grimacing at the lukewarm sludge coating the gloves. Foam clung to the surface in sad little islands while half rinsed pint glasses floated around like shipwrecks.
Behind him, the pub roared with Friday night chaos. People shouting over football. Music too loud. Someone laughing like a dying hyena near the fruit machine.
Still quieter than his mother somehow.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, darling,” she chirped through the phone. “I’m just saying your father already invited the Whitmores over for Christmas Eve.”
Harry closed his eyes briefly. Of course he did.
Another Christmas party. Another year of fake smiles and champagne flutes and his parents pretending they were deeply in love while their equally fake friends laughed too loudly at bad jokes. Harry would rather chew glass.
“Mhm,” he hummed flatly, scrubbing aggressively at lipstick stains on a wine glass.
“And Caroline, you remember Caroline, asked if you’re still doing that little pub job.”
No he didn’t.
Harry’s eye twitched. “That little pub job pays my rent.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you know what I mean.”
Yeah. He did.
Harry scrubbed harder. His mother laughed lightly at something she’d said herself, and Harry rolled his eyes so hard it physically hurt. Everything about her sounded rehearsed. Polished. Like she was permanently performing for invisible cameras.
“Look—Mum, I’m at work,” Harry interrupted finally. “I can’t really talk right now.”
“Yes, but your father wanted to know if you’d be staying through Boxing Day this year—”
“We’ll talk about it closer to Christmas.”
“You said that last year.”
“And I meant it last year too.”
A sigh crackled through the speaker. “Harry.”
“Mum.” Another pause.
Then finally, mercifully. “Well. Fine. Don’t work too hard, darling.”
“Okay.”
“Love you.”
Harry hesitated just long enough for guilt to sting. “Yeah. Love you too.”
The call ended.
Harry kept the phone trapped between his shoulder and ear for another second anyway, just appreciating the silence that followed.
Well. Not silence, the pub behind him was still deafening. But it wasn’t his mother deafening, which made all the difference. Harry exhaled slowly through his nose and shoved the phone into his apron pocket.
God, he hated Christmas. Or maybe he just hated what Christmas turned his family into. Actually no. They were always like that. Christmas just forced everyone into the same mansion long enough to notice.
Harry’s hands itched beneath the rubber gloves Niall practically forced him to wear every shift.
“It’ll help you, Haz.”
“If a glass breaks, it’ll stop you slicing your hands open.”
“Think about all the mouths on those glasses, mate.”
Which, annoyingly, was a solid point. Harry physically cringed at the thought. People were disgusting. He already hated touching strangers accidentally in public. The idea of grabbing spit covered glasses with his bare hands made his skin crawl.
So the gloves stayed. Even if they made his hands sweat like mad. He picked up a tulip pint glass and scrubbed at the foam dried stubbornly along the rim.
Honestly, Harry hadn’t even been meant to work tonight. He’d been halfway through a face mask and fully prepared to spend the evening horizontal in bed watching rubbish television when his boss rang.
Sarah had apparently called in sick. Which would’ve been far more believable if her Instagram story wasn’t currently six videos deep at some club in Manchester.
Harry snorted quietly to himself. “Sick, my arse.”
“Talking to yourself again?”
Harry glanced up to see Niall appearing beside the dish pit carrying another tray of dirty glasses.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s something,” Niall replied.
“So is Sarah pretending she’s dying while posting tequila shots online.”
Niall barked out a laugh. “Oh my God, she actually did it again?”
Harry pulled one hand from the sink long enough to shove his phone toward him. “Third story down. She’s literally holding sparklers.”
Niall looked delighted. “That is phenomenally stupid.”
“Mm. Meanwhile I’m elbow deep in beer foam.”
“You love it really.” Harry stared at him blankly.
Niall grinned wider. “Right. Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to.”
A crash sounded somewhere out in the pub followed immediately by several people yelling.
Harry froze.
Niall sighed deeply. “Please tell me that wasn’t another fight.”
Another crash.
“Think that answers your question,” Harry muttered.
Niall didn’t even bother swearing this time. He just set the tray of dirty glasses down with a loud, defeated clatter and immediately sprinted toward the swinging doors behind the bar like a man answering the call of war.
Harry stayed frozen beside the sink for one extra second. Grey water dripped steadily from the fingertips of his black rubber gloves, thick drops splashing back into the basin in slow, miserable little plunks. A groan brewed low in his chest. Not tonight.
Please, not fucking tonight.
He was already emotionally bankrupt from the phone call with his mother. His nerves felt scraped raw enough without having to babysit a bunch of drunk, testosterone poisoned idiots trying to beat each other unconscious over some girl named probably fucking Becky.
“Fuck,” Harry muttered under his breath.
He yanked the gloves off with two sharp snaps and tossed them onto the draining board harder than necessary before following after Niall.
The second he stepped into the main bar, Harry felt it immediately. The atmosphere had changed.
Pub fights always did that.
The usual warmth and noise of the place had twisted into something uglier. Sharper. The air practically vibrated with adrenaline and alcohol and that horrible electric excitement crowds got when violence became entertainment.
The normal chatter was gone, now it was shouting. Cheering. Phones held high in the air. The local band had stopped playing entirely, though the lead singer remained on stage with the microphone still in hand.
“Oh, he’s back up!” the singer announced loudly like some sort of drunk sports commentator. “The little one’s still talking shit!”
Harry closed his eyes briefly. Of course they were encouraging it. By the time he caught up with Niall behind the bar, the scene looked like a complete disaster.
Two blokes were tangled together on the sticky floor near the stools, fighting less like actual grown men and more like exhausted feral dogs. One of them was broad and red faced, wearing a stained polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
The other, Harry’s gaze caught there immediately. Smaller. Dark hair damp with sweat and sticking messily across his forehead. A dark hoodie twisted halfway around his body. Blood smeared across his mouth and cheekbone in uneven streaks.
He looked wrecked. And furious.
“Get up,” the smaller bloke growled, forcing himself onto one knee. His chest rose and fell violently beneath the hoodie, breath ragged and uneven. Blood dripped steadily from his split lip onto the floor below him. “Get up so I can finish what you started, you son of a bitch.”
“Jesus Christ,” Harry muttered.
Beside him, Niall leaned toward Alex. “What even happened?”
Alex barely looked up from collecting abandoned glasses from the bar top. “Blonde girl,” she said flatly. “Tequila. Male ego. Same as always.”
“Right,” Niall sighed.
Alex continued explaining something else after that, something about shoes, insults, and somebody calling somebody else Cinderella, but Harry stopped listening halfway through.
His attention had already drifted back toward the bloke in the hoodie. There was something unsettling about the anger pouring off him. The shouting had burned out into something quieter now. Meaner. The kind of fury that sat deep in somebody’s chest and hollowed them out from the inside.
Harry watched him drag the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood further along his cheek.
And suddenly, horribly—Harry felt ten years old again.
There were a lot of things Harry hated. Christmas, fake people, wet food in sinks. But fights? Fights sat somewhere deeper than hatred. They crawled under his skin.
Even now, years later, raised voices still made something instinctive in him brace for impact. As a kid, he used to lie awake in bed listening through walls, music paused in his headphones while he counted the seconds between shouts downstairs. Trying to decide whether he needed to go stop it. Whether tonight would stay shouting or become something worse.
His chest felt tight suddenly.
The pub lights flashed violently overhead without warning. Harry squinted hard against the sudden brightness. A collective groan rolled through the crowd immediately after.
When his eyes adjusted again, he spotted Zayn standing beside the light switch near the hallway entrance, arms folded across his chest with the exhausted expression of a man who regretted every life choice that brought him here tonight.
Great.
Zayn only turned the big lights on for two reasons. Fire alarms or fights bad enough the police might end up involved. Honestly, Harry wasn’t sure which outcome felt more likely right now.
Maybe he should step in before Zayn lost his temper over broken glassware and committed manslaughter in front of forty witnesses. But by the time Harry even gathered enough courage to move, Zayn was already forcing his way through the crowd.
People parted for him almost instantly. Not because he shoved them. Because they knew him. Zayn had the kind of presence that made drunk people suddenly remember consequences existed. The shouting dimmed slightly as he moved toward the centre of the mess, black shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
On the floor, the smaller bloke noticed him immediately. Harry watched the exact second recognition crossed his face. His spine straightened slightly despite the fact he looked half dead already, and somehow a grin spread slowly across his bloodied mouth.
The bigger bloke was still sprawled partly on the floor nearby, breathing hard and swearing under his breath while the blonde woman tried unsuccessfully to keep him sitting down.
“Fuck,” the bloke in the hoodie muttered. His speech slurred slightly around the split in his lip, but the accent still cut through thick as anything.
Northern. Very northern.
Zayn stopped directly in front of him. Didn’t yell. Didn’t posture. “You done?”
The bloke blinked up at him. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether he shuts the fuck up.”
The other man immediately tried lunging upright again. “You little—”
“Sit down,” Zayn snapped without even looking at him. And weirdly, he actually did.
The crowd collectively “oooh’d” at that.
The bloke in the hoodie barked out a laugh that turned rough halfway through when pain caught him in the ribs. Zayn finally grabbed him firmly by the arm and yanked him fully upright.
The bloke stumbled instantly. Definitely drunk, then.
“Fuck, Louis,” Zayn growled under his breath, steadying him before he toppled sideways into a table. “Liam’s going to kill me if you get arrested again.”
Louis. Right. The name fit somehow.
Louis squinted at him through swollen eyes. “I was hardly arrested the last time.”
“The police literally drove you home.”
“And?” Louis asked defensively. “That’s their fucking job.”
Harry snorted before he could stop himself. Louis’ head turned immediately toward the sound. For the first time since the fight started, his attention landed fully on Harry.
Fuck. He looked rough.
Blood smeared along his jaw. Hoodie stretched crooked at the collar. One eye already beginning to darken purple beneath the harsh overhead lights. But his eyes, sharp blue even through the drunken haze.
Louis stared at him for a long second before—“You got a staring problem, giggles?”
Harry blinked once at the insult.
Giggles?
He wasn’t a fucking giggles.
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. Because annoyingly, the stranger had a point.
Harry had been staring.
Not because the bloke was attractive. Absolutely not that. He looked like he’d been tumble dried through a hedge backwards. His hoodie was stretched half off one shoulder, blood smeared across his jaw and neck, hair sticking out in sweaty directions that physically offended Harry’s sense of order.
But his eyes—Harry cut that thought off immediately.
Nope. Not engaging with that.
Harry felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. The sheer audacity of this creature. Louis was currently being hauled out of a sticky floored pub by his collar, bleeding onto his own trainers, and he still had the energy to heckle the staff.
Zayn still had a bruising grip on Louis’ arm, pushing him towards the door. “Go home, Louis.”
“Home’s boring,” Louis shot back, stumbling as Zayn gave him another firm shove towards the exit. “And I’m not finished with Prince Charming over there.” He craned his neck, trying to glare around Zayn’s shoulder at the other man, who was now being reluctantly helped up by the blonde woman. “Tell your boyfriend he hits like a toddler, love!”
The woman just flipped him off without looking away from the man’s face, which was swelling up nicely around his eye.
“Out,” Zayn said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that finally seemed to penetrate Louis’ drunken haze.
He manhandled him through the throng of disappointed onlookers, the crowd parting like the Red Sea for them. But of course as soon as they reached the door, Louis turned back.
“Shit, Zee, let me get my smokes.”
Zayn didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened around Louis’ upper arm until his knuckles went white. “You’re lucky I’m not letting the bouncers bounce your skull off the pavement, Louis. Move.”
“They’re on the bar!” Louis protested, his heels dragging against the floorboards, leaving faint, smeared tracks in the spilled beer. “I’ve only smoked three, Zayn. That’s a fiver down the toilet, mate.”
Harry watched the entire pathetic display from behind the safety of the pumps, his arms crossed over his chest. He couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to laugh or throw a wet bar towel at the bloke's head. The sheer, unadulterated entitlement of him. He’d just turned a decent Friday night into a war zone, shattered at least four highball glasses, ruined the local band’s rendition of Oasis, and his primary concern was a five pound pack of cigarettes.
Zayn didn’t even budge. Instead, he shot a look over his shoulder, his dark eyes scanning the area behind the bar until they landed directly on Harry. “Harry,” Zayn called out. “Bring his cigarettes.”
Harry froze, his hand still resting on the pocket of his apron.
Fuck. Me?
Why did he have to be the one to handle the feral Northern creature? He shot a desperate look at Niall, but Niall was already busy wiping down the bar with immense, suspicious focus, completely abandoning him to his fate.
He sighed, rounding the bar and stepping into the aftermath of the war zone. The pub was slowly settling back into its usual hum, though the atmosphere was still thick with the smell of spilled lager and cheap cologne. The man and his barefoot Cinderella were already being ushered toward the back exit by Alex, still grumbling and holding his jaw.
Harry walked over to the sticky bar top where, sure enough, a pack of Marlboro golds and a lighter were scattered next to a puddle of spilled tequila.
Harry picked them up, holding it by the very edge with two fingers. Disgusting. Everything in this place was sticky.
He walked toward the front doors, where Zayn was still physically anchoring Louis to the spot. Louis was leaning heavily against the doorframe, looking remarkably pleased with himself for someone whose face was currently changing colors.
“Here,” Harry said, holding out the cigarettes and lighter.
Louis didn’t take them immediately. Instead, his sharp blue eyes tracked up from Harry’s hands, past the apron, all the way to his face. Up close, Harry realized just how short Louis actually was, he had to look down significantly just to meet his gaze.
A slow, bloody grin spread across Louis’ face again. “Look at you. The designated savior. Thanks, giggles—“
“Don’t call me that,” Harry said flatly, dropping the pack into Louis’ open palm.
“Louis,” Zayn warned, giving his arm a sharp tug. “Move. Before I call Liam.”
“Alright, alright! Turning into a proper headmistress in your old age, aren't you, Zee?” Louis grumbled, finally letting himself be steered out into the cool, crisp night air.
Harry stood in the doorway, watching them go. The cool breeze felt incredible against his skin, cutting through the stagnant, alcohol-soaked heat of the pub. He dragged a hand through his curls, exhaling slowly.
Fuck he really, really hated Friday nights.