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It's a week into his first semester at college when Louis finds out his roommate is famous.
Harry Styles? You mean the Harry Styles?" Niall from comp sci for non-majors asks, looking at Louis like he just told him that his roommate was a pop star.
""I don't think there's a the in front of his name," Louis says. "Just Harry Styles."
"Don't say just Harry Styles!" Niall is horrified. "He's a fucking grandmaster, man! Someone told me was going here but I didn’t believe them.”
Louis stares at Niall blankly because what the fuck is a grandmaster?
Harry, the purportedly famous roommate, is sitting cross-legged on his bed when Louis gets back, cat in his lap, watching Friends on his laptop.
Up until today, the most remarkable thing about Louis' roommate was that he was hot. Not that Louis wanted to get in his pants or anything – even Louis could recognize that that was a particularly bad idea, and Harry was probably straight anyway.
Louis took one look at Harry, standing in the middle of their tiny dorm room with its odd angles and exposed pipes and no windows because somebody decided to squeeze it in the basement, right up against the boiler room and thought that he was sure to be some asshole fuck boy who brought back different girls every night.
Except, Harry hadn't been. He'd smiled, sweetly and a bit shyly, at Louis and stuck out a hand. Harry's hands were slightly too big for his body in a way that made Louis wonder if he was still growing into his adult height.
"I'm Harry," he said easily. "Do you care which bed you have?"
And Louis hadn't, because both mattresses had strange stains and were probably equally spring-y so he'd picked left and Harry had picked right.
"Should I be getting your autograph?" Louis asks without preamble.
It takes a few seconds for the words to process. Harry smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "So you know now."
Even though he’s still smiling, there’s a slight sense of melancholy in his words, like this conversation is the end of something.
"You're a grandmaster? When were you going to tell me you’re a fucking grandmaster?" Louis asks, like he actually knew what a grandmaster was before an hour ago.
Not only a grandmaster, Louis learned on the walk back from Schafer Commons to his dorm. Harry was the third youngest grandmaster in the country. He'd been eleven and a handful of months when he achieved the title, and the pictures online all show a smiley, curly haired, doe-eyed kid with all his baby fat. At eleven, Louis' biggest accomplishment was being able to make those origami fortune tellers.
Harry shrugs and scratches Casper the cat's head. "I didn't think it was that important. Don't really do that anymore, so."
"We played twenty questions," Louis whines.
It was like the first thing they did, while they both unpacked their boxes and pretended they weren't homesick and anxious. Louis learned great facts about Harry, like that he had four nipples (sexy?), that he like Louis was undecided on what to major in except not math (obviously), and that once when he was at the pool his swim trunks came down on the slide and his entire class saw (lucky them).
"You didn't ask for my FIDE ELO rating," Harry protests, scratching Casper behind the ears where he likes it.
"Your what what?" Louis asks, but then decides he's already learned way too much today about a game he doesn't give a shit about. "Hey, budge over, I like this episode."
Harry grins, like Louis just said exactly what he wanted him to say and moves over on his bed to make room for Louis. Louis settles in besides him and Casper (because he's a friendly cat) climbs onto Louis' lap to provide some emotional support.
In the morning, Louis has more important things to worry about than chess (namely that he's late for his first year English seminar with mandatory attendance). Then, he just sort of forgets about the whole grandmaster thing until Thursday when Niall catches him after class.
"So when are you going to introduce me, dude?" Niall asks and Louis looks side to side for the person Niall might want introduced to.
"To who?"
"Harry Styles," Niall says, like someone might say Tom Cruise or Barack Obama.
Truth be told, Louis is not sure he ever wants to introduce Niall to Harry. He and Niall aren’t even proper friends yet. They’re still in the stage where they’re classmates who walk together after class, but don’t actually hang out, and Louis is highly suspicious Niall won’t be one bit chill about meeting Harry.
"His feet literally smell like blue cheese," Louis says. "I don't know why you're so obsessed with him."
Louis quite likes Harry, but he also doesn't like the way Niall talks about him like he's a god and not a human being.
"He's legendary," Niall explains. "Literally, Louis, you should watch some of his matches. They’re all on YouTube, and you can follow along with the official game records. So fucking cool.”
Louis can think of about a thousand more cool things than watching a probably boring game he can’t play and doesn’t understand, but he just nods because he thinks it’ll get Niall to shut up faster.
Someone in the quad is wearing a shirt with Harry’s face on it and Louis’ head might be about to explode. It’s not just Harry’s face, they’ve got the faces of other famous chess players too. Louis squints and, fuck, the person wearing the shirt is Niall, Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s Saturday and Louis and Harry are at the club fair because they’ve decided they need more of a social life than watching Friends on Harry’s laptop and door-dashing fast food. They’ve already signed up for a couple of clubs – the MarioKart club, the outdoor adventures club, and (at Harry’s insistence) the cooking club.
They were heading down another row when they both spotted the chess club booth. It was hard to miss because they’ve brought inflatable chess pieces.
“Oh my god,” Harry says, entire face red. “That’s me. Oh my god, Louis, you have to save me.”
Louis smirks. “Wanna go introduce yourself to your fan club, Harold?”
Harry sends him a death glare, but it’s interrupted when one of the chess players looks their way and Harry jumps behind Louis, hunching over. It doesn’t really do much to hide Harry, though, because he’s taller and broader than Louis. Louis takes matters into his own hands, though, grabbing Harry’s wrist and dragging him back the way he came.
When they’re far enough away, Louis turns on Harry. “You really are famous. I kind of thought Niall was just fucking with me.”
Harry shurgs. “Fame’s relative. Most people have never heard of me.”
Which, fair, but also no one is putting Louis' head on a shirt. Well, maybe his mom who got a custom printed shirt of him as a toddler for his high school graduation, but that doesn't count.
They skip that aisle and end up down the next when Louis sees the booth for Prism, the LGBT campus group.
“I’m going to sign up for Prism,” Louis says. “Over there.”
Louis points in the general direction of the booth which is hard to miss since they’ve got every pride flag imaginable hanging off of it, and all the club members are wearing rainbow shirts.
"Oh," Harry says. "That's cool. Really. Um, good idea."
And the thing is, Louis never really came out to Harry, but he figured Harry just knew. Most people just assume Louis is gay, something that used to bother him and still does sometimes. Even if Harry had the world's worst gaydar, though, Louis has a huge pride sticker on his laptop and spent the entire movie night their RA held last night talking about how sexy he thought Deadpool was.
"Yep, super cool," Louis says. "You want to come?"
"I don't know?" Harry says, looking down at his shoes and – oh. Harry thinks Louis is asking him if he's queer.
"No," Louis says, backtracking because he's not trying to confront Harry about his sexuality on the quad, in a crowd of hundreds of freshmen, at least two of whom are wearing shirts with Harry's face on them. "No, I just mean do you want to walk over with me to sign up. Not like, anything."
Harry's face clears and he smiles, bright like the sun peeking through. "Okay."
So Louis signs up and Harry watches him and then, when Louis is starting to walk away, he hurriedly scribbles down his name too. Maybe Louis doesn't know anything because he's only known Harry for two weeks now, but it feels like a big moment.
Louis doesn't say anything, though, and instead of talking about it they go over to a Women in Statistics booth that's giving out free ice cream despite them neither being women or interested in statistics.
Louis drips strawberry ice cream down his shirt because he’s a slob, and Harry gets him extra napkins to help him clean up. Harry’s hand feels nice on Louis’ chest, solid and large, and Louis hopes his heart isn’t beating too fast and that Harry doesn’t notice, but he probably does.
"I felt like a doll," Harry says and Louis blinks at him quizzically.
He isn’t sure if Harry isn’t making any sense or if Louis' brain has turned to mush. It’s late (or early morning, really, because in another hour the sun is going to rise) and they are both sleep drunk, having stayed up all night doing nothing and talking about nothing.
"Huh?"
"Back then," Harry says. "I felt like I wasn't a real person. Like I was just a marionette and all that really mattered was that I could play a fucking boardgame."
They're both sitting on the floor, empty snack bags spread around them. Harry's curled in on himself, back against his bed, picking at a string on the blue rug Louis' mom bought at Marshall's.
“Oh,” Louis says, and he watches Harry blink heavily and wonders how they got so serious so fast.
Casper nuzzles against Harry’s side because he’s a good cat and provides emotional support even if Harry and his sister Gemma faked the certificate online. Louis reaches out and pinches Harry’s cheek.
Harry bats him away. “What was that for?”
Louis grins at Harry. “Proving you’re real, Curly. And you are. One hundred percent real.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re weird, Lou.”
“So says the grandmaster.”
Harry’s face falls. “Yeah.”
Louis feels bad and he knows he’s said the wrong thing because Harry’s looking sad. He’s too sleepy to correct it though, so he just draws Harry into a hug. Harry folds into him even though he's bigger, resting his forehead in the curve of Louis' neck. Louis runs his hand through Harry's hair, tugging on particularly bouncy curls.
"Lou?" Harry says, breath hot against Louis' shoulder.
"Yeah?"
"You're my best friend," Harry says, barely above a whisper.
It's hasn't even been a month, but something surges in Louis' chest. "Mine too," he whispers and it feels like the truth.
Louis goes to the library because he needs to work on his first English paper that's due in two days and somehow ends up watching videos of Harry on his laptop.
Harry's fourteen, hair cropped short so you can't even really tell it's curly. He's at an awkward stage with braces and acne on his chin that clashes with the suit and tie he's wearing. He's sitting at the board before a man four times his age, face clenched in concentration.
Louis knows next to nothing about chess, but he can tell Harry's playing his fucking heart out.
"What a match," says a voice and Louis turns around to see one of the librarians standing behind him. "Wait for the endgame."
"You know this game?" Louis asks and the man smiles and nods.
"Used to follow all of Styles' matches. We really thought he was the next thing back then. Such a shame. What a waste," the librarian says, sighing.
And all of a sudden, Louis is irrationally angry at this man who's talking about Harry like he's dead when in fact Louis just saw him three hours ago in the dorm, very much alive. Louis feels his temper rising, rising, rising because Harry is more than just fucking chess - can't these people see it?
"Excuse me," Louis says and runs to the bathroom because if he yells at this librarian, there's a decent chance he'll get his financial aid revoked.
Here is what Louis learns from Niall: Harry Styles left mid-tournament. He played a game against one of his greatest rivals, a British boy named Zayn Malik and Harry pulled off a swift turnaround in endgame. Afterwards, there was some benefit dinner everyone attended and then they all went back to their rooms. The next morning, Harry Styles was gone.
There had been rumors of sudden illnesses and dying family members and attempted overdoses. Eventually, though, the truth came out – Harry just didn't want to play chess anymore. He'd played since he was three and was tired of it. When Harry pulled out, Zayn played in his stead and ended up winning the entire tournament.
"It was crazy, man," Niall says, stuffing half a bagel in his mouth. "Biggest news since Bobby Fischer fucked off to Russia."
Louis isn't sure who that is, and he doesn't really care to know.
Louis realized pretty early on that Harry didn't want to talk about the grandmaster thing. He never came out and said it – that wasn't Harry's way – but he'd get moody and monosyllabic, not really meeting Louis' eyes. Louis hated Harry like that. He liked him best when he was chatty and goofy and giggly, so pretty quickly he stopped bringing up chess at all. It wasn't much skin off Louis' back because even after watching a little bit (several hours actually) of footage of Harry playing, he couldn't fucking figure out the game.
They talked about everything else though. Stupid shit like what was the best kind of Cheezits and who in their dorm was responsible for the unflushed toilets. Less stupid shit like their runaway dads and alcoholic stepfathers and how it felt to listen to their moms crying the room over. They talked about everything in between too.
Louis wasn't sure when it happened, but they started structuring their lives around each other. In the morning, Harry would go to breakfast early with Louis even though his first class wasn't until eleven. After Intro to Psychology, Louis would wait around in the library for Harry because his last class didn't end for another forty-five minutes. Harry started doing all the laundry for both of them because he didn't mind, really Lou, and the washers hate Louis anyway, they really do. In exchange, Louis buys Harry his favorite chips and cookies at the campus store.
It's fucking domestic, is what it is. They're more domestic than Louis and his high school boyfriend were, and they don't even kiss. Which is fine, totally fine, Louis couldn't care less. He's lucky to have Harry as his best friend, nothing more.
Until October, the one thing they don't do together is Prism. Louis goes to the meetings every Wednesday night in the basement of Schafer Commons, and Harry waits for him in the library finishing up his homework. It doesn't bother Louis – by this point he's pretty sure Harry isn't straight, but doesn't want to push the issue. Harry will tell him when he's ready.
Prism is having a Halloween party at the end of October. Louis because he's an idiot volunteers to make brownies before remembering that he 1) lives in a dorm where the only kitchen is shared between forty students and 2) doesn't know how to cook anything that isn't microwavable to save his life. Thankfully, Harry actually likes baking (is he insane?) and offers to help Louis. They spend all of Thursday night in the kitchen taking way longer than the side of the box claims. Louis' only contribution is licking the bowl clean, but it's a hard job, really.
They're both covered in brownie batter by the time Harry takes them out of the oven wearing a mitt with a questionable stain he found in the cabinet. They smell delicious, and Louis wonders if they can possibly just eat them tonight. Harry sets the brownies on the stove to cool and turns off the oven.
"Um, Lou," Harry says suddenly. "D'you think, I mean. What if I came too?"
He looks up from the brownies, green eyes meeting Louis'. He's not just asking about coming to the Halloween party.
"Hazza," Louis says gently, suddenly not thinking about the brownies even though they smell delicious.
"Um-" Harry says. "Um, you know -"
He gulps and doesn't say anything more. Louis pats his shoulder tentatively. He's been here, was here three days after his freshman homecoming dance, bawling his eyes out on his mom's bed. "You don't have to say anything," Louis says.
"I want to," Harry says. "I just...it just doesn't want to come out."
Louis giggles at the turn of phrase. It's bad timing, but nobody ever said he had good timing now did they?
"Heeeeeeey," Harry whines, stepping closer to step on Louis' toes. "What's that for?"
"You're just funny," Louis says. Harry pouts, suddenly very close with lips that are just begging Louis to kiss them.
"I'm not trying to be funny."
"You have a talent for it, then. Don't even need to try, Haz."
"You're being mean," Harry says, but he's giggling. They're breathing the same air now, not much separating them. "Hey Lou?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we just skip this part so I can kiss you?" Harry asks so quickly Louis almost doesn't understand what he's saying. "Please."
Louis is still laughing when he leans forward, closing the distance between them. There's still icing on Harry's upper lip from the cupcakes one of the girls brought, and his lips are chapped and peeling slightly. It doesn't matter though. It's still the best kiss Louis has ever had.
It turns out dating Harry isn't that much different than being best friends with Harry. They do the same things they've always done, just with more kissing and fumbling and hopefully maybe someday sex.
Louis has a review session for his comp sci midterm that goes late. By the time it's over, it's past nine and his brain is overflowing with for loops and while loops, and he's realizing he doesn't even know what the hell recursion even is. On the way back, he stops at the noodles place on the corner and gets their favorite takeout because, fuck it, he needs carbs.
When he gets back, he finds Harry curled up on Louis' bed, blanket draped around his shoulders. Only Harry's desk lamp is on leaving the room dim and shadowy.
"Harry?" Louis asks, turning on his own desk lamp and setting the food down on his desk.
"Hi Lou," Harry says, voice slightly hoarse.
"Y'okay? You aren't sick, are you?"
Harry shakes his head and sniffs. "No."
He looks up at Louis with big, bloodshot raccoon eyes. He's not sick – he's been crying. In an instant, Louis is on the bed, pulling Harry to him. He smooths Harry's curls gently. "Did something happen? Are your mom and Gemma okay?"
Harry nods vigorously. "They're fine. It's stupid, really," he sniffs again. "'M being a baby."
"No, babe, you're not," Louis soothes. "Tell me."
Harry pulls back, shrinking in on himself. He fumbles in the half-light for his laptop and turns it around to face Louis. The screen shows a boy bent in concentration over a chess board. His black hair's falling in his face, but Louis recognizes him from Harry's matches. A few years older, but it's unmistakably Zayn Malik.
"He won," Harry says. "And I know I should be happy for him and all, but 'm just sad."
"Hazza," Louis says soothingly. "That's okay."
Harry covers a sob. "Does that make me a bad person?"
"'Course not," Louis says. "You're the nicest guy I know."
For a few minutes they're silent. Louis braids Harry's curls like he used to do to his sisters while Harry rests his head on his chest. His tears dry up, but his eyes are still red-rimmed.
"C'mon," Louis says when Harry's breaths have steadied. "I brought food. My mom always says food makes everything better."
Harry perks up, giving Lou a smile that brightens his tear-streaked face. The noodles are only lukewarm so Louis heats them up in the microwave. They sit cross-legged on Louis' bed, eating from their respective containers and passing an order of cream cheese wontons back and forth between them. Louis fills the silence with mindless chatter about comp sci and his music theory class and the new station they opened at the dining hall that serves "artisan" pizza. Harry laughs along, not adding much.
They've reached a lull when Harry says dully, "I don't regret it."
"Regret what, Haz?"
Harry swallows another bite of his drunken noodles. "Quitting chess. Felt like I couldn't breathe, you know? Like I was trapped, Lou."
Harry shakes his head and Louis nods for him to continue. "I miss it though, you know? I just couldn't live like that anymore."
"I'm sorry, baby," Louis says, leaning forward to press a kiss to Harry's ducked forehead. He thinks of that boy in the photos, small and wide-eyed and too old for his years. How he sat before grown adults with kids older than him, poised and professional. He can't imagine that boy had much time to be a child.
After that, the dam breaks. Harry starts telling Louis stories about chess matches and the weird people he met. He tells him about all the tournaments, funny stories about running wild in hotels in far off countries like Egypt and Romania. He admits that he used to puke before every match he was so nervous, that it had became almost a ritual at some point. Louis' chest tightens at that.
Harry finally meets Niall after spending most of the semester avoiding him. Niall looks like he literally wants to prostrate himself at Harry's feet, but settles for getting him to sign his laptop in silver sharpie.
"Dude, I'm never, ever, ever getting rid of this," he tells Louis the next day, clutching it to his chest.
Louis just rolls his eyes.
"I'm going to teach you someday," Harry says the first week back from Christmas break lying curled into Louis' side, dopey and sated.
The day comes in April when they're walking through the quad hand in hand. Louis isn't really paying attention because he's mid-rant about the injustice of having a problem set due and an exam to sit on the same fucking day – the horror – when Harry stops them in front of a table. Laid out is a chess set, waiting for a game.
Louis squeezes Harry's hand three times in quick succession and then, something in Harry's expression clears.
"Lou, want to learn?" his voice is light, not ringed with the usual resentment, guilt, and longing.
And there was a time when Louis did not give two fucks about chess. There was a time when he was sure there were few things more boring than abstract strategy games. That was before he met Harry, this wonderful boy who just so happens to be a grandmaster.
"Obviously," Louis says. He grins and takes a seat at the table.