Chapter Text
The universe, Louis has decided, is not just indifferent. It is actively malicious. It doesn't merely allow bad things to happen; it orchestrates them with the blatant cruelty of an evil mastermind.
His worst nightmare starts at exactly 9:02 in the morning when Mr Johnson calls him into his office. Louis hasn't even had time to take a sip of his morning coffee before literally everything goes to shit.
"Budget cuts, Tomlinson. Last in, first out. You understand."
Louis does, in fact, not understand.
God, how does a company that has just reported record-breaking quarterly profits suddenly find itself unable to afford a mid-level data entry clerk who spent forty hours a week staring at spreadsheets until his eyes burned?
If anything, Louis understood only two things. One. He has a rent payment due in two weeks and a fridge containing half a jar of crusty mayonnaise and a limp, questionable cucumber.
And two, he has a sudden, burning desire to set the entire office building on fire.
But instead of arson, he chooses dignity. Or at least, the closest thing to dignity considering he's just been publicly discarded.
He packs his belongings into a flimsy cardboard box that Mr Johnson so graciously provided. To be fair, it feels like a final insult, packing his life into a literal piece of trash. A novelty mug that reads World’s Okayest Employee (a gift from himself, which feels tragically accurate now), a mechanical pencil that only has two pieces of lead left, a half-empty pack of mints, and a framed photo of his sister’s dog.
"Best of luck out there," Mr Johnson says, not looking up from his tablet.
"Right. Thanks," Louis mutters, giving his former boss a tight-lipped smile. Or, well, an attempt at one.
He walks out of the office, down the long hallway, and steps through the heavy glass doors into the open air.
Naturally, the sky is grey, and it looks like it's about to positively start pissing down.
Of course, all of this would happen while his umbrella is tucked away safely under the kitchen sink at home.
Great. Just fucking GREAT!
The first drop hits him directly on the bridge of his nose, and within thirty seconds, the sky doesn't just open up, it unleashes a torrential, vertical sheet of water that feels personally directed at Louis’ head.
He pulls his thin jacket tightly around himself, trying to shield the cardboard box with his forearms. He lives a twenty-minute drive away, and has parked three blocks over because the company parking garage charges an extortionate fifteen pounds a day- a fee he stubbornly refuses to pay.
By the time he reaches his car, his shoes are squelching with every step, his hair is plastered to his forehead, and the bottom corners of his cardboard box are already beginning to sag.
"It’s fine," Louis mutters to himself, his teeth chattering as he fumbles for his keys. "It’s just a bad morning. You’ll go home, change into dry sweats, make some tea, and update your LinkedIn profile."
He unlocks his beat-up, metallic-blue 2008 Ford Fiesta and throws the box onto the passenger seat. The cardboard tears as soon as it hits the fabric, dumping the novelty mug onto the floorboards where it cracks cleanly down the middle.
Louis stares at the two pieces of ceramic. He swallows hard, forcing the lump in his throat down. Do not cry over a two-pound mug, he tells himself sternly. You are twenty-seven years old. Adults do not weep over cheap pottery.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, pulls the door shut, and inserts the key into the ignition before turning it.
Click.
Louis blinks. He turns the key back, takes a deep breath, and tries again.
Click. Click-click.
Nothing but a hollow, empty sound. The dashboard lights flicker weakly before going entirely dark.
"No," Louis whispers, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. "No, no, no. Please, you piece of shit. Not today. Do not do this to me today."
He turns the key again, pumping his foot on the accelerator as if that would somehow magically spark the dead battery to life.
Nothing.
He sighs. The alternator has been whining for three weeks, and Louis has ignored it because he simply didn't have the funds to fix it.
His negligence has officially caught up with him at the absolute worst possible moment.
He's just about to start screaming when his eyes sweep over the rearview mirror, and he notices that there is a distance of about two empty parking spaces between him and the car behind him.
Thank God he drives a manual, and thank God even more he's parked on a slight hill. He could totally bumpstart the car.
Or not. He tries three times, slowly letting the car roll back and letting go of the clutch before ultimately giving up when realising he's less than a meter away from the car behind him now.
"FUCK!" This time he does scream.
By 11:45, Louis has been sitting in his car for nearly two hours. His phone battery is at 32% because he has spent the last ninety minutes on hold with his roadside assistance provider.
When the agent finally answers, they inform him that due to the severe weather across the city, the estimated wait time for a flatbed was another three hours. However, if his vehicle is blocking a designated clearway- which, thanks to his earlier bright idea of attempting to bumpstart it, Louis’ car now technically is, the city’s contracted towing service would likely clear it before then.
"So I should just wait for the city to tow me?" Louis asks incredulously.
"That is an option, sir, though you will be responsible for the impound fees."
Louis just hangs up, and five minutes later, as if summoned by his sheer misfortune, a massive, yellow tow truck pulls up in front of his Fiesta.
There is absolutely no fucking way this is happening right now.
The driver who climbs out is a big, bearded man whose high-visibility jacket looks like it has survived several small wars. There's a plastic tag pinned to his chest that reads Carl.
Carl does not look like a man who cares about budget cuts, broken mugs, or wet shoes. Carl looks like a man who executes his duties without a care in the world, knowing he looks like the type of man who would probably kill you if you tried to stop him.
That doesn't stop Louis from trying, though.
He rolls down his window an inch, and grimaces at the rain instantly spraying across his face. "Hi! Look, my battery’s dead. I’ve called my own breakdown service, they’re on their way-"
"Clearway zone, mate," Carl cuts him off. He's already dragging a heavy metal chain toward the front bumper of the Fiesta. "Can’t leave it here. It’s a hazard."
"It’s not a hazard, it’s just small!" Louis yells, opening his door and stepping out into the puddle that has accumulated by the kerb. The water immediately soaks through his canvas sneakers again, freezing his toes. "Can't you just give me a jump-start? It would take two minutes. I'll pay you."
"Don't do jumps. City contract," Carl says, not even looking at him as he hooks the chain into place. "You can collect it from the North Lot. Eighty-five quid for the release, plus thirty for every calendar day it sits there."
"Eighty-five quid?" Louis’ voice cracks. That is his grocery budget for the next two weeks. "Are you joking? I just lost my job!"
Carl finally looks up, his expression entirely blank. "Sucks, mate. But I’ve got a queue of twelve cars after this. You need to clear your personal items out of the cabin."
Louis stands on the pavement, his body shaking with a mixture of cold and pure, unadulterated fury. He wants to scream. To be honest, he's not sure what's stopping him from throwing himself onto the hood of his car like a dramatic historical figure protesting an injustice.
But instead, he huffs indignantly and walks around to the passenger seat, grabbing the soggy, disintegrating cardboard box with both hands and lifting it.
Of course, right then, the bottom completely gives way.
Of. Fucking. Course.
The pieces of his broken mug, his mechanical pencil, his photoframe, and three years of printed performance reviews fall in a chaotic heap on the wet road. The paper instantly absorbs the murky street water, and the black ink runs into unreadable grey smudges.
"Fucking hell!" Louis exclaims, dropping the remaining cardboard flaps. He falls to his knees, his hands scraping against the rough tarmac as he tries to gather the papers to try and save them as best he can.
"Can't ride in the cab with me, by the way. Liability," Carl calls out over the grinding noise of the hydraulic lift as the Fiesta's front wheels are being hoisted into the air. "You'll have to find your own way to the impound."
Louis doesn't look up. He's staring at a soaked piece of paper that used to say “Louis Tomlinson shows excellent attention to detail.” It's now just a soggy lump of pulp.
"Yeah," Louis chokes out, his throat tight. "Thanks, Carl. Appreciate it."
He stands back up, clutching the wet photoframe and the two halves of his mug in his hands, watching the yellow truck drive away.
It's not until the truck completely vanishes from sight that Louis reaches into his right jacket pocket. Empty.
He checks his left pocket. Just the pack of mints.
He checks his trouser pockets, his fingers digging frantically into the tight denim. Nothing.
With his stomach feeling like it’s about to drop straight out of his arse, Louis remembers exactly where they are. His house keys. His mailbox keys. The little blue plastic fob that granted him access to the main entrance of his apartment building. They're sitting right there, safe and dry, in the shallow cup holder of his centre console. The centre console of the car that is currently travelling at forty miles per hour toward a high-security, locked impound lot on the literal opposite side of the city.
"No," Louis whispers. "No, no, please."
Fuck.
Fuck!
FUCK!
What the fuck even is this day?
By 13:15, Louis has walked six blocks to the nearest underground station. His feet are entirely numb, the squelching sound of his shoes acting as a soundtrack to his misery.
At the station, there's a massive digital board hanging above the turnstiles, glowing with big, fat red letters.
DISTRICT LINE: SUSPENDED DUE TO FLOODING AT EARL'S COURT.
PICCADILLY LINE: SEVERE DELAYS.
"Of course," Louis says aloud, a hysterical little laugh bubbling up in his chest. A passing businesswoman walks around him, shooting him a look that suggests she thinks he's a dangerous lunatic. At this point, he can't even blame her.
He pulls out his phone to check the bus routes, but sees his battery percentage instead.
Battery: 15%
"Come on, just give me a break," he mumbles, swiping across the screen.
He taps open his banking app to see if he could afford a black cab across town to the impound lot instead. The screen loads with an agonising slowness, the spinning wheel mocking him before finally displaying his balance.
Current Account: £54.32
The eighty-five-pound impound fee flashes through his mind, followed closely by the impending rent payment. A black cab would cost at least thirty quid just to get across the river in this traffic.
Be that as it may, he wouldn't even be able to afford the fee to get his car back, which meant his keys would remain locked inside the car, which furthermore meant he would remain locked out of his flat, so there's really no use in wasting thirty pounds on that.
He decides his only option is to walk to the nearest public library or coffee shop, find a working outlet, charge his phone, and try to call a locksmith who might take pity on him or accept a delayed payment.
He starts walking, narrowing his eyes as he tries to protect them from the rain that is suddenly blown sideways now, blinding him as he steps off the kerb to cross a narrow side street.
A loud, aggressive horn suddenly blares right next to him, and Louis gasps, throwing himself backwards onto the pavement as a red delivery van speeds past, missing his knees by a matter of inches.
The van hits a massive, deep puddle right at the edge of the kerb, and a literal tidal wave of muddy, oil-slicked street water rises into the air.
Louis doesn't even have time to close his mouth. The brown water drenching him from head to toe, covering his face, his hair, and soaking through his jacket until his shirt is plastered to his skin like a cold, wet bandage.
He spits, gagging as the water tastes faintly of petrol and dirt.
The van doesn't even slow down, disappearing down the street like they've not basically just run him over.
What the actual fuck?
Louis sits on the wet pavement. He doesn't move, nor does he wipe the muddy water from his eyes. He just sits there, his hands flat against the cold concrete, staring at the grey sky.
The absolute absurdity of it all seems to crack something inside him. He feels a strange, detached sensation, as if he's busy watching a movie of someone else’s incredibly pathetic life.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Thank God it's waterproof.
Battery: 12%
"Perfect," Louis chokes out, his voice trembling now. "Just... perfect."
By 14:15, Louis is standing under the crumbling brick awning of an abandoned storefront. The building has been boarded up, and its windows are covered in graffiti, but it's the only place within a four-block radius that offers even a shred of protection from this godforsaken weather.
He's shivering so hard his teeth are frantically clicking together- hypothermia feeling like a very real, very imminent possibility. His fingers are stiff, white at the tips and purple around the knuckles. He's tried blowing on them, but his breath is just as cold, while his chest suddenly feels remarkably tight.
He looks at his phone again.
Battery: 7%
He sighs. He can't call a friend. He doesn't even know who he would call. His family lives hours away in Doncaster, and his few friends in the city are all at work, likely staring at their own spreadsheets. They're not allowed to use their phones during work hours, which means even if he does let them know, they'll all stay blissfully unaware that Louis is currently decomposing on a pavement somewhere. At least until they're done with work for the day.
A sudden, sharp pain pierces his chest, right behind his sternum.
Oh God.
Louis gasps, drawing in a sharp breath, but the air catches in his throat, feeling like he's trying to inhale glass. His lungs simply refuse to expand.
Oh, no, he thinks, a familiar, cold spike of dread shooting through his veins. Not now. Please, God, not right now.
He's not had a panic attack in three years. Not since his college finals. But he recognises the symptoms instantly- the sudden, suffocating weight on his chest, the way the edges of his vision begin to blur, and the drumming of his own heart beating in his ears.
"Breathe," he whispers to himself, but the word comes out as a pathetic, high-pitched wheeze. "Just- breathe, Louis."
He tries to take a deep, grounding breath, but his diaphragm locks up. The world around him begins to tilt dangerously. The sound of the traffic on the main road grows deafeningly loud, then suddenly distant, as if someone is turning a volume knob up and down at random.
His knees buckle, unable to hold his own weight any longer.
He slides down the rough brick wall of the storefront. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his stiff, useless arms around them, trying to force his body to stop shaking. It doesn't work.
God. Is this really how he's meant to die?
He's entirely alone. He's soaking wet, freezing, jobless, possibly homeless for the night, and he's quite literally suffocating on a public street.
Through the blind, white-hot terror of the panic, a single thought materialises in his mind: If I pass out here, nobody is going to find me until it's too late.
With shaking, clumsy fingers that feel like thick sausages, he lifts the phone.
He doesn't have the mental capacity to navigate his contacts, and even if he did, his screen isn't registering his touch properly.
He frantically taps the emergency call button at the bottom of the lock screen.
He doesn't think about what he will say, nor does he think about the embarrassment of calling the emergency services for a panic attack. He just needs a human being to know he is alive.
Louis presses the cold glass of the phone to his ear, his chest heaving as he lets out a broken, ragged sob into the empty air, waiting for the line to connect.
It only rings once, then there's a click.
"9-9-9, what is the location of your emergency?"
The voice Louis hears is instantly soothing. It's not the sharp, hurried tone he was expecting from a stressed emergency dispatcher working a shift during a city-wide storm.
It's deep, and low and incredibly steady. God, it feels like a heavy, warm blanket being draped over Louis' freezing, hyperventilating body. It's a voice that sounds like it has all the time in the world.
Louis chokes on a sob, his fingers gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles crack. "I- I- I can't," he gasps, his chest heaving violently as he presses his forehead against his knees. "Can't- can't breathe."
There's a faint, sharp rustle of a headset on the other end of the line, a sudden shift in the background noise as if the operator has instantly tuned out the rest of the room.
"Sir? Sir, listen to the sound of my voice," the operator says, his voice dropping, becoming softer, more grounding. "My name is Harry. I’m right here with you, okay? You're not alone. Can you tell me your name?"
"Louis," he wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut as fresh tears cut through the layer of muddy street water on his cheeks. "Louis."
"Okay, Louis. That’s a good name. You're doing great, Louis," Harry says, his voice steady and unhurried, cutting through the chaotic mess in Louis' mind. "I need you to do something very simple for me, okay? Can you find one thing around you right now that is the colour blue?"
"Blue," Louis chokes out, the word getting stuck in his throat. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry despite the rain misting over his face. "Can't- see- anything."
"That’s okay, Louis. It’s entirely okay," Harry’s voice coming back instantly, completely unfazed by the panic. "If you can't see blue, that's fine. Don't look around. Close your eyes for me instead. Can you do that?"
Louis squeezes his eyes shut, his eyelashes wet and heavy against his cheek. The darkness behind his eyelids is dizzying, but he nods anyway, forgetting for a fraction of a second that Harry can't actually see him. "Yeah."
"Brilliant. Now, Louis, I want you to focus entirely on my voice. Just my voice. Nothing else exists right now except you and me on this phone line. I’m going to breathe with you, alright? We’re going to take a breath in for four seconds, hold it, and then let it out. Just follow me. In... two, three, four..."
Louis tries. He really, honestly tries, but his chest feels like it has been wrapped in heavy steel bands.
He takes a sharp breath that cuts off at two seconds, his lungs spasming into a ragged, wet cough that shakes his entire body. He slumps further against the brick wall, a soft, pathetic whine escaping the back of his throat.
"I can't," he weeps, his voice dropping to a tiny, broken whisper.
Just then his phone vibrates against his cheek, and when he looks at it, it's only to see a notification that the battery has now reached 5%. "Harry, I can't. My phone... it's going to die. It’s on five per cent. It’s going to turn off," he manages through the panic.
"Louis, listen to me very carefully," Harry says, his voice ever so calm. "Your phone is already through to my system. Five per cent is more than enough, okay? I am not going to lose you. I am right here. I’m not going anywhere."
The sheer weight of Harry’s confidence seems to steady the spinning world, and Louis leans his head back against the bricks, his teeth still chattering so hard they ache.
"There you go," Harry murmurs, as if he could somehow sense the slight shift in Louis’s posture through the phone. "You're doing so well, Louis. You’ve had a really massive shock, haven’t you? Your body is just trying to protect you, but you are safe. I promise you, you are safe. Can you try to take another breath for me? Just a little one. Don't force it. Just a tiny sip of air."
Louis sucks in a tiny, shaking breath. It feels cold, but it doesn't spark a coughing fit this time.
"Perfect. Exactly like that. Let it out slowly. Good. Now give me another one."
For the next ten minutes, the abandoned storefront under the pouring rain becomes a tiny, isolated island inhabited only by Louis and the voice in his ear.
Harry doesn't pressure him. He doesn't ask for an address yet, or demand a medical history. He just breathes with him, counting the seconds in that low, deep voice. Slowly, the steel bands around Louis' chest begin to loosen. The black spots at the edges of his vision start receding.
Louis feels completely deflated, his body slumped awkwardly on the concrete while his wet clothes are heavy and freezing against his skin.
"How are you feeling now, Louis?" Harry asks gently. The background noise on his end is a faint, low hum of other voices- other operators dealing with other emergencies but Harry’s focus remains entirely unbroken.
"Tired," Louis croaks, his throat raw. "Cold. So bloody cold."
"I know, love. You've been through it today, haven't you?" The casual endearment slips out of Harry’s mouth so naturally that Louis doesn't even question it. It just feels warm. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
Louis lets out a wet, breathless laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Where do I even start? The universe decided to completely obliterate me today, Harry. Literally. Fucked me sideways. No lube whatsoever."
"I’m listening," Harry says softly. "Why don't we start from the beginning? Give me the whole lot. Let me carry some of it for a bit."
And so, sitting on the cold pavement with mud drying on his face and his fingers completely numb, Louis talks. He doesn't even know why he was telling a 9-9-9 operator his life story, but the words just pour out of him like a broken dam.
"I got fired," Louis says, his voice cracking on the word. Saying it out loud makes it real, and his stomach churns at the mere thought. "At nine o'clock this morning. Walked into the office, didn't even get to drink my coffee, and Mr Johnson just... tossed me out. Budget cuts. Three years of my life, gone in two minutes."
"I'm so sorry, Louis. That's incredibly unfair," Harry says, his voice dropping into a deep, sympathetic tone. "You didn't deserve that."
Damn right, I didn't. I honestly didn't.
"It gets worse," Louis mutters, wiping his nose with the damp sleeve of his jacket. "I walked out into the rain. No umbrella, obviously. Walked three blocks to my car. Threw my box of shit onto the passenger seat, and the bottom broke. My favourite mug cracked right in half."
"Oh, no. Not the mug." Harry’s tone is perfectly balanced- light enough to validate the tragedy without making fun of it.
"Yeah. A really stupid, cheap mug," Louis sighs, his eyes burning with fresh tears. "Then I put the key in the ignition. Dead. The alternator is completely fried. I sat there for two hours waiting for roadside assistance, but then the city tow truck showed up because I was blocking a clearway."
"Let me guess," Harry says, a faint hint of a rueful smile in his voice. "The driver wasn't exactly a pillar of human kindness?"
"His name was Carl," Louis spits. "He had the personality of a brick wall. He wouldn't even give me a jump-start. Just hooked my car up to the lift. He told me I couldn't ride in the cab with him, so he drove off and left me on the side of the road. And then- then I realised."
Louis stops, a sudden wave of that familiar, hollow panic threatening to rise again. He chokes on his next breath.
"Take your time, Louis. What did you realise?" Harry’s voice is right there, catching him before he could fall back down.
"My keys," Louis whispers, his voice trembling. "My house keys, my building fob, my mailbox keys... they're all sitting in the centre console of my car. Carl towed them away to the North Lot. I have no money to get the car back, Harry. I have fifty pounds in my bank account. Fifty pounds. I can't pay the impound fee, I can't pay a locksmith, and my rent is due in two weeks. I'm completely locked out. I have nowhere to go."
By the end of the sentence, Louis is crying openly- snot and tears spilling over his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He feels incredibly small, incredibly pathetic, a grown man weeping to an emergency dispatcher about a series of stupid, mundane failures.
"I'm sorry," Louis sobs, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye socket. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be wasting your time with this. You have real emergencies to handle. People are probably dying, and I'm here crying about a car and some keys."
"Louis."
Harry’s voice isn't just gentle now, but firm. It has a commanding, steady authority that instantly cuts through Louis' self-pity.
"Listen to me. You are not wasting my time. You were sitting on a pavement hyperventilating to the point of collapse in the middle of a torrential storm. That is a real emergency. Your distress is real, and it matters to me. Do you understand that?"
Louis swallows hard, his breath hitching. "Yeah."
"Good. Now, we’re going to solve this, piece by piece. You and me. But first, I need to know where you are so I can get you out of the cold. Can you tell me what you see around you?"
Louis looks out from under the crumbling brick awning. "I'm... I'm under an awning of an old storefront. It’s boarded up. There's some graffiti on the wood... it says 'The End is Nigh' in green spray paint. Very fitting, honestly."
Harry lets out a soft, low chuckle on the other end of the line, a sound that sends a strange, pleasant shiver right down Louis’ spine. "The universe really went all out for you today, didn't it? Alright, green graffiti. Can you see a street sign? Or a business across the road?"
"There's a closed bakery across the street. 'The Daily Bread'. And I walked down from the Earl's Court tube station... maybe about six blocks south? I think I'm on Richmond Road."
There's a rapid, rhythmic clicking sound on Harry's end as his fingers fly across a computer keyboard. "Okay, I’m pulling up the map now. Richmond Road, south of the station... right, I’ve got your location pinned, Louis."
"What now?" Louis asks, his voice sounding incredibly small. "Are you going to send an ambulance? Because I really don't have time to lie in a hospital now, Harry. I need to find another job befo-"
"No ambulance," Harry interrupts gently, his tone softening to reassure him. "You don't need a hospital, Louis. You just need to get warm, and you need your keys. I’m looking at the dispatch map right now. The storm has caused a lot of minor traffic accidents, so my police units are tied up, but... let me see what I can do."
There's a brief silence on the line, punctuated by more faint keyboard clicking. Louis sits in the quiet, listening to the steady hum of Harry’s breathing on the other end. It's incredibly comforting just knowing the line is active.
"Okay, Louis," Harry says. "Here is the plan. I’m dispatching a non-emergency transport vehicle to your location. It’s not an ambulance, it’s just a standard city service car. They’re going to pick you up, get you out of the rain, and put the heater on full blast. Alright?"
"Really?" Louis struggles to hide the surprise in his voice.
"Really," Harry confirms gently.
"Where are they going to take me?" Louis asks, a faint trace of anxiety returning. "I told you, I can't go home."
"They’re going to take you to the North Lot impound," Harry says smoothly.
Louis blinks, his heart sinking. "Harry, I told you, I don't have the eighty-five quid to get my car back. I can't pay them."
"You won't have to," Harry replies, and Louis can practically hear the small, knowing smirk on his face. "I just put a note in the system under an emergency welfare clause. Since your primary residence keys are locked inside the vehicle and you are at risk of exposure due to the weather, the city is legally obligated to allow you access to the vehicle to retrieve your personal property, free of charge. They can keep the car until you pay the fine, but they have to give you your keys."
Louis stares blankly at the graffiti behind him. The heavy, suffocating knot that has been tight in his chest for the last few hours suddenly, miraculously, completely dissolves. A profound wave of relief washes over him so fast it makes his head spin.
"Are you- are you serious?" Louis breathes, fresh tears slipping down his nose. "They'll just give them to me?"
"They have to," Harry says, his voice warm and incredibly proud. "It’s the law. I’ve already sent the authorisation through to the manager at the lot. His name is Frank. He’s a bit of a grump, but he’ll comply."
Louis lets out a ragged, trembling breath, covering his mouth with his hand. "Harry- I don't even know what to say. You just- you completely saved my life. I was literally ready to just lie down in this puddle and give up," he says, staring at the puddle in front of him.
"You were having a terrible day, Louis. Everyone has a breaking point," Harry says softly. "You just happened to hit yours all at once. But you handled it. You called for help. That’s a brave thing to do."
"Didn't feel brave," Louis mutters, looking down at his wet, ruined shoes. "Felt pathetic."
"Nothing about you is pathetic," Harry says, his tone incredibly earnest. "Now, the transport car is about four minutes away. They're driving a silver Vauxhall. I want you to stay exactly where you are under that awning until you see the flashing yellow hazards, okay?"
"Okay," Louis says. He grips the phone a little tighter. "Harry?"
"Yeah, Louis?"
"Will you- can you stay on the line until they get here? I know you have other calls, but..." He trails off, suddenly embarrassed by how desperately he wants to keep hearing that voice.
There's a short pause on the other end, followed by the faint sound of a heavy chair shifting.
"I’m not going anywhere, Louis," Harry whispers, his voice incredibly soft. "My shift ends in twenty minutes anyway. I’m staying right here until you’re safe in that car."
*****
The radiator in Louis’s living room is ancient. It hisses and occasionally groans like a dying beast, but right now, it's the most beautiful thing Louis has ever heard.
He's curled into a tight ball on his sofa, buried under three separate duvets, two mismatched blankets, and an oversized hoodie he stole from Zayn, his colleague, or well, ex-colleague-turned-boyfriend-of-his-best-friend, three years ago. His hair is damp but clean, smelling faintly of the cheap coconut shower gel he used to scrub the London pavement out of his skin.
On the coffee table lie his house keys, gleaming under the light, right next to the two clean halves of his broken novelty mug. Maybe he can glue them back together?
He's thinking about Harry and how he never got to say goodbye to him, or thank him for that matter. His phone died before the city car got to him, because, of course, it did. But the silver Vauxhall dropped him at the impound lot, where a deeply disgruntled man named Frank unlocked his Ford Fiesta just long enough for Louis to snatch his keys from the centre console. After that, a miserable, hour-long bus ride finally brought him to his building.
Now, the silence of his flat is overwhelming, broken only by the steady drum of rain against the window. It should be comforting, but every time the room grows too quiet, a deep, slow voice drifts through his mind.
“Nothing about you is pathetic.”
Louis stares at his phone, which is currently plugged into the wall, slowly reviving.
A sudden, aggressive pounding on his front door shatters the silence he's been wallowing in.
Louis doesn't move. He digs himself deeper into his duvet burrito. "Go away," he croaks, his voice raw.
The unrelenting pounding continues. "Louis! Open the door, I know you're in there! I can hear your radiator dying!"
With a heavy, dramatic groan, Louis untangles his limbs from the mountain of blankets. He drags his feet across the carpeted floor, pulling the door open just wide enough to glare through the gap.
Liam stands in the hallway, looking disgustingly dry and put-together, holding a damp umbrella. He takes one look at Louis’ hollow eyes and pale face and instantly pushes his way past, forcing Louis to step back.
"Fucking hell, Tommo. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards and then run over by a tractor," Liam says, tossing his umbrella into the sink.
"Good to see you too, Payno. Thanks for the ego boost," Louis mutters, shuffling back towards the sofa and burying himself under the duvets again. "And for the record, I was run over by a delivery van, not a tractor."
Liam turns around, his expression shifting from teasing to genuine concern. He walks over, leaning against the side of the sofa. "Zayn called me. He told me about the budget cuts. He's still at the office, but he asked me to come and check up on you. Said your phone is off."
Louis closes his eyes, pulling a blanket over his nose. "Don't. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I have fifty pounds to my name, my car is in prison, and I am currently mourning the loss of my only source of income. Leave me to decompose in peace."
"Right. Well, you're not decomposing tonight," Liam says firmly, clapping his hands together. "Get up. We're going out."
Louis peeks out from under the blanket, shooting him a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. "Are you mental? Did the rain seep into your brain? I just told you I have fifty pounds. Going out means spending money. Spending money means I can't buy bread next week."
"My treat," Liam counters instantly. "Every bit of it. Drinks, food, the cab there and back. You don’t touch your wallet tonight."
"No." Louis buries his face back into the cushions. "Absolutely not. I appreciate the charity, but I am physically incapable of perceiving light right now. My bones are cold. I’m staying right here until 2027."
"Louis, come on. Sitting in this dark flat wallowing in your self-pity is the worst thing you can do right now," Liam pleads, reaching down to tug at the corner of the duvet. Louis holds onto it with a white-knuckled grip. "Just a couple of pints at the pub down the road. It’ll get your mind off things."
"My mind doesn't want to get off things. It wants to wallow," Louis grumbles, his voice muffled by the fabric. "Go away, Liam. Go find someone who actually has a soul left to save."
"I'm not leaving you here," Liam says, giving a harder tug. The blanket slips an inch. "Look, I know today was a train wreck. But you need a distraction. Just one hour. If you still hate it after one pint, I’ll pay for your cab back and leave you alone for a week."
"One hour in a loud, sticky pub full of people who still have jobs sounds like a literal circle of hell," Louis snaps, poking his head out to glare. "I am wet-blanket material tonight, Liam. I will ruin your night. I will sit in the corner and hiss at people."
"I can handle a bit of hissing," Liam smiles, completely undeterred. He knew Louis’ stubborn streaks better than anyone, which means he knows exactly which buttons to push. "What if I told you that the pub down the street is doing that gourmet burger special tonight? The one with the truffle mayo and the thick-cut chips?"
Louis’ left eyebrow twitches, but he keeps his mouth shut.
"And," Liam continues, leaning in, sensing a crack in his armour, "-if you agree to come out right now, without throwing a tantrum, I will personally transfer you fifty quid. Right now. A loan, a gift, whatever you want to call it. Just so you don't have to look at your bank balance tomorrow morning and panic."
Louis goes entirely still under the blankets. Fifty quid. That would mean he'll have enough to cover the impound fee, and have enough left over to buy bread for the next two weeks. He could toast it, and dip it in coffee. Food is food, and he's in no position to pick and choose right now.
The thing is, fifty quid, combined with a free meal and a free pint? It's an objectively ridiculous offer, one that only a proud idiot would turn down.
Slowly, Louis lowers the blanket to his chin. "Fifty quid?"
"Direct transfer. It’ll hit your account before you’ve even put your trousers on," Liam says, holding up his phone.
Louis stares at him, weighing the profound agony of putting on real clothes against the intense, desperate need for financial survival, then breathes out a long, suffering sigh.
"You are an absolute menace, Liam Payne," Louis mutters, dramatically kicking the duvets off his legs. "Fine. But I’m wearing a jumper that looks like a sack, and if anyone looks at me wrong, I’m throwing a glass at them."
"Deal," Liam laughs, already tapping at his banking app. "Go get changed. First pint is calling."
Twenty minutes later, Louis is tucked into a leather booth at the pub only three blocks from his flat. True to his word, he's wearing an oversized light blue sweatshirt which practically swallows his hands while his hair stays perfectly hidden under a beanie.
The pub, to his great relief, is not overwhelmingly busy, and he relaxes, breathing in the comforting smell of woodsmoke and fried food.
Louis allows himself to be coddled, enjoying the attention of Liam and Zayn, who joined them straight after work. He deserves it after his day from hell, thank you very much.
He breathes out a soft sigh, content that the fifty quid Liam promised to pay him now lies in his account, ready to be paid over to the city to release his car first thing tomorrow morning. His face lightens up the moment a massive plate of burger and chips is set down in front of him, and he digs in immediately. This might be the last decent meal of his life, seeing as he'll be living off bread for the foreseeable future.
The Guinness he's been nurturing, slowly but surely, starts working its magic, and he hates to admit it- even if it is only to himself- but that heavy, suffocating knot that manifested itself in his chest all afternoon is finally beginning to dull.
"See? I told you," Liam says, leaning back and draping his arm over Louis' shoulders while taking a sip of his own drink. "All we needed was some colour back in these cheeks, and you don't look like a corpse anymore," he adds, bringing his hand to Louis' face to softly pinch his cheek.
Louis snorts out a soft laugh then. "Don't push your luck, Payno," he says, twirling his now empty pint glass on the sticky coaster. "I'm still technically unemployed and entirely broken."
Liam pulls him closer. "We'll start looking at listings tomorrow, yeah?" he says easily. "Tonight we drink, okay?"
If Louis does end up dying sometime soon, he'll leave this earth with the knowledge that he has the absolute best friends in the entire world. No jokes.
"I'll go get the next round," he hears Liam saying when the weight of his arm suddenly disappears from his shoulders. "Another Guinness for you?" he asks, starting to slide out of the booth.
Louis stops him by grabbing his forearm. "Let me go," he says, sliding out on his end. "I need to stretch my legs a bit anyway."
Liam smiles at him then. He fidgets with his wallet and pulls out his card, handing it to Louis. "Knock yourself out."
Louis grins, shoving it into his pocket. "Don't mind if I do," he says, giggling when Liam's only reply is the way he rolls his eyes.
Walking towards the bar, Louis navigates through the small group of locals standing near the taps and manages to find a small gap between a rather big-looking lad in a rugby shirt and a guy with a man-bun and a jawline to die for.
He blinks a few times and looks away the moment the man starts turning his head. The absolute last thing he wants is to be caught staring while looking like a homeless person. He leans against the brass rail of the bar, waiting his turn, and only looks at the man again when someone pushes him and his shoulder accidentally brushes against Louis'.
"Sorry about that," the man murmurs, his voice low.
Louis freezes, though.
It can't be. Can it? Is he busy losing his mind? God, he probably is. He's been thinking about Harry all afternoon while wrapped up in his cocoon of self-pity, wishing there was a way he could thank him for all he's done for him today. To be fair, Louis knows the man was only doing his job, but in that moment, it was everything to Louis.
He had thought about calling 9-9-9 again, and if Harry didn't answer, he'd politely ask whoever to patch him through to him, but quickly decided against it, since the number is for emergencies.
Fuck his phone for dying at the most inconvenient time ever. Would it really have been the end of the world for its battery to last only a few minutes longer, or at least just long enough to say goodbye?
This is not Harry, Louis. Stop it.
Mr Jawline smiles at him, and Louis can't help it when his eyes suddenly focus on the deep dimple carving into his cheek when he does.
Louis blinks a few times before looking up, only to find Mr Jawline still staring at him.
"Someone seems to have had one too many already," the man says, gesturing with his head to the man who bumped into him, and Louis suddenly feels like the earth has stopped spinning.
The world around him- the clinking of glasses, the laughter from the rowdy bunch in the darts corner, the music that somehow still manages to blare over everything else- it all seems to vanish in an instant.
Louis is not imagining things. He simply isn't. He'd know that deep, slow voice anywhere. He would. God only knows it was the only thing he held onto mere hours ago- the one thing that was the calm in the literal storm that is his life.
He recalls Harry's words, "I am right here with you," playing through his mind on a never-ending loop while mentally rehashing everything he's been through earlier that day.
He can't believe it. This simply can't be. He's just not lucky enough to meet his Harry like this. Well, not his Harry, but the Harry that quite literally saved his life. The Harry whose voice is so calming, and grounding and just bloody perfect. No, Louis is overthinking it. He is. There's no way this is his Harry. The universe would never be this kind to him.
"Just a pint of the local pale ale, please, Ni," Mr Jawline tells the bartender, who nods his assent and gets busy.
Louis continues to watch him, overly aware that he's being a borderline creep right now, but he can't bring himself to look away. Every time Mr Jawline speaks, Louis is more convinced than before that this is the very same voice he clung to for dear life only hours ago.
When Mr Jawline notices him staring, he doesn't call Louis out for it, but smiles instead.
God, he's so beautiful. He's probably used to people staring at him like they're two seconds away from devouring his entire face.
"One pale ale, H," the bartender suddenly speaks when sliding the glass over the bar top. "I'll join you in a bit," he continues, but all Louis can focus on now is the fact that he called this beautiful man H, and that's all Louis' mind needs to convince himself that he's not imagining things because H could very well stand for Harry.
His Harry.
It's when Mr Jawline speaks again, telling the bartender, "Take your time, Ni. You know where to find me. Not going anywhere," that Louis blinks himself out of his daze.
His breath feels like it's caught in his throat, because this is his Harry. It has to be. He said those exact words, or, well, a version of it, to Louis earlier, and Louis would recognise them anywhere when spoken by that deep and grounding voice.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
Louis keeps staring, his mouth slightly open as the entire universe narrows down to the side-profile of the man standing beside him, and before he could even think about it, his hand is flying up, reaching for Mr Jawline's forearm, stopping him in his tracks when he starts turning to leave.
"Harry?" he whispers.