Mine Would Be You

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/24860842.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: One Direction (Band)
Relationship: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Characters: Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, Nick
Grimshaw, Xander Ritz
Additional Tags: American AU, Non-Linear Narrative, Heavily inspired by Jason Robert
Brown's The Last Five Years, Exes to Lovers, Artist Harry, Writer Louis
Tomlinson, OT5 Friendship (One Direction), side Ziam, tomlinshaw
friendship, Listen I hate that Xander is in it too, no cheating I promise, Break
Up, Getting Back Together, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, you're gonna
suffer, but be happy about it!, Pining, Like these two LOVE EACH OTHER,
Falling In Love, New York City, lots of discussions about being creative, and
being a success, and how do you balance the two, when two creatives are in
love!, time jumps, Okay fun tags!, Blond Niall, Brunette Niall, Louis
Tomlinson is Harry Styles' Muse, that's an actual tag!, harry is louis' baby,
Thank you Harry and Louis for the albums, So much material!, Smut, Hand
Jobs, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, some D/s undertones, Anal Sex, Ex Sex,
Emotional Fucking, Happy Ending, like the HAPPIEST ENDING
Language: English
Collections: One Direction Big Bang Round 3, Fav Real People Fics, Larry fics, future
read?, comfort fics
Stats: Published: 2020-06-23 Words: 114,698 Chapters: 15/15
 Mine Would Be You
by crinkle-eyed-boo (KimmieRocks)

Summary

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several
gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait
Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one
painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the
rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the
fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d
never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He
didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they
like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if
history repeated itself?

Notes

WOW OKAY!

I've had concept for this fic, in addition to the opening 2 present day scenes, in my head since 2005,
I had just never been able to wrap my head around how to execute it. For some reason, the whole
concept really rose to the forefront of my mind when it came to committing to something for the
Big Bang and I knew in my soul that the time for this story had finally come. I still can't believe it's
here. There were times I genuinely didn't think I would make my posting date, and I have a village
to thank for helping me get here.

Once again, my work would not be here without the amazing disgruntledkittenface. From sitting
down with me in your basement as we wrote out scenes on index cards and arranged them on
posterboard to the very last word of the epilogue, you have been by my side the whole time. Thank
you for your ability to see the big picture, how you are able to make me get out of my own way,
and for how you ALWAYS know what I'm trying to do and your immeasurable skill in helping me
articulate it. I love creating with you. I never want to stop creating with you, for as long as you will
have me. DREAM TEAM.

My fic clique: Sage, Sarah, Shannon, and Gillian. You are the wind beneath my wings. Thank you
for supporting me every step of the way, from pushing me with lockdown writing marathons to
knock me out of pandemic depression to every single time you told me to FUCK OFF while
reading this, thank you for being the world's best gut check.
 Thank you to the Big Bang mods, Lauren, Emmu, and Becca, for both organizing the fest AND for
working with me when I came to them saying I needed help. Thank you for giving me the time to
get this baby together, I will never forget your kindness.

Sixtine!! Your art is fucking beautiful. It's everything I had no idea I wanted for this fic, and I want
it on my walls. It's been so lovely working with you, thank you for being the MOST supportive
when I was a disaster, and for always cheering me on and telling me I could do this. You are
wonderful and so talented.

Title comes from the song "Mine Would Be You" written by Jessi Alexander (and recorded by
Blake Shelton, but he's trash, so let's give the writer the credit.) You can find a Spotify playlist for
this fic here.

Please note that I do not allow translations, nor do I give permission to post this on other fic sites.
(Looking at you, Wattpad)

See the end of the work for more notes

Translation into Italiano available: Mine Would Be You (Italian Translation) by Sweet_CreatureHL
Translation into Русский available: Mine Would Be You by tomlinslay
 Chapter 1

Louis doesn’t belong here.

He takes a long swig of his Peroni as he surveys the bustling SoHo art gallery, hoping the alcohol
will quell the anxiety fluttering in his stomach. Even though he knows he shouldn’t, he starts
comparing his outfit to everyone else’s. This gallery is much more hipstery than the ones he once
frequented, the opening night crowd’s fashion taste running the gamut from quirky to flamboyant
and everything in between; logic would dictate that he fits right in, that no one would give him a
second glance. He knows that. Still, Louis can’t help but wonder if people are judging him,
thinking he’s underdressed in his simple polo and track pants.

Well, fuck them if they are. He didn’t know Zayn would be dragging him to a fucking art show
tonight when he got dressed this morning and his track pants are Gucci, goddammit.

Louis takes another gulp of beer, swallowing hard as he sweeps his hair aside and smooths it back
into place. The bottle is cold in his hand and a little wet from condensation; he scrapes at the label
with his thumb as he scans the crowd, looking for his friend. They’d lost each other almost as soon
as they set foot inside, Louis turning down the proffered glasses of champagne and wine from the
waiters clustered by the door, opting to head straight to the bar, while Zayn presumably went in
search of the mystery man that brought them to this gallery in the first place.
Louis was shocked when Zayn suggested over lunch that they hit a gallery after work, before their
traditional Friday night drinks. Not because Zayn wasn’t into art, because he was, but Zayn was
also an introvert, often preferring his manuscripts over people. He just never struck Louis as the
type to hit the scene where he’d have to expend all sorts of social energy making small talk and
pretending to be happy to see people. Louis never thought he would be in this position in the first
place, having to rip open old wounds that never truly healed, ones that he definitely never talked
about. Wounds that he definitely couldn’t discuss over salads and sandwiches in the editors’
lounge.

So Louis had just tried to talk Zayn out of it instead, claiming that SoHo was in the opposite
direction from both their usual bar and their respective apartments. But Zayn wouldn’t budge,
proclaiming not to understand what the big fucking deal was. They’d gone back and forth for a
while, neither one of them willing to give in. Eventually, Zayn broke down and admitted the reason
he was so set on going was that the man he’d just started seeing had invited him to “swing by.”
They only needed to be there for an hour and then they could go, Zayn had assured him; he only
needed just enough time to chat without seeming overly available. Louis didn’t even have to
wingman; he’d be free to just enjoy the free food and booze and offer moral support, just in case. It
was the silent plea in his friend’s deep brown eyes after he’d exhausted all his arguments that
finally convinced Louis; he’d caved, agreeing to set foot into an arena that five years ago he’d
sworn up and down that he never would again.

Because at least one of them should have the chance to get laid some time in the near future.

Besides, it’s not Zayn’s fault that his new crush apparently works in an art gallery.

Louis just needs to put his game face on and get through it. He can do this. He’s not a kid
struggling to make ends meet anymore; he’s an established adult in his thirties and he’s put the past
behind him. He has. He can play the game and pretend he fits in here for an hour. No sweat.

After all, he used to do this all the time. Even though, if he’s being truly honest with himself, which
he does try to be these days, he was never good at this whole scene. He was never good at staring at
a square of canvas painted yellow with one black square in the middle and calling it art,
deconstructing the composition, trying to decipher what the artist was trying to say and how it
made him “feel.”

Stupid. It always made him feel stupid. Like he was on the outside of some joke, like he was the
only one who couldn’t see the brilliance in a painting that very easily could be hanging on his
mom’s refrigerator.

He fucking hated it.

Louis sighs as a waiter stops in front of him, offering up a tray of tuna tartare wontons. He plucks
one off the tray, accepting a cocktail napkin from the waiter with a tight smile. Louis pops it in his
mouth, humming appreciatively as the flavors of sesame and ginger explode on his tongue. He
wipes his fingers and dabs his lips with his napkin, balling it up in his fist once he’s done, looking
for a trash can.

That’s another thing that always made him nuts about these things: all the finger foods and cocktail
napkins and nary a trash can in sight. He drains his beer and stuffs his napkin down the neck of the
bottle, making his way back to the bar, sighing heavily as he weaves his way through the crowd.
He truly thought that he had put all of this behind him, locking all of those feelings up in a box,
never to be opened again. But all it took was setting one foot in an art gallery for all the insecurities
to just come roaring back full force.

Apparently imposter syndrome is something that never really goes away, and besides, he’s way out
of the practice of trying to fit in amongst the glitterati of New York City.

Louis reaches the bar, placing the empty bottle on the countertop and signaling to the slightly
harried bartender that he’d like another. The bartender quickly hands him another bottle; Louis
smiles gratefully, sliding a five dollar bill across the bar and earning an equally grateful smile in
return. Louis knows that these guys usually have a built-in gratuity at the end of the night, but it
still always makes him a little nuts to see them working their asses off for no tips. He salutes the
bartender with his bottle and turns back to the gallery.

It’s some sort of collaborative show tonight, the styles of paintings too varied to have come from
just one artist. Some of the art is the modern shit he always hated, but there’s also a fair amount of
still lifes and portraits. Those were always the types of paintings that spoke to him, the types of
paintings that gave little glimpses of humanity, capturing moments rather than vague concepts.
Louis drifts over in the direction of those paintings, his interest piqued. Maybe he should have
grabbed the rate sheet at the door after all; his new apartment is in sore need of some decoration
after only a month back in New York.

“Mini avocado toast, sir?”

Louis turns to the young waitress who’s suddenly appeared by his side, wrinkling his nose in
disgust at the tray in her hands. Of course they are serving avocado toast. He hates avocado toast,
or moreso, he doesn’t understand why everyone is so fucking obsessed with it all of the sudden.

“No, thanks,” Louis replies, not unkindly. His stomach growls loudly and the waitress giggles.
“You don’t have anything a little more substantial around here, do you?”

“He’s got sliders over there,” the waitress replies, leaning in conspiratorially and tilting her head,
indicating the waiter about to disappear around the corner, his tray half full of mini cheeseburgers.
“I’d move fast if I were you; you know how people can get at these things.”

“Fucking vultures,” Louis chuckles, taking a swig of beer. “Thanks.”

The waitress smiles and nods, stepping aside and offering up the tray of disgusting toast to her next
unsuspecting victims. Eyes on the prize, Louis quickly weaves his way through the crowd in
pursuit of the waiter with the sliders. He can practically taste them as he rounds the corner, stepping
into the airy gallery space, his eyes scanning the room.

That’s when he sees it.

He freezes in place, shock rushing through his veins like ice water. All thoughts of sliders instantly
vanish from his mind, his stomach plummeting to the floor as he gapes at the sight of his twenty-
five-year old self gazing back at him from its mount on the wall.

Holy fucking shit.

Louis inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut.

He’s making this up, right? He’s dreaming, he has to be. There’s no fucking way that his portrait is
on display in this gallery. Because that would mean…

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several
gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait
Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one
painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the
rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the
fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if
he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Every single instinct Louis has is screaming at him to just get the fuck out of there, but he stays
rooted into place, utterly transfixed by the paintings. He may not know much about art but he does
know that Harry’s portrait work is fucking brilliant. It always has been. At the risk of sounding like
Rose DeWitt Bukater, Harry sees people. His paintings have a visceral quality about them that
draws the viewer in immediately; he has a true gift when it comes to capturing the emotions of his
subjects, making his work feel intimate yet voyeuristic at the same time. Louis hasn’t allowed
himself to think about these moments in years but all it takes is one glance at the paintings to have
everything come rushing back, feeling as if it was merely yesterday.

The first painting, the one that changed everything, is the only one he ever formally sat for. Louis
remembers how fucking nervous he was and how they had talked until Louis relaxed, naturally
making a pose that caught Harry’s eye. His right arm is crossed over his torso, gripping his left
bicep, showcasing the bird tattooed on his forearm and his naked wrist. His shoulders are slightly
hunched, causing the scoop of his t-shirt to dip low, displaying his collarbones and chest piece,
while his head is tilted to the side, his eyes looking up through his lashes with a soft, fond smile
quirking his lips. To this day, Louis has no idea how Harry captured this expression other than
through some sort of artist witchcraft.

Or maybe Louis was just that gone for him, right from the start. He could never hide it.

Heat rushes to Louis’ cheeks and he takes a long gulp of beer as his eyes drift to the next painting.
He’s naked in bed, laying on his side and propped up on his elbow to accentuate his curves, only
the smallest section of a pale blue sheet draped over his hips to preserve his modesty. There’s a coy
smirk on his face and his eyes sparkling teasingly as his hand grips the sheet, leaving it up to the
viewer to decide if he’s covering himself up or about to expose himself.

Louis unconsciously rubs his wrist as he looks at the middle painting, his fingers tracing the path of
his rope tattoo. He’s looking over his shoulder in this one, smiling so hard his eyes have crinkled
shut while his right arm reaches back, the rope tattoo fresh on his wrist, the skin around it tinged
slightly pink. His fingertips brush those of the outstretched left hand in the foreground of the
painting, the ink of corresponding anchor stark against pale skin. He doesn’t need to look at the
little square to the left painting displaying its title; he could never forget it, the words forever
burned into his brain and inked into his skin.

Tied Up Like Two Ships.

Louis swallows hard, his throat tightening. It was the only time Harry had ever inserted himself
into one of his paintings.

He can’t remember the moment that inspired the fourth painting because it could have been any
number of events, all of the gallery openings and parties blurring together until there was just a
haze of misery. Louis is in profile in this one, his hair falling across his forehead; his eyes are
downcast and his shoulders are hunched in, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. The whole
painting is just...sad. He looks lost, melancholy emanating from every careful and precise stroke of
Harry’s brush. At the time, Louis had no idea why Harry would paint such a portrait, why in the
hell he would want to capture something so fucking miserable; it had actually made him furious.
Now that he has some distance, he thinks he knows why he did it. After all, he spent a solid year
funnelling all his emotions into his writing, producing a full novel. Harry just processed his
emotions with his paintbrush instead, his own sadness as evident in the painting as Louis’ is.

The fifth painting is one he’s never seen before and it’s like a punch in the stomach.

It’s a work-in-progress, yet there is something definitely finished in its unfinishedness. The canvas
is mostly stark white, faint grid lines of pencil traversing it. The preliminary sketch of Louis is
there, the three-quarter profile drawn in heavier lines of graphite, with some charcoal shading, the
black smudges creating dimension and texture, indicating where Harry would come back and paint
shadows. Harry had started to fill in some of his face, concentrating on his nose and cheekbones,
layering multiple shades to replicate his skin tone. His eyes are the only part of him totally
completed; Harry always used to start with those, so meticulous with them that he would often
spend several hours getting the exact shade of blue he wanted, lovingly painting each eyelash and
the curve of his brows. His eyes look haunted here, rendered in a stormy blue-gray, made even
more unsettling by the fact that nothing else in the painting is fully realized. Louis swallows hard as
he takes in the splatter of blue paint on the canvas dripping from just below his nose and chin,
covering the bottom half of the portrait; it’s the same blue Harry had always used for his eyes.
When Louis looks closer, he sees tiny flecks of color dotting the canvas from where the paint had
splashed out from the obvious point of impact. He stares at it until the painting starts to get blurry
behind the tears welling in his eyes. They spill over as he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Jesus Christ.

A waiter passes by with an empty tray; Louis places his half-full bottle of beer on it as he swipes
the tears from his cheeks, desperately attempting to collect himself, not wanting to cause a scene.
He focuses on his breathing, steadily inhaling and exhaling, trying to calm his racing heart. Out of
all the art galleries in the city, and he knows there are a shit ton of them, Louis had to go and walk
into Harry’s, didn’t he? Of course he did. It has to be some sort of twisted cosmic joke, right? But
then again, Louis isn’t surprised. Not really. He and Harry always were like magnets, the pull
between them undeniable. So why wouldn’t he be yanked right back into Harry’s orbit almost as
soon as he set foot back into New York City? He should have known.

He scrubs his hands down his face as he sighs heavily.

Harry’s here, in this very room. Louis knows he is. And he can’t decide what’s worse: turning
around and seeing Harry, probably with fucking Xander by his side, or quietly slipping out of the
gallery unnoticed and not seeing Harry at all.

He takes a deep breath and turns around.

Louis searches for Harry in the crowd, his heart pounding. All the sound in the room is muffled by
the rushing of blood in his ears. His hands feel clammy; he clenches them in fists at his side, the
slight sting of his blunt fingernails digging into the meat of his palms grounding him. The crowd in
the middle of the room shifts and Louis lets out a quiet gasp as he lays eyes on Harry Styles for the
first time in five years, his heart skipping a beat in spite of himself.

Harry’s deep in conversation with an elderly woman, clutching a full glass of red wine in his right
hand. His attention is laser-focused on her, his brows furrowed and his bottom lip pinched between
the fingers of his left hand. Louis has been on the other side of this gaze many times before; he has
no doubt that she feels like the most important person in the room having captured his full
attention. Harry was always so good at these things, charming and networking his way through a
party, and it’s clear that he hasn’t changed in the slightest.
With Harry’s attention otherwise occupied, Louis takes the opportunity to drink his fill of him,
cataloguing all the little differences between the boy he once loved and the man that stands before
him. He’s completely the same yet altogether different all at once.

Harry looks good. Really good. Which is, of course, infuriating. He holds himself differently now,
his spine straight and his shoulders squared, emanating confidence and poise. His face has gotten
more angular with age, his jaw sharp and defined. He’s in a white suit with a black floral pattern
which Louis swears looks just like the Ikea bedding he had when he first moved to New York. On
anyone else, Louis thinks it would look absolutely ridiculous, but Harry’s pulling it off; he’s
definitely wearing the suit rather than it wearing him. The flared yet slim fitting pants showcase his
long legs while the jacket emphasizes the broadness of his shoulders. (Is he broader? He looks
broader.) He let the suit speak for itself, pairing it with simple black boots and a black silk shirt,
buttoned all the way to the top for what has got to be the first time in his life. (Or maybe not.
Maybe Harry’s not all about having his tits all the way out these days.)

Harry’s cut his hair short, he notes sadly, the long mane of chocolate curls that Louis loved so much
probably long gone by now. He’s still got some length on top though, his hair artfully tousled with
a hint of curl coming through in a few pieces of hair flopping by his cheekbone. Harry grins at
something the woman says and the sight of his dimples carving deep craters in his cheeks makes
Louis’ stomach flip.

That’s the one thing that hasn’t changed about Harry. He’s still the most beautiful man in the room.
In any room.

Louis is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t see Harry’s attention shifting until it’s too late. He
freezes in place as their gazes lock, Harry’s green eyes going wide with recognition and then shock.
His jaw drops, his lips forming a perfectly rounded ‘o’ as the color drains from his face; the glass
of wine slips from his fingers, the glass shattering and ruby-red liquid splashing up and splattering
all over the legs of his white pants.

All the noise in the room suddenly floods Louis’ senses, from the tittering of the people in Harry’s
immediate vicinity to the person on the other side of the room whooping at the commotion. A
waiter rushes to Harry’s side, an empty tray in one hand and a towel in the other. Harry crouches
down, fruitlessly dabbing at the spreading puddle of wine with a cocktail napkin as the waiter
throws the towel over the larger chunks of glass.

“Lou?” Harry chokes out, looking up at him, confusion and apprehension written all over his face,
the wine-soaked napkin clutched in his hand.

It’s the sound of Harry’s deep, honeyed-whiskey voice saying his name that snaps Louis out of his
trance, his fight-or-flight instinct finally kicking in. He darts around another incoming waiter,
bobbing and weaving through the crowd as quickly as he can, his eyes fixed on the way out.
Adrenaline rushes through his veins, his heart pounding ninety to nothing.

He has to get out of here. Now.

“Louis!”

Louis startles as someone touches his bicep; he whirls around, half expecting to see Harry standing
in front of him.
“Jesus, Zayn,” Louis sighs, pressing his hand to his chest as his eyes dart back and forth between
his friend and the door. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I thought you saw me, I’m sorry,” Zayn says genuinely. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking
for you because I wanted to see if–”

“Where have I been?” Louis laughs, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. “I think I’ve been
in Hell, Zaynie, where’ve you been?”

Zayn’s forehead wrinkles as he studies at Louis.

“Fuck, Lou, are you okay?” Zayn asks, his brown eyes full of concern. “What happened? You look
like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Louis glances back in Harry’s direction, making sure he isn’t following him. He’s not sure if he’s
mad or not when he realizes he isn’t.

“Yeah,” Louis says softly, looking down at his stark white Vans. “I kinda just did.”

“What–”

“Listen, buddy, I have to go,” Louis says, clapping Zayn on the shoulder. “Raincheck?”

“Okay, but Lou–”

“Sorry I didn’t get to meet your boy,” Louis interrupts, spinning on his heel. “Another time, yeah?
Yeah. I’ll text you later.”

Louis makes a beeline for the door, not even waiting for Zayn’s answer. Already digging for the
pack of cigarettes in his pocket, he bursts outside with a sigh of relief, the slightly muggy late June
air a welcome respite from the overly air-conditioned gallery. He places a cigarette between his lips
and lights it with shaky hands, taking a long and deep pull. As he exhales slowly, his eyes land on
the neon green shamrock in the window of the dive bar across the street, the Jameson logo
flickering ever so slightly.

He needs a fucking drink.

February 2011

“Shots?” Louis asks, arching his eyebrow at Nick as he shrugs out of his heavy winter coat,
hanging it on the hook under the bar. “On a Tuesday night? Are you trying to kill me, Nicholas?
Why are we doing shots?”

“Because, Lou-Lou, my boss is a dick and you keep complaining about writer’s block,” Nick
replies with a cheeky grin. “Do we really need more of a reason?”

“No, we do not,” Louis answers as he sits on his stool, scooting it closer to the bar. He extends his
fist to Patrick, their usual bartender, who returns the bump with ease, even as he pours Jameson into
a neat line of shot glasses. Louis frowns as he counts them. “Why are there six?”

“Stan’s coming, right?” Nick asks, carefully sliding the full shot glasses towards them. “Two for
each of us.”
Right on cue, both of their cellphones buzz. Louis gets to his first, unlocking it and pulling up their
text thread.

“He’s stuck at work,” Louis informs Nick, holding up his phone for him to see. “Big deadline. And
his train stops running at ten, so he’s bailing.”

Nick makes a pouty face, sticking his bottom lip out. Louis snickers, locking his phone and placing
it on the bar.

“We’ll just do his shots in his honor then,” Nick says solemnly, handing Louis one of the shots.
“Bottoms up, Lou-Lou.”

“Oh God, here we go,” Louis grouses, clinking his glass with Nick’s. “To good friends–”

“And bad habits,” Nick grins, completing their traditional toast.

They tap the glasses on the wooden bar. The pungent smell of whiskey fills Louis’ nostrils as he
raises the glass to his lips; he closes his eyes and takes the shot with practiced ease, the Jameson
smooth as it slides down his throat, leaving a pleasant burning sensation in its wake. He slams the
glass upside down on the bar, looking over at Nick, who is already holding out his second shot.

“Too slow,” Nick reprimands with a shit-eating grin. “I know you can do better than that.”

“You’re right, I can,” Louis agrees. He pushes his stool back and stands, hopping up and down to
psych himself up, much to Nick’s delight. Nick hands him the second shot and they repeat the
ritual, clinking their glasses and tapping them on the bar.

“Arrrrrgh, fuck,” Louis groans, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That one hurt.”

Nick hoots in delight, holding out the final shot glass.

“No, no, absolutely not,” Louis declines, waving his hand. “If I do a third shot on an empty
stomach, I will one hundred percent vomit on you. I need to eat something.”

As if summoned, Patrick sets a large cone of Belgian-style frites in front of them, little tubs of
flavored aioli clipped to the sides of it.

“Honestly, Louis, what kind of person do you take me for?” Nick ribs him affectionately. “I ordered
these as soon as I sat down.”

“I love you,” Louis sighs, plucking one of the wedges off the top of the pile and dipping it into the
chipotle mayo. “But I’m still not doing a third shot. Patty, can I have a Jameson and ginger please?
And a water?”

“You won’t do another shot but you’ll order a whiskey ginger?”

“You sip a whiskey ginger, Nicholas,” Louis says haughtily, his mouth half full of piping hot
potato. “There’s a difference.”

“Whatever,” Nick says blithely, knocking back his final shot. He shudders, pounding his chest.
“Ahhhhh, you’re weak.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says, taking a big gulp of water. “Just call me tomorrow when you’re hungover
as fuck and having to deal with your terrible boss.”

“That’s future Nick’s problem,” Nick shrugs, slamming his glass down. “You know it’s bad luck to
leave a full shot on the bar too long, Lou-Lou.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m not!” Nick insists, helping himself to some of the frites. “It is bad luck! So either take the shot
or find someone else to do it. Them’s the rules. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even get a date or
something.”

“Doubtful,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes as he delicately sips his cocktail.

He turns around, swirling his straw through his drink as he leans against the bar, surveying the
Tuesday night crowd. Marlowe’s is never really not busy due to its primo location in Hell’s
Kitchen; the long and narrow space feels full, but not overcrowded. Louis’ eyes rove over various
groups of people clustered around the whiskey-barrel tables on the other side of the room, judging
them by how much fun they seem to be having, trying to gauge who would be willing to do a shot.
He’s immediately drawn to a group of six stationed on the diagonal from him. They’re a bit rowdier
than everyone else, a bleached blond boy leading the group in a noisy and boisterous toast. Louis’
stomach does a little flip as the group shifts, revealing the boy they are toasting, his cheeks pink as
he tries to shush his friends, his pink cocktail sloshing a little in his martini glass.

He’s the prettiest boy Louis has ever seen.

A gaudy plastic tiara that’s definitely meant for a child sits on top of his head, his chocolate curls
cascading down to his shoulders, while a ribbon sash with neon pink writing declaring him the
birthday girl stretches across his chest, knotting at his narrow waist. He’s grinning from ear to ear,
his pretty lips stained pink by his cocktail and two fucking dimples popping in his cheeks. His eyes
are sparkling, and even though it’s too dark in the bar to see exactly what color they are, Louis
knows they’ve got to be beautiful.

Louis can hear Nick snickering next to him; he elbows him in the ribs to shush him. He’s staring,
he knows he is, but he doesn’t really care. He wants the boy to notice him, silently willing him to
look his way.

He does.

Their eyes meet and Louis’ heart skips a beat. The boy tilts his head, a curious smile quirking his
lips. He doesn’t look away, a hint of challenge sparking in his eyes as he holds Louis’ gaze.

Emboldened by the two shots of Jameson currently coursing through his veins, Louis winks at
him.

The boy’s eyes go wide and he drops his cocktail, the wide brim of the glass hitting the edge of the
table on its way down, pink liquid splattering across his sash and faded gray t-shirt. He jumps back
as the glass hits the floor with a resounding clatter. Louis claps a hand over his mouth, trying to
hold back his laughter as the blond boy cheers, thrusting his arm in the air. The rest of the group
springs into action, one of them handing the boy his napkin, shaking his head fondly as if it’s a not
entirely unexpected incident. The boy presses the napkin to his chest, looking back at Louis and
laughing, the beautiful honking sound carrying over the busy din of the bar. Louis arches an
eyebrow back at him as he smirks, turning back to the bar.

If he pops his hip to show off the curve of his ass, well then that’s absolutely no one’s business but
his own.

“I’m in awe, truly, I am,” Nick laughs as Louis takes a dainty sip of his whiskey ginger. “It’s like
watching a master class.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Louis replies airily.

“Bullshit,” Nick snickers. “Look alive, Lou-Lou, he’s coming over.”

“Fuck, okay,” Louis mutters, running his fingers through his artfully mussed hair and then carefully
smoothing it aside. He intentionally doesn’t look back at the approaching boy, suddenly very
interested in the hockey game on the TV behind the bar. Because of that, he feels the boy’s
presence before he sees him, heat radiating from his body as he encroaches on Louis’ personal
space, reaching across him to grab a stack of cocktail napkins. Louis turns to him, still trying to be
the epitome of cool as he’s met with the greenest pair of eyes he’s ever seen.

“Oops,” the boy giggles, his voice deep and rumbly. He looks down, chewing on his bottom lip as
he dabs at his pink splattered sash.

“Hi,” Louis breathes, all semblance of cool falling away as he smiles.

“Hi,” the boy parrots, a few rogue curls falling across his forehead as he looks up at Louis through
his eyelashes. His eyes are a little glassy from the alcohol, but his gaze is still sharp.

“Nice sash,” Louis observes, leaning back against the bar. “Is it really your birthday, Curly?”

“It is,” the boy nods, gesturing grandly to his stained birthday sash. “I am twenty-three years old
today.”

“Well, happy birthday,” Louis grins.

“Thank you. Sadly, I seem to find myself without a drink,” the boy sighs dramatically, straightening
the tiara in his curls. “On my birthday. Feels a bit wrong, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

The boy just nods, batting his eyes at Louis as he purses his lips in an exaggerated pout.

Jesus Christ, this boy is endearing.

“I mean, you’re the one who dropped your drink, Curly,” Louis shrugs, still wanting him to work
for it a little bit. “I fail to see how that’s my problem.”

“It is your problem though,” the boy challenges.

“Oh really,” Louis teases, biting back his grin. “How is that, you reckon? Do explain it to me, I’d
love to know how it could possibly be my fau–”
The words die on Louis’ tongue, his breath hitching as the boy closes the space between them,
standing so close that Louis can smell the sweet alcohol on his breath. The boy has a couple inches
of height to his advantage, forcing Louis to look up at him. They study each other, neither one of
them wanting to be the first to break. Louis’ heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, so hard that he
wonders if the other boy can feel it. Finally, the boy dips his head down, his lips nearly brushing the
shell of Louis’ ear.

“It’s your problem because you winked at me,” the boy murmurs, his voice slow, like thick honey
being poured over gravel. “And it’s your problem because I think you want it to be your problem.”

The boy pulls back, a cocky smirk twisting his mouth; Louis exhales a shuddery breath, nervous
laughter escaping his lips as he signals Patrick from the other end of the bar.

“What are you drinking, Curly?”

“Raspberry cosmo,” the boy replies, the cocky grin melting into a sweet smile, his green eyes
glittering in the dim light.

“You heard the man, Patty,” Louis grins. “Raspberry cosmo for the birthday girl.”

“Comin’ right up,” Patrick nods, immediately reaching for a glass.

“In the meantime,” Louis says, sliding the extra shot of Jameson towards the boy, “I have a
birthday shot with your name on it.”

“You don’t even know my name,” the boy teases, accepting the glass.

“Maybe you should tell me then,” Louis fires back.

“Is this whiskey?” the boy asks, his nose wrinkling as he smells the shot.

“Jameson,” Louis confirms.

“M’sorry, I can’t stand that stuff,” the boy apologizes, as he places the glass back on the bar,
pushing it back towards Louis. “I haven’t been able to stomach Jameson since–”

“Well, good thing it isn’t for you, then,” Nick says suddenly, swooping in and grabbing the shot
glass.

(Right , Nick’s still here.)

Nick quickly knocks back the shot; the boy watches him, his eyebrows knitting together and his
lips pouting, making him look like some sort of jealous frog.

“He’s not your boyfriend, is he?”

“Jesus, no,” Nick exclaims, his face scrunching up as he slams the shot glass down, his whole body
shuddering. “No, nope, no, absolutely not, never in a million years. No.”

“Gee, thanks, Nicholas,” Louis deadpans. “No need to sound so repulsed. Christ. I’m trying to
make a good impression here.”

“Oh, I think you’ve done that already,” Nick sniggers.

The boy honks a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth; Louis can’t resist shooting him another
wink as Patrick places the boy’s drink in front of him.

“Next round’s on me, boys,” Patrick informs them in his thick Irish brogue. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Pat,” Louis says, sliding a few bills towards him. He never ends up paying full price here,
but he always tips like he does. He turns back to the boy, who is watching him, a slightly dopey
expression on his pretty face. Louis slides his drink over to him. “Here you go, Curly. Happy
birthday.”

“What’s your name?” the boy asks with an awestruck smile.

“Oh, now that you’ve got your drink, you want to know my name, eh?” Louis teases gently.

The boy just nods and smiles wider, his dimples so deep Louis is positive they could be seen from
space.

“I’m Louis,” he says finally.

“It’s nice to meet you, Louis,” the boy says, extending his hand.

“And it’s nice to meet you...” Louis replies, trailing off as he slides his hand into the boy’s larger
one, squeezing it gently.

“Harry,” the boy supplies. “M’name’s Harry.”

They beam at each other and Louis can’t help but feel like he’s standing on some sort of precipice,
something amazing just about to begin.

“I think this calls for a toast,” Louis says grandly, raising his glass in the air. Harry giggles,
mirroring him. “To Harry, on his twenty-third birthday. May the drinks be plenty, and the glasses
unbroken.”
 Chapter 2

Harry watches the last few stragglers making their way towards the exit, leaving him alone in his
section of the gallery. He gives the couple he’d been talking to for the last fifteen minutes a polite
wave as they look back at him, hoping his smile doesn’t look too fake; they did buy one of his
landscapes after all, and for that, he is truly grateful. He’s just more than ready to switch off for the
night.

Not that he ever really switched back on after seeing Louis for the first time in five years. Well.
Five years, five months, and two weeks, give or take a day.

Not that anyone’s counting. He’s certainly not anyway.

Given how quickly Louis disappeared (one of his greatest talents, honestly), Harry’s half-convinced
he hallucinated the entire thing, that somehow, having so many of Louis’ paintings in one place
tricked his mind into seeing him in the crowd. That has to be the only explanation for it. His brain
just can’t compute the fact that not only is Louis back in New York, he’s apparently willing to
spend his Friday night at a gallery opening. He had to have made the whole thing up, right?

But then Harry looks down at his ruined pants, the burgundy splatters standing out in stark relief
against the white fabric, looking like evidence from a grisly murder scene. Which, he supposes,
they kind of are. They are the physical reminder that he didn’t make it all up, that Louis was here at
one of the most important shows of his career, that Louis saw his paintings, and that Louis fucking
ran away.

Again.

The door bangs shut and Harry sighs in relief, his shoulders slumping as he relaxes his posture.
Hopefully, it’s just him, Liam, and the bartenders in the gallery now.

Finally.

Harry rakes his hand through his hair, tousling his loose curls as he turns the corner into the main
section of the gallery, ready to do his traditional post-mortem with Liam, preferably over a bottle of
wine. He grimaces when he sees his agent in deep conversation with one of the gallery’s owners.
They make eye contact over the man’s shoulder; Liam subtly tilts his head towards the bar, where
the bartender is packing up, clearly eager to get out of there and get on with his evening. Harry
nods, heading to the bar, digging his wallet out as he goes. He forces himself to turn back on,
offering the bartender a dazzling smile.

“Got any leftover red?” Harry asks, dropping a couple of bills in the tip jar. “Or anything that’s
already open, I’m not picky.”

The bartender grabs a fresh bottle of pinot noir from an open case, cracking open the screw-top and
handing it over.

“Oops, this was going to go bad,” the bartender says with a wink. “You need glasses?”

“Do you have plastic ones?” Harry asks, mindful of what happened earlier in the evening. “Two?”
The bartender fishes two plastic glasses out of a sleeve, handing them over.

“Thanks, man,” Harry says gratefully, dropping another dollar into the tip jar. “Have a nice night.”

“You too,” the bartender replies, going back to cleaning up.

Harry catches Liam’s eye, holding up the bottle and gesturing towards where he came from. Liam
nods and gives him a thumbs up. Harry taps his wrist and scrunches his nose, making a sour face;
Liam presses his lips together as he turns his attention back to his conversation, little crinkles
forming by his eyes as he tries not to laugh.

Whatever levity Harry briefly felt evaporates away completely as he turns the corner, his portraits
coming back into view. Harry shudders, the paintings unnerving him, bringing all sorts of emotions
and memories to the surface. And the thing is, he knows that the portraits are there and they still get
under his skin; he can’t even imagine what kind of shock it must have been for Louis to see them
there.

Harry trudges across the gallery, turning around and staring at the portraits as he slowly slides
down to the floor. He doesn’t care that the floor is definitely dirty in the wake of the opening; he’s
had a long fucking day and his pants are already ruined anyway. Louis’ bright blue eyes stare back
at him, his piercing gaze intense and searching even when captured in oil paint. Another chill
shoots down his spine at the feeling of being watched.

Fuck.

He unscrews the cap on the bottle of wine, momentarily pondering just drinking from the bottle but
ultimately deciding he’s not at that point just yet. He gives himself a generous pour and one for
Liam as well, setting the bottle down next to his hip. His lips twist in a sardonic smile as he raises
his glass, toasting the five versions of Louis before bringing the glass to his lips, taking a long slow
swallow of wine, the rich liquid warming his belly. Harry sighs, melting back into the wall and
sprawling his legs out in front of him. Gently, he bangs his head against the wall in rhythm with his
thoughts.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It’s not like Harry hasn’t dreamed up various scenarios involving his first post-break-up encounter
with Louis. He definitely has. He’s had plenty of time to do it in the last five (and a half) years.
He’s imagined meeting him at a party with a handsome man on his arm, rubbing it all in Louis’
face just how great his life is now, making him rue the day he ended their relationship. (Ha.) He’s
imagined falling to his knees and begging Louis to take him back, promising that he’ll do
everything right this time, that he won’t let their love slip through his fingers again. Fuck, he’s even
imagined the big Hollywood ending, where they see each other on the Brooklyn Bridge and decide
that being together is better than being apart, meeting in the middle and kissing passionately. (That
one may or may not have been influenced by a late night viewing of the Sex and the City movie on
E! and a bottle of pinot grigio. It’s fine.)

But in all the scenarios he’d imagined, Harry never could have dreamed how it would actually all
go down. How their eyes would meet in the crowd, how he would be paralyzed with shock at the
sight of Louis, how his glass of wine would slip through his fingers, eerily calling back to the night
they met, only now with Louis running away from him as fast as he can instead of beckoning him
over with a wink and a pop of his hip.
It would be romantic if it weren’t such a goddamn nightmare.

Fuck.

Harry takes another gulp of wine, his eyes sliding shut as he swallows. He should just get really,
really drunk. That’s the best idea ever.

“The floor, H? Really?” Liam’s footfalls echo on the gallery’s glossy wood floor as he strides into
the room. “Gross.”

Feeling his friend’s presence looming over him, Harry slowly blinks his eyes open. He peers up at
Liam, who looks back at him, his face scrunched in a disgusted yet fond expression.

“Pants are already ruined,” Harry shrugs, sipping his wine. “What’s a little more dirt?” He pats the
space next to him. “C’mon, sit with me.”

“No way. Do you know how much this suit cost? And how many people trudged through this
gallery tonight?”

“I already poured you a glass of wine,” Harry wheedles.

Liam hesitates, smoothing his palm down the breast of his jacket. His gray skinny suit is
conservative, befitting his recent promotion to junior partner at the firm, but he’d added a little flair
to his overall look in the form of a silk scarf in the same pattern as his tie. Tucked just under the
lapels of his jacket, the intricate circle pattern pops against the crisp white of his button down and
the sleek gray of the jacket, taking the look from simple to chic. Harry gives the whole ensemble a
ten out of ten and he can understand why Liam wouldn’t want to get it dirty. But still. He’s had a
shitty night and he’s sad and a little bit mad and he just wants to just drink wine on the floor with
his best friend. Is that too much to ask?

“Lee-yum,” Harry drawls, batting his eyelashes. “C’mon. Live a little.”

“Harry,” Liam whines, his resolve clearly weakening.

“I’ll pay your dry cleaning bill,” Harry reassures him. “Promise.”

Liam chuckles, shaking his head. Harry bites back a triumphant grin as Liam unbuttons his suit
jacket and settles down next to him on the floor, leaning back against the wall.

“Where’s my wine?” Liam asks, loosening his tie.

“Right, wine,” Harry nods, passing Liam his plastic glass. “Here you go.”

Harry refills his own glass all the way to the top, ignoring Liam’s arched eyebrow as he does so. He
quickly taps his glass against Liam’s and takes a gulp of wine.

“You okay, Harry?” Liam asks gently. “You’ve seemed off most of the night.”

“Are you asking as my friend or as my agent?”

“Don’t do that,” Liam admonishes. “You know I’m asking as your friend.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” Harry admits, staring at the portraits of Louis until
they start to blur slightly. “Asking as my agent, I mean.”

“Harry,” Liam starts.

“No, really,” Harry continues, looking down at his hands. “You negotiated show space for me for
the grand opening of a new gallery. It was a big night and my head wasn’t in the game. I...I blew it,
didn’t I?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Liam scoffs. “H, look at me.”

Harry huffs and rolls his head to the side, meeting Liam’s warm brown eyes.

“You did amazing,” Liam reassures him, giving him a little nudge. “You did the best of anyone, in
my opinion. Promise. You sold multiple paintings–”

“That’s right, I did,” Harry interjects, sipping his wine.

“And I got multiple inquiries about portrait commissions,” Liam continues, his voice earnest as he
points across the gallery to the portraits of Louis. “Those paintings accomplished exactly what I
thought they would, Harry.”

Harry can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes his lips.

“Yeah, they sure did,” he agrees darkly, taking another swallow of wine.

“Okay, seriously, what’s with you?” Liam asks. “I just told you it was a good night, why are you
still sulking?”

“Ugh, I’m being an asshole,” Harry huffs, resting his head back against the wall. “It’s not you, I
promise.”

“So then what is it?” Liam presses.

The door clangs in the next room; Harry assumes it’s the bartender heading out for the night, finally
leaving them alone in the gallery. He sighs, letting his eyes slide shut. It’s not that Liam doesn’t
know about Louis, he does; he may not know all the gory details, but Harry’d had to give some
background when they started working together, when Liam had insisted that he start showing the
portraits. But he doesn’t even know how to begin telling Liam that Louis had been there,
reappearing out of the blue from who the fuck knows where. He can still barely believe it, let alone
start to process his feelings about it.

“I don’t know, Li,” Harry starts.

“Hello?”

Harry freezes at the voice calling out from the front room, his stomach plummeting. Footsteps echo
in the empty gallery and he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter.

He’d know that voice anywhere.

“Shit, I forgot to lock the door,” Liam gasps. Harry hears him scramble to his feet, fabric rustling as
he dusts himself off. “Lemme take care of this.”
“Is anyone–”

“Hey, I’m sorry, sir,” Liam interrupts, his voice kind and professional. “We’re actually closed for
the night. Can I show you out?”

There’s a long silence; Harry holds his breath. Maybe Louis will go. Or maybe he’s imagining this
whole thing. He has had a lot of wine tonight after all, surely he’s at home, cozy in his bed. This is
all just a dream.

“Harry,” Louis rasps plaintively. “Haz.”

Or maybe not.

Harry exhales slowly as his eyes flutter open. Louis stands in the open archway, clearly
uncomfortable yet determined all at the same time as he fidgets where he stands. Their gazes lock
and Harry’s taken right back to that moment more than eight years ago when their eyes met in a
dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Even after all this time apart, Louis is still the most breathtaking man
he’s ever seen, his piercing blue eyes never failing to make Harry weak in the knees. The years
have been good to him, only making him more handsome as the crinkles by his eyes have started to
deepen and his face has gotten more angular. The little sprinkles of gray that Harry used to lovingly
tease him about have become streaks of silver at his temples, making him look all kinds of
dignified.

Of course it fucking suits him. Harry isn’t surprised in the slightest. He always knew Louis was
going to make one hell of a silver fox.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Liam asks. Out of the corner of Harry’s eye, he can see Liam’s brow
furrowing as he looks between him and Louis. “Who’s this?”

Without breaking Louis’ gaze, Harry raises his eyebrows, nodding across the gallery towards his
paintings. He can see the moment it clicks for Liam, his jaw dropping in surprise as he looks at the
portraits and then back at Louis and then back at the portraits again.

“Oh,” Liam gasps, his hand covering his mouth. “Oh, shit.”

Oh, shit indeed.

Harry takes a long sip of wine, his eyes still locked on Louis. He feels like he’s about to come out
of his skin.

“I should...I should go,” Liam stammers. “I should go, right? I mean, unless you want me to stay?
Or should I go?”

Louis breaks their staring contest first, looking down at the floor as he scuffs the sole of his sneaker
against the floor, the rubber squeaking on the wood. He takes a deep breath, looking back up at
Harry as he sweeps his hair aside, smoothing the feathery strands in place.

Well, that nervous tic hasn’t changed.

“Harry?” Liam asks, gently kicking his outstretched leg. “Are you okay if I go?”

He’s really not okay, but he also knows that if he’s going to have a conversation with Louis that’s
five (and a half) years overdue, he needs to do it on his own.
“Go home,” Harry manages to say, giving Liam a wan smile. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll lock up,” Liam says, digging in his pockets for his keys. “The door will lock automatically
behind you, okay? Just turn all the lights off before you go.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”

Harry nods as he watches Liam go; he stops next to Louis, opening his mouth as if he’s going to
say something (oh, Jesus) but he changes his mind when Louis levels him with an impassive gaze.
Liam practically cowers, scampering towards the door. Harry would laugh except he knows exactly
what it feels like having those icy blue eyes turn on him. Anyone would crumble under them.

They look at each other for a long time, neither one of them wanting to be the first one to break.
Harry takes the opportunity to study him further, sizing him up as he tries to figure out how the
fuck he’s even feeling right now, because he’s feeling everything all at once. Louis looks
effortlessly put together in his simple white polo and black track pants, the red and navy racing
stripe running down his leg making him look taller than he actually is. To the uneducated eye, one
might think Louis was too casual or underdressed, but Harry knows for a fact that those track pants
are Gucci, which is so fucking weird because Louis always hated labels and everything that came
with them and speaking of Gucci for fuck’s sake–

“You owe me a thousand dollars,” Harry states.

“What?” Louis asks, a startled expression on his face.

Harry drains his glass of wine, setting the empty glass on the floor.

“You heard me,” Harry replies, awkwardly hoisting himself to his feet and brushing the dust off of
his ass. “You owe me a thousand dollars.”

“Oh, yeah?” Louis asks, crossing his arms across his chest. “How’s that?”

Harry gestures down to his wine splattered pants.

“These are Gucci pants,” Harry explains, skulking towards him. “A Gucci suit, actually.”

“So?”

“So, it’s ruined because of you.”

“You’re the one who dropped your wine, not me,” Louis shrugs, standing his ground, even though
Harry can see a hint of panic in his eyes as he approaches.

“I dropped the wine because of you,” Harry insists. “So pay up.”

“I’m not paying for your fucking pants, Harry,” Louis fires back, tilting his chin stubbornly. “But
tell you what, how about I buy one of your paintings instead and we can call it even? Do you take
Venmo or should I go get cash? I know I have some on me, but who knows, maybe it’s not enough
for you.”

“You want to–”

“Buy one of your paintings, yes,” Louis finishes for him, digging his wallet out of his pocket and
opening it. “One of mine, in fact. No, fuck that, I’d like to buy all of them. How much?”

“Those aren’t for sale,” Harry practically growls, coming to a stop directly in front of him.

The tips of their shoes are almost touching. Louis looks as shaken by their close proximity as Harry
feels, his blue eyes roving all over his face, never stopping in one spot for too long. The air
between them feels electric. It always fucking did, even when things got so shitty, and it’s clear that
hasn’t changed, even after all this time apart. Even after all the sleepless nights where Harry didn’t
know where Louis was, how he fell off the face of the earth without any trace and Harry was left to
pick up the shattered pieces of his heart. Looking at Louis, Harry isn’t sure whether he wants to
kiss him or throttle him; he clenches his fist at his side even as his eyes drift down to Louis’ lips.

They are the same pale shade of pink that he remembers.

Louis’ breath hitches and he ducks around him, stepping farther into the gallery space as he pockets
his wallet. Harry exhales slowly, trying to calm his racing heart.

Jesus.

Harry watches as Louis walks through the gallery, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he looks at all
the other paintings. It’s a classic Louis avoidance technique, pretending to be interested in the art
but never engaging fully. If it weren’t for the gray streaks in his hair and the way Louis is keeping
his shoulders squared instead of hunched in, Harry would think it was 2013 all over again.

“You know, when I saw you earlier, I thought I was hallucinating,” Harry admits, raking his hands
through his hair. “Because there was just no other way that you would be here, in my gallery, on
one of the biggest nights of my career–”

“I didn’t know,” Louis says quickly, the color draining from his face. “I swear I didn’t know, Harry.
I was here with a friend, I had no idea this was your show. Do you actually think I would have just
shown up to–what? Fuck with you?”

“I don’t–”

“Do you really think that little of me, Harry?” Louis asks, tossing his hands helplessly. “You know
what? Fuck you. Why don’t you get your head out of your ass for one minute and think about what
a shock it was for me to turn a corner and see my own face on the goddamn wall? Jesus.”

Harry hates when Louis is right. It doesn’t matter that he had been thinking the exact same thing
earlier, he still hates it.

“You’re right,” Harry concedes reluctantly. “I know you wouldn’t do that. Not on purpose.”

“Thank you.”

“But it’s not like I knew you were going to be here,” Harry says. “I didn’t do this on purpose either,
Louis. It’s not like I had any means of contacting you to let you know I was showing a bunch of
your paintings. No, my paintings, they’re mine and I can do whatever I want with them. Anyway. I
didn’t even know you were back in New York. I haven’t known where you’ve been for the past five
and a half years, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“We broke up, Harry,” Louis says simply, coming to stand in front of his paintings. “My
whereabouts were no longer your business. They still aren’t, for that matter.”

“So why are you even here right now?”

“I don’t know,” Louis half-laughs, fixing a label on the wall that’s gone crooked. “I was in the bar
across the street–”

“Are you drunk?”

“Are you?” Louis fires back, spinning around.

“Not nearly enough,” Harry says, grabbing his half-full bottle of wine from its spot on the floor and
taking a swig directly from it, feeling completely justified for being at that point now. “Do you
want some?”

“I’ve had whiskey,” Louis declines, waving his hand.

“Of course you have,” Harry mutters, taking another swig of wine. “Always whiskey. You and your
Jameson.”

Louis looks at him for a long time, his expression inscrutable. He turns back to the paintings,
studying them carefully.

“I forgot how good these were,” Louis says after a long moment, almost to himself. He turns to
face Harry. “It’s something else seeing them in person again. The way you just...capture moments.
It’s truly remarkable, y’know? You’ve always been so talented, Haz.”

Harry tries not to preen under Louis’ praise, but he can’t help it. It was always something he craved
more than anything else. He doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that he still craves it after all
this time and everything they’ve been through.

“Yeah, well,” he defers, ruffling his hair as he comes to stand next to him. “I had an easy subject.”

Louis rolls his eyes, biting back a smile.

“They really aren’t for sale?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They just aren’t,” Harry clips, wishing Louis would just drop it. “Who would want them
anyway?”

Hurt flashes across Louis' face at the callous remark, but he quickly smooths out his expression.

“I would,” he says softly. “I would want them, Harry.”

Harry feels the tension in the room begin to give way to an aching sense of sadness. He doesn’t like
it. It’s easier for him to latch on to the anger than it is to give into the sense of loss, especially now
that Louis is here in front of him, seemingly unaffected by it all.
Anger is better.

“Well, you can’t have them,” he states bitterly, taking a swig of wine.

“If they aren’t for sale, why are you even showing them?” Louis presses.

“Because they’re the best paintings I’ve ever done, okay?” Harry blurts out angrily. “Is that what
you want to hear?”

Louis looks at him curiously.

“I want to hear the truth,” he says, annoyingly calm. “I think I deserve that at least.”

“I didn’t want to show them,” Harry admits begrudgingly. “At least, not all of them like this, all
lined up in a row, but my agent insisted, saying they showcased my work the best. They...they’re
the reason he signed me in the first place. And they’ve gotten me commissions for other portraits,
so yeah. Best paintings I’ve ever done.”

“There are more, aren’t there?”

Harry just nods, raising the bottle of wine to his lips.

“I thought so,” Louis hums, fiddling with the ends of his hair. “You were always sketching me.”

“Well, like I said, you were an easy subject, ” Harry says uncomfortably, giving in to the sadness.
“...my favorite subject.”

Louis doesn’t acknowledge his admission, instead walking closer to the paintings, reaching out to
the rope and anchor one as if he wants to touch it, dropping his hand at the last moment. The rope
tattoo looks just as dark against Louis’ skin as it did when he first got it.

Harry wonders if he’s gotten it touched up over the years.

“It’s so strange,” Louis muses. “I mean, obviously I remember all these moments, but still, seeing
them captured like this, it’s like experiencing them for the first time. And that’s what it is, isn’t it?
Seeing yourself the way someone else sees you. And you...you always saw me so well, Harry.
Probably better than I deserved most of the time.”

Harry’s heart clenches painfully at his words.

“Yeah, well,” Harry shrugs, desperately trying to stay casual even though he feels like he’s about to
cry. “I was in love with you. It’s as simple as that.”

Louis presses his lips together, pain etched across his features as he nods. He sighs heavily, turning
to the final painting. Harry grimaces as he studies it intently.

“This one is hard to look at,” Louis murmurs.

Harry curls his hands into fists to stop them from shaking as he watches Louis take in the blue
splashed across the unfinished portrait, trying to pinpoint what he’s feeling: Embarrassment at
Louis seeing him completely laid bare on a canvas. Defiance for the very same reason. Smug
satisfaction that the painting is clearly affecting Louis. Anger that a painting like this even exists in
the first place.
Right. The anger.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Harry replies, his voice patronizing. “Is it hard to look at, Louis? Because I think
looking at it is a damn sight easier than living through it.”

“Harry–”

“But that’s not why you’re here, is it?” Harry snaps. “To talk about my art? After barely getting
through my shows before you left, you didn’t come back here tonight to discuss my paintings, did
you?”

“Yes? No?” Louis replies, his chin wobbling ever so slightly as he massages his temple. “I don’t
know–”

“How could you not know?” Harry demands. “Why are you here, Lou?”

“I don’t know!” Louis cries in frustration, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He wipes it away
quickly. “I had paid my tab across the street and was outside having a cigarette and I just...I saw the
gallery emptying out. So I had another cigarette, and then another and I...fuck, I just felt like I
should see if you were still here. Because it felt weird not to at least talk to you? After seeing you
for the first time in five years, how could I–”

“Five and a half years,” Harry corrects. “I mean, I know I’m not important enough for you to keep
track of–”

“How could you say that?”

“Easily,” Harry spits, unable to stop himself, years of repressed emotions tumbling out of him.
“You walked away from me after almost three years together like it was nothing. Like it was easy.”

“This...this was a bad idea,” Louis says, wringing his hands together as he heads towards the door.
“Clearly. I should...I should go.”

“Go on and go then,” Harry calls after him. “I mean, leaving is what you’re best at, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you, Harry!” Louis exclaims, whirling around. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. “You
have no idea–”

“I mean, I’m just calling a spade a spade, Lou,” Harry taunts, raising the bottle of wine in a toast.
“But what gets me is that I don’t understand why you’re so upset in the first place? You’re the one
that ended things. You left me, Louis!”

“That’s really how you remember things?” Louis asks, completely deflating.

Harry knows he’s being deliberately hurtful, that he’s leaving out big chunks of their story. Chunks
that he has to own, mistakes he has to take responsibility for. He suddenly wishes he could just
rewind the whole conversation, be a little gentler with Louis and his heart, but it’s too late now.
And the really petty part of him wants to be sure Louis hurts just as much as he does.

“Yeah,” Harry says, his throat tightening up and tears stinging his eyes. “I remember it like it was
yesterday."
Louis sniffles, shaking his head as he furiously swipes the tears from his cheeks.

“Then we remember things very differently,” Louis says mournfully. “Because what I remember,
Harry, is that you left me long before I left you. I did what I did because you didn’t leave me any
other choice.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. He just bites his lip, hoping the sharp stab of pain will keep him from
falling to pieces in front of Louis. Louis looks at him with what can only be disappointment; he
scrubs his hands down his face, sighing heavily as he heads to the door.

“If you need to tell yourself that I’m the bad guy, that’s fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night, I
guess,” Louis says quietly, so quiet that Harry can barely make out the words. “But you and I both
know that isn’t true. Good night.”

The infuriating thing is that Louis doesn’t even allow himself the satisfaction of slamming the door
on his way out. He lets it click shut quietly, slipping out of the gallery in the blink of an eye, gone
from Harry’s life once again.

It’s when he’s finally alone that Harry finally allows himself to cry.

March 2011

“I want to paint you.”

Harry claps a hand over his mouth. Fuck, he can’t believe he just blurted it out like that,
interrupting Louis’ story about a customer from hell who hadn’t even left a tip. He had a whole
plan for asking Louis to sit for him, one that definitely didn’t involve Louis inhaling sharply and
choking on his whiskey ginger. He buries his face in his hands as Niall pushes a glass of water
across the table to Louis, warmth radiating from his blushing cheeks.

They’ve hung out several times since Harry’s birthday, but somehow they keep ending up in a
group, mixing their friends together. It’s like they were all destined to meet, getting along
effortlessly, but Harry’s only been able to get Louis alone in bits and snatches. Ordinarily, Harry
likes to think that he’s got pretty good game, but there’s something about Louis that keeps throwing
him off. It’s almost like he likes Louis too much, so fucking smitten with him that he can’t do
anything right. He’ll look at Harry with a challenging glint in those blue eyes and Harry’s mind will
just go completely blank. Louis is just...so much. He’s smart and he’s funny and he’s patient,
always listening carefully whenever Harry talks, just letting him ramble until he eventually gets to
his point.

Not to mention the fact that he’s the most beautiful boy Harry’s ever seen. He’s the perfect
combination of hard and soft, all sharp angles and round curves that just make Harry’s fingers
twitch, longing for a paintbrush. Harry’s wanted to paint him from the moment he saw him.

Which is why he had a plan. And it’s ruined. God. Harry wishes the floor would just open up
underneath him and swallow him whole. He’s so embarrassed.

“Haz?”

Harry shakes himself out of his trance. He looks over at Louis, who has finally caught his breath.

His cheeks are still pink though. Harry can tell even in the dim light of the bar.
“You want to paint me?” Louis asks, tilting his head curiously. “What for?”

“It’s for class,” Harry says quickly. “We’re supposed to paint someone we know–”

“And you didn’t want to paint me?” Niall gasps. “Your beloved roommate? I’m offended, Harry,
truly.”

“You don’t have Louis’ bone structure,” Harry says matter-of-factly.

Nick snorts in amusement.

“Fucker,” Niall scoffs, shoving him affectionately. His blue eyes flash mischievously. “Admit it,
you just think Louis’ prettier than I am.”

“It’s true though,” Nick pipes up, a teasing grin on his face as he pokes Louis’ cheek. “No offense,
Nialler, but look at these cheekbones. They could cut glass. They deserve to be immortalized in a
painting. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry feels his cheeks heating as Nick looks at him, a smug smile stretching across his lips.

Really, any minute the floor could open up underneath him and that would be great.

“Please,” Louis says haughtily. “Let’s not pretend my beauty is up for debate. It’s just a fact of life.
Of course Harry would want to paint me. Who wouldn’t?”

Everyone laughs, breaking some of the tension. Harry sips his Stoli raspberry and soda, meeting
Louis’ eyes over the brim of his glass. They share a private smile, Louis’ eyes crinkling at the side.
Butterflies dance in Harry’s belly.

“So will you sit for me then?” Harry asks casually, hoping Louis doesn’t sense the obvious
desperation emanating from him.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, clearly pleased and a little bit flustered as he sweeps his hair off his forehead.
“I’d like that.”

********

Harry’s sharpening his pencil when the buzzer rings.

“Coming,” he calls, even though no one can hear him. He places the pencil on the lip of the easel
and trots over to the intercom, pressing the call button. “Louis?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Louis’ tinny voice blares through the speaker.

“Come on up,” Harry replies, buzzing him in.

Knowing that it will take Louis a couple minutes to climb the five floors up to his and Niall’s
apartment, Harry blows out a big breath, surveying his small living room. He goes back to the
makeshift work area he’s created by the windows, adjusting the angle of the armchair. It’s an
unseasonably warm and sunny day for early March and Harry wants to use the abundance of
afternoon sunlight in his apartment to his advantage. He takes a step back, chewing his lip as he
studies the space, nodding as he decides it’s just right.
He’s not sure why he’s so nervous; it’s not like he’s never drawn a human being before. In fact, he
draws them all the time. Models come into one of his drawing classes every week, sitting there
nude for an hour while fifteen students study their bodies and sketch them. This should be a piece
of cake. But also this is Louis, someone he knows and someone he cares about. It’s going to be
harder for him to be objective, which he suspects is the whole reason for the assignment in the first
place.

Harry startles as Louis raps on the door, three times in succession. He smooths his hand down his
Rolling Stones tee, straightening the hem around his hips as he takes a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

Harry walks towards the door, ruffling his hair and flipping it forward. He quickly rakes his fingers
through his curls before flipping it back, scrunching up the ends. He pauses for a beat at the door
before pulling it open.

“Hi,” Louis says breathlessly, rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands stuffed in the pockets
of his black denim jacket.

“Hi,” Harry replies with a grin. “C’mon in.”

Louis nods, running his fingers through his perfectly messy hair as he steps into the apartment.

“Nice place,” Louis comments, looking around the living room. “That five floor walk-up is terrible,
but it’s worth it.”

“Oh, God it’s the worst, right?” Harry answers, shutting the door behind him and turning the lock.
“I thought it was bad when I moved in, but honestly, try those stairs when you’re drunk. I’m
surprised I haven’t fallen.”

“Me too,” Louis laughs, shrugging out of his black denim jacket. Harry nearly chokes on his own
spit as he takes in Louis’ maroon t-shirt, the obscenely deep scoop neck exposing his delicate
collarbones and the intricate writing of his chest piece.

Fuck.

“This okay?” Louis asks, pulling the hem of the tee around his hips. “I wasn’t sure what you would
want me to wear?”

“Y-yeah,” Harry stammers. “The color’s great, you look great.”

“Great,” Louis smiles.

“Great,” Harry parrots.

They look at each other for a long moment. Louis turns away, fidgeting nervously; he keeps
messing with his hair and straightening his shirt, his eyes flitting around the room the whole while.
Harry watches him, wishing he could just say something that would make him relax, but he feels
like his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“You know, I wasn’t sure if it mattered what I wore at all,” Louis finally says, turning back to Harry
as a sly smile stretches across his face. “You weren’t really clear in your text, y’know. Didn’t know
if this was gonna be a whole authentic ‘draw me like one of your French girls’ kind of thing or
not.”

Harry honks a surprised laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth. Louis’ grin widens, his eyes
crinkling shut. Even as all sorts of images flicker in his mind’s eye, Harry relaxes, marveling at
how Louis seems to have this innate gift when it comes to putting him at ease, even when he is
obviously nervous himself.

“Oh my God,” Harry laughs.

“Aw, come on, Curly, you can’t tell me you don’t have a Titanic fantasy,” Louis teases, tossing his
jacket over the back of the couch. “You have to. What’s the point of being a painter if you don’t
have one?”

“Even if I did–”

“You do.”

“Even if I did,” Harry emphasizes, holding his hand up. “It certainly wouldn’t be for the first
sitting. You have to earn Titanic, Lou.”

“Noted,” Louis nods solemnly, his eyes twinkling. “So where do you want me then?”

Everywhere, Harry thinks.

“The armchair,” Harry says instead, pointing towards the window. “Do you want a drink? I’ve got
beer, and I’m pretty sure Niall has a bottle of Jameson in the freezer.”

“Beer’s fine,” Louis says easily, plopping down in the arm chair. “Never steal whiskey from an
Irishman, Haz, you should know that.”

“Right, of course,” Harry replies, heading into the tiny kitchen. (It’s the only thing Harry doesn’t
like about this apartment, but that’s New York for you.) He grabs two bottles of Amstel Light from
the fridge, popping the lids off with the bottle opener magnet on the door.

“How are you supposed to paint me if we’re drinking beer?” Louis calls from the living room.
“Aren’t I supposed to pose and like...not move a muscle for hours?”

Harry snickers, heading back into the living room.

“Have you lured me here under false pretenses, Styles?” Louis asks, accepting the bottle Harry
hands him, clinking the necks together. “Where’s all the paint? I see an easel and canvas, but no
paint–”

“So many questions,” Harry comments, settling down in the desk chair he wheeled out from his
room.

“Well, I’ve never done this before, you see,” Louis quips, batting his eyelashes. “I need you to
show me.”

Harry does his best not to blush at the obvious innuendo, taking a big gulp of beer and then setting
his bottle down on the window sill. He grabs his large sketchpad off his makeshift workstation,
brushing the bits of eraser dust off the top page.
“The canvas will come later. I’m just gonna sketch you at first,” Harry explains. “If that’s okay?
Just so I can get the feel of you.”

“Go on then,” Louis grins wickedly, kicking his sneakers off and tucking one foot under his
opposite knee. He arches his eyebrow. “Get a feel for me.”

“You’re the actual worst,” Harry deadpans.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis giggles. “I can’t help it.” He rests one elbow on the armrest, cradling his chin
in his hand; he sips his beer and then rests his bottle on his knee, one finger scratching at the label.

Harry shakes his head and smiles, observing how Louis’ change in posture shifts all the lines of his
body. He grabs his pencil and gets to work, quickly gridding off the area and starting to sketch a
rough outline of circles.

“You’re really not going to pose me?”

“No,” Harry answers, tipping his sketchpad up as Louis cranes his neck to try and see what he’s
doing. He chuckles, looking back up at him. “I want it to feel as natural as possible, yeah? The idea
is to capture an unguarded moment. One little sliver of time, a single heartbeat. I hate those
like...boring old portraits where there’s no sense of life in them, you know? Where every single
little thing is planned and posed and overworked. That’s not the kind of artist I want to be.”

“The Mona Lisa was posed though,” Louis points out, shifting in the chair. “You can’t deny that
there’s life in that. Why else would we still be talking about her centuries later?”

Harry falls just a little bit harder for him in that moment.

“I disagree,” Harry counters, resting the sketch pad on his knees. “I mean, yes, of course she posed,
but did you know that it took da Vinci four years to paint the Mona Lisa? Obviously she didn’t sit
there for four years posing. Who knows how long she actually did, but however long it was, do you
really think she just sat there and held that smirk? It’s practically impossible for a human being to
do that. You haven’t even been sitting here for 5 minutes and you’ve already changed positions
twice, Lou. You can’t sit still.”

“You told me not to!” Louis protests good-naturedly, taking a sip of beer.

“No, I know I did,” Harry continues passionately. “Listen, the reason we’re still talking about the
Mona Lisa today is not the pose, but how da Vinci saw her, how he interpreted that one moment in
time. What’s she smiling at? What caused that glint in her eye? Was it actually her or was it what
da Vinci thought of her? Millions of people have pondered it, but only two people actually know
what happened while she sat for that portrait. That’s what I want this to be.”

“Something only we know,” Louis says, a smile slowly stretching across his face.

“Exactly,” Harry nods. “If you can, I’d love for you to forget I’m even drawing you. Let’s
just...talk. I’ll know what I want for the portrait when I see it. Relax and trust me, okay?”

Louis lets out a slow breath, licking his lips and pressing them together as he nods. He relaxes his
posture, sinking back into the cushions. Harry adjusts his sketchpad on his knees, biting the inside
of his cheek as he gets back to work, concentrating on Louis’ high cheekbones and the shape of his
eyes. They are quiet for a long time; the only sound in the room is the scratch of Harry’s pencil on
the page and the occasional car horn from the street below. It’s not uncomfortable, but it is a little
unnerving, feeling Louis watch him sketch him. Their eyes meet every time Harry looks up from
his sketchpad, making Harry feel like he’s just as on display as Louis is.

“Lou,” Harry drawls, filling in the curve of his left eyebrow. “I can’t believe this is the one time
since I’ve met you that you’ve gone silent.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis rasps, abashed. “I just...I like watching you work. You get this little crinkle
between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating.”

Harry self-consciously massages between his brows.

“Don’t do that,” Louis says. “It’s cute.”

The back of Harry’s neck feels hot. He bites back a grin as he sticks his pencil behind his ear,
reaching for his beer bottle and taking a quick swig.

“M’not used to being watched while I’m doing this,” Harry admits, flexing his drawing hand,
cracking his knuckles. “It’s weird.”

“How do you think the models in your classes feel?” Louis asks with a lopsided smile.

“I suppose I’ve never really thought about it,” Harry admits, grabbing his pencil and getting back to
work. “But then again, the models in class don’t ever talk back to us. They just sit there and kind of
zone out.”

“I imagine you would have to do that,” Louis muses. “How else do you deal with sitting in a room
full of strangers completely naked for an hour while they stare at you? I mean, I feel exposed right
now, and I’m fully clothed.”

“It’s actually pretty clinical when they’re there,” Harry says, shading in Louis’ irises and drawing
the little crinkles by his eyes. “It’s not like this.”

“Do you think that’s the point of your assignment?” Louis asks.

Harry looks up at him in amazement.

“I mean, it’s harder to hide behind technique and objectiveness when it’s someone you know,”
Louis explains. “It takes you out of your comfort zone, forces you to really put yourself in the
painting too, like you said–okay, what? What are you grinning at?”

“It’s just I was thinking the exact same thing before you got here,” Harry says, unable to wipe the
smile off his face. “I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised you get it because you’re an artist too. It’s
just...it’s nice to know that someone understands.”

“It can be pretty isolating can’t it?” Louis ask. “Painting?”

“Definitely,” Harry says. “Like you’re on the outside looking in. Always observing, rarely
participating. I imagine writing is worse, though.”

“Yeah,” Louis muses. “It’s just you, your brain, and all these feelings that are fighting to get out if
only you could just get out of your own way.”
“But when you do manage to do that–”

“There’s nothing like it in the world,” Louis finishes. “It’s why we do what we do.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs.

They fall quiet for a couple minutes as Harry sketches, dotting the pencil on the page as he attempts
to capture the hint of stubble on Louis’ jaw.

“Do you ever worry you’re doing it all for nothing?” Louis asks suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“Like the multiple degrees, all the training,” Louis clarifies. He drains his beer, putting the empty
bottle on the floor. “All those years spent intensely studying something that’s clearly an innate
talent. Why do you do it?”

“I mean, I think it’s important to hone your craft,” Harry says, carefully starting on the feathery
pieces of Louis’ hair. “You can always be better, there’s always something new you can be
learning. As for the rest, that’s all kind of up to chance, isn’t it? But at least I’ll hopefully be
prepared for whatever comes my way, if it does.”

“That’s true,” Louis sighs, carding his fingers through his hair. “I guess sometimes I’m afraid that
I’ve spent all this money on my fancy creative writing degree for nothing, you know? So much
debt for a piece of paper that says I’m a writer and it might not even get me anywhere.”

“You’re so good, though,” Harry assures him, sticking his pencil in the spiral at the top of his pad.
He rests his sketch pad on his knees, giving Louis his full attention. “I’ve read those short stories
on your blog. I know I’m not an expert, but I thought they were pretty fucking amazing. Your novel
will be, too.”

“You read those?”

“Of course I did,” Harry replies. “As soon as you told me about them, I–oh, shit. Did you not want
me to? I’m sor–”

“No, no, I wanted you to,” Louis interrupts shyly. “I just didn’t think you would actually read them,
y’know?”

“Why not?” Harry asks, mildly offended that Louis would think otherwise.

“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs. “I thought only my mom would read them.”

Harry scoffs.

“No, really,” Louis insists, looking down and picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans. “I can’t help
feeling sometimes, especially here in New York, where everyone’s a writer or an artist or an actor
or something, what makes me so special? I know I talk a big game, that I’m going to write the next
great American novel and be at the top of all of the bestseller lists, but what if I don’t? What if I
don’t even get published? Ever? What if I’m just like...writing for a void? What if no one ever
wants to hear anything I have to say?”
“I do,” Harry says earnestly. “I’ll always want to hear what you have to say, Lou. That may not
mean much–”

“It means everything,” Louis says, looking back up at him, his blue eyes intense.

They look at each other for a long time, electricity crackling in the air. Harry’s heart starts to pound
in his chest, butterflies dancing in his belly.

“Can I ask you something?” Louis questions after a moment.

“Of course,” Harry answers.

“Why did you want to paint me?” Louis asks, leaning forward inquisitively. “I know you said the
assignment was to paint someone you knew, but we just met, Harry. We barely know each other.”

“Does that really matter?”

“Maybe not,” Louis admits with a smile.

“I don’t think it does,” Harry says, surprised at his frankness. “I think what matters is that I want to
know you. Do you know what I haven’t been able to stop thinking about ever since we met?”

“‘Louis is so hot, why haven’t we hooked up yet?’” Louis jokes, clearly deflecting.

“Well, yeah,” Harry grins, not even missing a beat. “I think that every time I see you, Lou. I
thought that was obvious. But that’s not what I was going to say.”

“O-oh,” Louis stammers, his voice a little strained. “What were you going to say then?”

“What I was going to say is that from the moment I saw you in that bar, I knew that you were going
to be someone important,” Harry says, leaning forward in his chair. “It was just like...a light turning
on. It’s not just that I’m attracted to you, which, if I haven’t been clear enough, I am. Very attracted
to you.”

Louis blushes, smiling as he looks down at his hands. The late afternoon sun bathes him in golden
light, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“It’s more than just attraction though. I want to be with you, Louis,” Harry continues fervently. “I
want to know everything about you. The good, the bad, the ugly. All of it. All of you. If you’ll let
me, that is. And I want to share myself in return. I know it sounds crazy because we just met, but
it’s how I feel. Is that weird?”

Louis is quiet for a long time, obviously overwhelmed and taking it all in. As he waits patiently for
a response, Harry’s heart thuds in his chest; he wonders if he’s coming on too strong, if he’s said
too much, too soon. Louis’ right hand slides up his left bicep, squeezing it, while his left hand rests
on his opposite hip, almost like he’s hugging himself. His shoulders hunch in, causing the scoop of
his t-shirt to dip even lower, revealing even more of his tattoo, the smattering of chest hair glinting
in the sunlight. He takes a shuddery breath, releasing it slowly.

“No,” Louis murmurs, looking up at Harry, his eyes bright and his face immeasurably soft. “No, it’s
not. I want all of that, Haz. All of you. Everything you said, I want it too.”

It’s like everything crystallizes in that one moment. Harry can see it clear as day.
“Oh my God,” Harry gasps. “That’s it.”

“What?” Louis startles, dropping his arms to his side. “What’s it?”

“The painting,” Harry says a little frantically, setting his sketch pad aside. He gets to his feet,
crossing the space between them in a single stride. “I see it. Saw it. Oh my God.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot,” Louis gasps, his eyes widening as he looks up at him. “Shit, what was I even
doing? I moved, I’m sorry, shit.”

“No, no, don’t be,” Harry assures him. “It’s what I wanted, remember? It’s okay, I remember what
you were doing.”

He crouches in front of Louis, reaching for him. He stops just short of touching, looking up and
meeting his eyes.

“Can I?”

“Y-yeah,” Louis nods, his voice breathy. “Of course.”

Harry gently takes Louis’ right arm, moving it into place. Louis watches him, his pupils dilating,
his breath shallow. Harry feels the energy between them thrumming, his cock stirring in his jeans as
he places Louis’ hand at his bicep, squeezing gently.

“Like this,” Harry murmurs, his heart racing as his fingers skim Louis’ forearm, tracing the shape
of his bird tattoo and feeling the goosebumps that have risen there. “Like you’re hugging yourself,
yeah?”

“Okay,” Louis replies, equally soft, as his other arm slides into place naturally, his hand resting at
his hip. He licks his lips, pressing them together, trembling slightly as he swallows hard, his
Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is this good?”

“It’s perfect,” Harry says, carefully smoothing Louis’ hair across his forehead and then tracing the
line of his jaw, tilting his chin to the left. “You’re perfect.”

Harry rests his hands on Louis’ thighs, his fingers mindlessly tracing circles on the rough denim as
he gazes up at him. He wets his lips, his eyes fixated on Louis’ mouth. Louis’ breath hitches as
Harry leans in, starting to close the distance between them.

“Harry,” Louis warns, his eyes fluttering shut. “I swear to God, if you kiss me right now, you’re
never going to get this fucking painting done.”

“Fuck it,” Harry says recklessly, still hovering in Louis’ space, his faintly spicy scent filling his
nostrils, making him feel a little drunk. “I don’t care. Honestly, I don’t.”

“You do though,” Louis counters, exhaling slowly as he blinks his eyes open. “I know you do.”

“Fuck, I do,” Harry agrees after a moment, dropping his chin to his chest. He takes several deep
breaths, trying to get both his heart rate and his very interested dick back under control. Once the
tension dissipates to a bearable level, he looks back up at Louis, who is dutifully holding his pose.
“Okay, let’s do it.”

“Okay,” Louis replies, his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

Using Louis’ thighs as leverage, Harry pushes himself to his feet, tucking his curls behind his ears.
He takes a step back, framing Louis with his hands. Satisfied with what he sees, Harry digs his
phone out of his back pocket, unlocking it and opening the camera.

“Do you mind?” he asks. “You look...ah...this light is amazing. I don’t want to lose it.”

“One advantage we have over da Vinci, eh?” Louis quips.

“Yeah,” Harry grins as he sets up the shot. “Okay, can you look down and then look back up at me
on three?”

Louis nods. Harry counts him down, pressing the shutter right as Louis looks up at him.

“Perfect,” Harry mutters, looking down at the picture. Louis has the same soft, fond smile on his
face that he did when the inspiration struck. He wonders if Louis has looked at him like that from
the beginning and he’s only just now aware of it. His stomach does a little flip at the thought.

“Okay,” Harry says, pulling up his painting playlist on his phone and pressing play. He places the
phone on the window sill and maneuvers his easel into place. “Oh, do you like Fleetwood Mac? I
always put them on whenever I paint, they help me focus.”

“S’fine, Haz,” Louis smiles. “I tend to be more of an ABBA man myself though. For future
reference.”

“Good to know,” Harry grins, cracking his knuckles, his fingers itching as he grabs his drawing
pencil. “I’m going to focus on getting the sketch on the canvas for now. It’s called the
underpainting? I’ve got that picture for reference, but it’s always better to work from the real thing.
Let me know if you get tired and we’ll stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

They share a smile, Louis’ eyes gleaming sapphire blue in the slowly dwindling light. Harry takes a
deep breath to center himself and gets to work, putting his pencil to the canvas. He slips into the
zone quickly, losing all concept of time as he focuses on Louis’ face, meticulously sketching his
features. For all his fidgeting when he first got there, Louis is an ideal subject now, barely even
moving a muscle or batting an eyelash. He doesn’t zone out like Harry had said the models in his
classes did; in fact, his eyes get more intense the longer the session goes on. The heat in Louis’
gaze causes the hairs on Harry’s arms to stand on end, goosebumps rippling as his heart rate
skyrockets. Rather than distracting him, it just spurs Harry on, his pencil flying over the canvas, the
underpainting taking shape as Louis starts to pop out on the canvas.

Harry already knows it’s the best work he’s ever done.

Harry’s so focused he doesn’t even recognize the sound of keys jangling in the lock. He and Louis
both jump about a foot in the air when the door bangs shut, the little bubble surrounding them
popping as the fragrant smell of hot pizza fills the apartment.

“Honey, I’m home,” Niall calls jovially, his keys clattering as he tosses them in the dish on the end
table. “And I want to hear all about–” His eyes go wide as he sees Harry and Louis. “Oh shit, I’m
sorry, I thought you guys would be done by now?”
“It’s okay, I lost track of time,” Harry replies, tapping his phone to turn the music off. He twists his
spine, groaning in satisfaction as it pops. “We should be finishing up anyway, right, Lou? We lost
the light.”

“We lost the light ages ago, Haz,” Louis informs him. “Look.”

“Fuck, we did,” Harry marvels, looking at the pink and purple streaks starting to marble the sky as
the sun sets. “You should have said something.”

He looks back over at Louis, his mouth going dry at the sight of him stretching his arms over his
head, revealing a sliver of golden stomach.

“And interrupt you?” Louis replies, smirking as he catches Harry looking. “Not in a million years.
Where’s the bathroom, by the way?”

“Just down the hall on the right,” Harry says, trying not to smile smugly as he catches Louis
discreetly adjusting himself as he gets to his feet.

“Thanks,” Louis smiles, his fingers delicately grazing Harry’s shoulders as he passes by. “Be right
back.”

“Um, what the fuck was that?” Niall stage whispers as soon as Louis is out of earshot.

“Niall, he’ll hear you!” Harry hisses, looking down the hall to confirm that the bathroom door is
shut.

“I’m so sorry, H,” Niall apologizes, dropping his volume even lower. “Should I go? I’m sure I can
call Bressie to hang out–”

“It would look weird if you just took your pizza and left,” Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes. “It’s fine.”

“If you say so,” Niall says, plopping down on the couch and flipping open the pizza box. “You
know I would leave if you asked though, right?”

“Yes, Niall,” Harry says fondly, packing up his drawing supplies. “I do know.”

Niall turns on the TV, flipping through the channels until he settles on an episode of Friends. Harry
smiles, turning back to his canvas and lifting it off the easel. He rests the edge of the canvas on his
knees as he studies his work, smiling in satisfaction at what he sees. He can’t wait to get started on
the painting in earnest, can’t wait to bring it to life and show the world the Louis that he sees.

Hearing the bathroom door open and shut, Harry quickly gets to his feet, moving to stash the
canvas in his room. His hand is on his doorknob when Louis reappears in the living room.

“I don’t get to see the work-in-progress?” Louis pouts. “That doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?”

“Do you let people read your unfinished novel?” Harry counters, clutching the canvas to his chest
protectively.

“Touché,” Louis replies with a grin. “Stash away, Curly. I’ll wait for the finished product.”

“That’s right you will,” Harry teases, pushing his bedroom door open. He carefully places the
canvas on his bed, unable to stop a massive grin from breaking out on his face as he heads back out
into the living room.

“...you sure?” Niall asks Louis. “There’s plenty of pizza and beer to go around.”

“No, I really should–”

“Oh,” Harry says, his face falling. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, clutching his jacket to his chest as he turns to Harry. “I’ve got work to do and
I’m feeling a bit...inspired after today, so...”

He trails off, offering Harry a soft, private smile, one that makes Harry’s stomach do somersaults.

“So you gotta go then,” Harry says, matching his smile. “When inspiration strikes, you listen.”

“Right,” Louis replies, his smile widening.

“I’ll walk you out,” Harry says.

Louis nods. He says goodbye to Niall as he shrugs his jacket on; Niall answers him without taking
his eyes off the television, fully engrossed in an episode that he's probably seen dozens of times.
Harry opens the door, leaning against the doorframe once Louis steps out into the hallway.

“I really do have to work,” Louis says quietly, stepping into Harry’s space and toying with the hem
of his t-shirt, his fingers brushing Harry’s hip through the thin cotton. “I don’t want you to think
I’m running out on you or anything.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

“Liar,” Louis smirks.

“Okay, you got me,” Harry admits, reaching up and brushing Louis’ hair off his forehead. Louis
sighs as Harry gently drags his fingers down the column of his neck, his grip on Harry’s t-shirt
tightening as his eyes drift to Harry’s mouth.

It would be so easy to kiss him right now, and God he wants to, and yet Harry waits. Both because
he doesn’t want his first kiss with Louis to be in full view of his roommate and somehow, the
anticipation feels all the more sweeter now.

“Thanks for today,” Harry murmurs. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis replies, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “Will you need me
again? For the painting?”

“Yeah, please,” Harry nods, getting a little distracted by the little triangle of freckles on Louis’
cheek. “I’ll let you know when it’s almost done? You can sit for the final details?”

“It’s a date,” Louis smiles.

“It’s a date,” Harry affirms, grinning like a fool.

“Night, Curly,” Louis says, thumbing over his dimple and pressing down gently. “I’ll text you
later.”
Harry watches him go; Louis trots down the stairs, stopping at the first landing and winking up at
him.

“Night,” Harry says.

“Night,” Louis echoes.

Harry doesn’t go back inside until the echoes of Louis’ footfalls in the stairwell fade away.

********

Harry grabs his smallest detail brush, dabbing it in the squirt of white paint on his palette. He
glances at the photograph clipped to the side of the easel, the bottom edges curling ever so slightly,
and then turns his gaze to the man himself, the butterflies in his stomach kicking into high gear as
their eyes meet. The sunlight may not be quite the same as the golden afternoon they had the
previous weekend, but Louis looks no less luminous as he sits patiently, waiting for Harry to finish
the portrait. He’s in the same outfit as before, his hair is styled the same, even his hint of five
o’clock shadow is the same; the only thing that feels different today is the energy between them,
the anticipation palpable from the moment Louis stepped into the apartment.

Harry loses track of how long he sits there, staring at Louis, his paintbrush poised in the air.

“Like what you see, Curly?” Louis teases, his eyebrow arching.

“You know I do,” Harry answers easily.

He turns his attention back to the painting, adding little flecks of white to Louis’ pupils, trying to
perfectly capture the light in them. When he looks back up, he sees a hint of flush creeping down
Louis’ chest as he takes a steadying breath, fidgeting ever so slightly. Biting back a smug grin, he
adds a small dot of white to the center of Louis’ bottom lip, carefully blending it in with the pale
pink, adding depth and texture. Finally, he drops his brush into a mason jar of paint solvent,
pushing back in his desk chair so he can see the painting from a distance. He takes a deep breath,
sighing in satisfaction as he scrubs his hands down his cheeks.

It’s finished.

“Is it–”

“Wait,” Harry interrupts, wheeling back towards the easel and grabbing another brush. He dips it in
the black paint and adds his initials in the corner, keeping the block letters of the signature neat and
simple. He’s unable to stop the grin from breaking out on his face as he drops the other brush in the
mason jar as well. “Now it is. It’s done.”

The breath is promptly knocked out of Harry’s chest as he meets Louis’ gaze, the heat and intensity
in his blue eyes making him feel like a bow pulled taut, ready to fire at any moment. He swallows
hard, wetting his lips.

“Can I see it now?” Louis asks.

“Y-yeah,” Harry stammers as he stands, pushing the desk chair out of the way. “Of course you
can.”
Harry feels like he might come out of his skin as Louis gets up out of the armchair, so nervous that
he suddenly feels a little lightheaded. Objectively, the painting is good, he knows it is. But as Louis
crosses towards him, Harry can’t help but worry that he’ll hate it or think he’s a terrible artist. His
soul is right there on the canvas, completely on display for Louis. Because of Louis. He’s holding
his heart out on a silver platter and suddenly Harry’s terrified Louis is not going to take it.

Harry takes a small step back as Louis comes to stand in front of the easel, giving him some space
to take the painting in on his own. Heart pounding, he stuffs his hands in his pockets in order to
stop himself from biting his nails as Louis studies his work for what feels like an eternity.

“D’you like it?” Harry asks hesitantly, hating how needy he sounds. “I’m calling it ‘Something
Only We Know.’”

Louis whirls around, his eyes wide.

“I know I’m still learning,” Harry babbles. “But for where I am, I think it’s pretty–”

Louis suddenly closes the space between them, gently pressing his fingers to Harry’s lips to silence
him. Their chests brush; Harry shivers as Louis reaches up with his other hand and tucks a
wayward curl behind his ear, an awed smile on his face.

“Harry,” Louis breathes, his voice ragged with emotion as his fingers trace the shape of his lips and
then move along the curve of his jaw. “That’s...that’s how you see me?”

Harry nods, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest. Louis curls his hand around the back
of his neck, tugging him down and finally, finally sealing their lips together in a kiss. It’s like a dam
breaking or a match igniting; Harry feels desperate the instant their lips touch, groaning against
Louis’ mouth, wanting more, needing to get as close to him as humanly possible. His hands fly to
Louis’ hips, crushing their bodies together as he kisses him back fervently, like he’s trying to make
up for lost time, like every minute they’ve spent together since they’ve met has been wasted,
because they haven’t been doing this every day.

Louis wraps his arms around his neck, rocking up on his toes to make up for their slight height
difference. He whimpers as Harry presses his tongue against his soft lips, gently but firmly, asking
for entrance. Louis opens for him, sighing as Harry licks into his mouth, sliding their tongues
together hot and wet and oh, so fucking perfect.

Harry’s addicted to him from the very first taste; he knows right away that he’ll never be able to get
enough of Louis.

Their kisses turn filthy quickly, Louis giving back just as much as he’s getting. Harry’s rapidly
hardening cock twitches as Louis threads his fingers in his hair, tugging the curls as he kisses him
deeply. Harry gasps and breaks the kiss, sparks shooting down his spine as Louis presses against
him, his own hardness becoming very apparent. Louis takes advantage of this, sucking hot kisses
down his throat as he clings to him tightly, rocking his hips forward again.

“We should, ah fuck,” Harry pants, squeezing Louis’ waist and swallowing back a moan as Louis
nips the sensitive spot at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Bedroom. Now.”

“Please,” Louis rasps, licking over the skin as his hand skims down Harry’s rib cage. He looks up at
him, his eyes completely lust-blown, only a small ring of blue showing. “Take me to bed, Haz.”
Harry dips back in, kissing Louis softly, gently, his hands wandering the curves of Louis’ body as
he steers them towards his bedroom. Once inside, he kicks the door shut, not wanting to take his
hands off Louis for a single second, not if he doesn’t have to. Louis presses him back against the
door as he kisses him, his tongue thrusting against his insistently. Harry’s hands drift down to the
ample curve of Louis’ perfect ass, squeezing it as he grinds their erections together, the friction
delicious against his aching cock.

“Fuck,” Louis hisses, fisting his hands in the hem of Harry’s t-shirt. “Feels so good, baby.”

Harry’s cock throbs at the endearment, the cotton of his briefs dampening with precome. Louis
throws his head back as Harry noses down his neck, breathing him in. His scent is intoxicating,
pure man, fresh with a hint of spicy musk. Harry wishes he could bottle it up and take it with him
everywhere. He nibbles along Louis’ collarbone, dipping his tongue in the hollow created by it.
Louis moans at that, yanking Harry’s shirt up around his middle.

Harry pushes off the door, guiding them towards his bed. He raises his arms as he allows Louis to
remove his shirt; Louis bunches it in his hand and tosses it towards the corner of the room. Louis
smooths his other hand down Harry’s bare chest, his fingers brushing his left nipple, sending a jolt
of electricity through Harry as he arches into his touch with a gasp. Louis hums in approval, rolling
the sensitive nub between his fingers, teasing it to a stiff peak as sucks a kiss under Harry’s jaw.

“Louis, fuck!”

“You like having your nipples played with, baby?” Louis asks, his breath hot against his skin as he
switches to the right one, giving it the same treatment. “You do, don’t you? All four of them, I
bet.”

Harry grunts in lieu of answering him, skimming his hands down Louis’ ribs, grabbing the hem of
his shirt and tugging up. Louis snickers, pressing their lips together quickly and raising his arms.
Harry removes the offending fabric in one fluid motion, the maroon garment quickly joining his
shirt on the floor.

“God,” Harry sighs, taking Louis in, all golden skin and dark tattoos and softly toned curves.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Lou. Want you so much.”

“Want you too,” Louis replies, pulling him in by the hips, pressing their bare chests together, the
skin-to-skin contact overwhelming in the best way. “You’re so gorgeous, Harry. I wanted you from
the moment I saw you in that ridiculous tiara.”

“I can go get it if you want,” Harry quips, tracing his fingers up and down the line of Louis’ spine.
“It’s in my closet somewhere.”

Louis laughs, his eyes crinkling completely shut. Harry beams, ducking down and pressing kisses
to his bare shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous,” Louis murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple. “So fucking ridiculous.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” Louis affirms, his fingers dancing down Harry’s abs, coming to rest on the waistband of his
jeans. He tugs at the button. “Can I?”
Harry nods, taking a deep breath as Louis pops the button open, sliding the zipper down and
starting to ease the denim down his hips.

“Wait,” Harry says, touching his wrist. “You too.”

Louis smiles, exhaling shakily as he pauses, looking up at Harry and nodding. Harry reaches for
him, deftly undoing the button and reaching for his zipper. They immediately get tangled in each
other, laughing as they try to wiggle each other out of their tight jeans.

“Well, it’s the thought that counts,” Harry chuckles, kissing the tip of Louis’ nose as he untangles
their arms, focusing on shimmying down to his underwear as fast as he can, adding his jeans and
socks to the pile of discarded clothing. Louis does the same, tossing the rest of his clothes aside,
leaving him in only a small, tight pair of boxer briefs. Harry’s mouth waters as he takes in the thick,
hard line of Louis’ cock in his briefs, the navy fabric tenting obscenely against his erection. Harry
quickly and unceremoniously shucks his own briefs, his hard cock slapping against his belly wetly.

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis breathes, his eyes widening as he looks Harry up and down appreciatively,
admiring him in all his naked glory. “Wow.”

“Yeah?” Harry pants, stroking himself slowly, his eyes laser focused on Louis’ as he smears
precome down his shaft to ease the glide. He tilts his chin at Louis, arching an eyebrow expectantly.
“Let me see you, Lou. C’mon.”

Louis hooks his fingers in the elastic waistband, pulling it away from his body. Harry nearly chokes
as Louis smirks wickedly, turning around as he arches his back, sticking his ass out temptingly.
Harry fists his cock, giving himself a few solid tugs as Louis teasingly slides the fabric down his
gloriously thick thighs and shapely calves. He glances coyly at Harry over his shoulder as he kicks
the briefs away before turning back around to face him, his thick cock standing proudly at
attention.

“Fucking tease,” Harry growls.

“You wanted to see me,” Louis taunts, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I was just doing what
you–”

Harry pounces on him, cutting him off with a kiss as he hauls him up. Louis giggles in surprise as
he’s tossed to the mattress, landing with a bounce. He quickly shoves the duvet aside as Harry
climbs up over him, hovering on all fours; Louis licks his lips in anticipation, gazing up at Harry,
reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ears.

“Hey there,” Louis whispers.

“Hey yourself,” Harry answers, ducking down to kiss him.

Louis moans softly as their lips meet, their mouths opening in sync, their tongues swirling together.
Their kisses quickly become hot and desperate, all semblance of teasing and playfulness gone. As
they kiss furiously, Louis tugs Harry down on top of him, his legs falling open as Harry settles his
full weight on him, pressing their bodies together. Louis hooks his feet over Harry’s calves,
tangling them fully as he gently cards his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp soothingly as
they continue to kiss.
Harry feels like he might combust. He likes to think he’s had his fair share of sex, good sex even,
but nothing he’s experienced has ever compared to this, and certainly on his first go with someone.
Louis is new and somehow familiar all at once; just kissing him, moving in time with him, feeling
his body under his own makes Harry feel like he’s found the home he didn’t even realize he’d been
missing.

Louis’ blunt nails scratch lightly down Harry’s back, his hands coming to rest on his ass. He
squeezes as he arches up into him, gasping prettily as their cocks rub together. Harry peppers kisses
down his throat as he ruts against him slowly, deliberately, rhythmically; the press and slide of their
cocks overwhelmingly good and maddeningly not enough at the same time. Harry groans, his eyes
fluttering shut as Louis meets his thrusts with equal fervor. Little pops of color explode behind his
eyelids as he buries his face in Louis’ neck, sucking a bruise there.

“Touch me,” Louis gasps, throwing his head back against the pillow after a particularly hard grind.
“Oh, God, Harry, need you to touch me. Fuck.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” Harry soothes, dotting kisses along his cheekbone as he presses up, reaching
for his bedside table. “I’ve got you.”

Harry yanks the drawer open, rummaging around for his bottle of lube, barely restraining from
cheering when he finds it quickly. He flips the cap open, squeezing a dab of clear gel onto his palm,
closing his fist to warm it. Dropping the bottle next to them, Harry sucks a kiss to Louis’ shoulder
as he rolls them slightly, reaching between them and finally taking Louis’ cock in his hand.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis whines, thrusting up into Harry’s slick grip, his cock hot and heavy in Harry’s
hand.

“Yeah, Lou,” Harry encourages, tightening his grip as he slides his hand down his shaft. “Do you
like it like this?” Harry asks, checking in with him on the upstroke.

“Y-yes,” Louis stammers, his hips stuttering forward. “Just like that, Harry, God.”

Harry smiles, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, looking at his face in fascination, captivated as Louis
loses himself in the sensations. He looks down between them, watching in awe as the fat head of
Louis’ cock pops past the ring of his fingers over and over again. He’s so absorbed in pleasing
Louis that he doesn’t even hear the snick of the lube bottle, gasping in surprise when Louis wraps
his wet hand around his neglected cock.

“Oh my God,” Harry cries brokenly, his cock jerking in Louis’ grip as pleasure rushes through
him.

“Mmmm,” Louis hums, his blue eyes hazy with lust as he deftly strokes Harry from base to tip and
back down again. “So big, Haz. Can’t wait to have this gorgeous cock inside me.”

“Fuck,” Harry moans, his eyes fluttering shut.

Blindly, he finds Louis’ lips, his tongue fucking into his waiting mouth, stroking against Louis’
tongue in rhythm with his strokes on his cock. As much as he wants to keep kissing him, never stop
kissing him, a lack of oxygen forces Harry to break the kiss. They pant into each other’s mouths as
continue to jerk each other off, their fists flying over their cocks, adjusting grip and pressure as they
start to learn each other’s bodies and what gets them off. The coil of pleasure tightens in Harry’s
groin, he can feel his orgasm hurtling towards him. He licks a drop of sweat from Louis’ neck,
feeling his pulse fluttering under his tongue. Louis’ breathing is ragged, his rhythm getting sloppy
as he gets closer and closer to his climax.

“Lou, please,” Harry murmurs, nuzzling their noses together, the sweetness of the gesture wildly
contrasting with the way Harry twists his hand around Louis’ cock. “Baby, let go for me.”

It’s almost as if Louis was waiting for Harry’s command. He comes almost instantly, crying out
loudly as he spills over Harry’s fist, pearly white dripping down his fingers. Harry watches him in
awe, easing him through the aftershocks. He gasps when Louis starts jerking him faster, even as he
comes down through his post-orgasmic haze.

“You too, baby,” Louis slurs, a dopey smile on his face as he expertly strokes Harry’s cock.
“Lemme see you come.”

Harry’s orgasm slams into him suddenly, the sheer release of it all causing his vision to white out as
an intense feeling of euphoria overtakes him, come splattering all the way up his chest. He feels
like it goes on for ages, the waves of pleasure crashing over him over and over again. Louis gathers
him in his arms as he starts to come down from the high, pressing sweet kisses to the top of his
head, murmuring words of praise. Harry’s arms slide around his waist as he rests his head on his
chest, trying to catch his breath as he listens to Louis’ gradually slowing heartbeat, his fingers
combing through his sparse chest hair.

“You with me, Curly?” Louis rasps several minutes later, once their breathing has evened out and
the sweat and come has cooled on their skin.

“Barely,” Harry grins, pressing a kiss over Louis’ heart and then resting his chin on his chest,
peering up at him. “Jesus, Lou, that was–”

“I know,” Louis finishes, gently thumbing over Harry’s dimple. “Wow.”

Harry presses up on his forearms, dipping down for a kiss. They kiss softly, lazily, as if they have
all the time in the world.

Which they do.

“Let me go get us a washcloth,” Harry says, forcing himself to pull away from him. “We’re
disgusting.”

“But I want to cuddle,” Louis pouts.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” Harry laughs, dropping a kiss on the tip of nose. “Then we can
cuddle all you want.”

Harry crawls off of him, grabbing the duvet and wrapping it around his waist, just in case Niall
decided to come home at some point. (God help him if he did.)

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says, pausing at the door. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Did you like the painting?” Harry asks with a cheeky grin. “You never actually said, you know.”
Louis squawks, clearly affronted that Harry would even ask. Harry cackles as one of his pillows
goes sailing in the air, barely missing him as he scurries down the hall towards the bathroom.
 Chapter 3

Louis stands on the corner of Forty-Sixth Street and Eighth Avenue, a deep sense of nostalgia
mixed with a hint of trepidation washing over him as he gazes at the myriad of colorful awnings
and signs of Hell’s Kitchen’s famed Restaurant Row, each one slightly more garish than the next in
their bids to entice passersby. To Louis, it feels like a ghost town now; he half expects to see the
shadow of his younger self running down the street, his hand entwined with Harry’s, their laughter
bandying about like the summer breeze. As he takes a deep breath to center himself, the chorus of
“This Used to be My Playground” starts up in his head because of course it does. With a wry smile
at his own sense of melodrama, he starts down the street, expertly dodging the girl handing out
flyers in front of the ancient steakhouse.

Since moving back to the city, there have been large swaths of Manhattan that Louis has deemed
off limits, avoiding them at all costs. Of course, he was afraid of running into Harry (and rightly so,
it turns out) but also certain neighborhoods are just too rich with memories of him. Of them.
Chelsea, where countless nights were spent either showing Harry’s art or being seen at various
galleries, the neighborhood that slowly poisoned their relationship from the inside out. The East
Village, where they shared their first (and only) apartment together, the neighborhood that bore
witness to their giddy domestic bliss slowly devolving into what felt like miles of distance between
them, with Louis going to bed on his own most nights and Harry stumbling home late from yet
another dinner with Xander and his crew. But it’s Hell’s Kitchen that Louis has avoided the most
because the memories are nothing but good here, making them even harder to face. It’s the
neighborhood where they met, where they fell disgustingly, intoxicatingly, irrevocably in love,
where they literally inked their love for each other into their skin. For years, Louis didn’t think
there would ever be any way he’d be able to face coming back here again. The pain just ran too
deep.

But then, despite every precaution he’d taken, he’d fucking run into Harry anyway. He should have
known that’s how it was going to happen, when he was completely unprepared for it. It’s always
the one person you don’t want to see that you definitely end up seeing, no matter how much you try
to avoid them. That’s just how New York works.

No matter how devastating the encounter with Harry was (and it definitely was, Louis had spent the
entirety of Saturday in bed nursing his emotional hangover, only emerging for the delivery guy), it
was oddly liberating at the same time. The worst thing that could have happened did indeed
happen. And he’d gotten through it with his head held high. Now it’s time to loosen the reins, to
blur those lines he’d carefully drawn because truly, nothing can be worse than that night in the art
gallery. And it’s time to start building his life in New York City again instead of constantly living in
fear of it. After all, despite the fact that Louis had essentially given it to him after their break-up,
Harry doesn’t own Manhattan. It’s high time Louis stops acting like he does. He deserves to have a
life here too, goddammit. Just as much as Harry does.

So, when a craving for Marlowe’s Belgian frites suddenly struck him the following Wednesday
afternoon, he decided he was just gonna fucking go get them, memories of Hell’s Kitchen be
damned. Facing them can’t possibly be any worse than it was facing Harry in the flesh. And
besides, it was the day before a long holiday weekend, half of his office was already gone anyway,
surely on the jitney up to the Hamptons for their Fourth of July celebrations. No one would miss
him if he snuck out early. He’d packed up the manuscript he’d been working on, grabbed several
more to read over the long weekend, and let Zayn know that he would be working remotely the rest
of the day.

Just like that.

As he makes his way down the street, Louis can’t help but feel sad and, quite frankly, a little bit
offended at how life on Forty-Sixth Street has moved on without him. He’s reminded that the only
thing constant about New York is change. The crumbling corner building that once housed a
bodega and a couple of porn shops has been replaced by a large, glitzy hotel that feels out of place
among the rest of the character-filled pre-war buildings that line the street.

Louis hates it immediately.

The slightly seedy cabaret bar where they would drink cheap wine and sing show tunes every
Wednesday night still stands, but Bourbon Street, the New Orleans themed bar where Harry had
thrown an elaborate surprise party for his twenty-seventh birthday, is gone, replaced by a Mexican
joint advertising five-dollar margaritas all day, every day. Harry’s favorite Thai restaurant, Yum-
Yum Three, is gone, though it seems Yum-Yum Two across the street has survived. (“The pad see
ew there is very different there, Lou, you have to trust me, Yum-Yum Three is definitely better.”)
The old Irish ale house that was more of a dive than Marlowe’s, the one that used to run an illegal
after-hours speakeasy, where Louis and Harry would drink slightly flat beer and make out in dark
corners until dawn, is no more. The space is divided in two and replaced with a Dim Sum palace
and a very out-of-place waxing parlor, which appears to be shut down.

It’s more than a little bit depressing.

Suddenly, Louis realizes he might be on a fool’s errand. He’s spent so much time building this
whole thing up in his head when the reality is that it’s likely Marlowe’s doesn’t even exist anymore.
It’s probably long gone, his beloved bar falling victim to gentrification, becoming yet another
Starbucks or, god forbid, one of those trendy build-your-own salad shops that seem to be springing
up everywhere. Louis picks up his pace, quickly passing the tapas place, a new ramen shop, and
what had been his favorite Italian restaurant; he’s too hurried to even stop and check if they still
offer the all-you-can-eat pasta of the day deal. His heart starts pounding in his chest as he gets
closer and closer to Ninth Avenue, trying not to think about how he escalated so quickly from not
being able to face the bar where he and Harry met to needing it to still be there so badly that he
very well might burst into tears in the middle of the sidewalk if it’s gone. It’s just that some places
in this city should be sacred, even if they don’t seem all that special at first glance and Louis thinks
that the bar where his life changed should certainly qualify as that.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, scurrying out of the flow of foot traffic as he draws a
ragged breath. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes unbidden as he fumbles for his pack of
cigarettes, plucking one from the box and lighting it with practiced ease, even as his hands shake.
He takes a deep pull, blinking the tears away and exhaling slowly as he turns to look at the familiar
sight before him.

Marlowe’s is still there.

The bar has had a bit of a facelift in the past couple of years, clearly in a bid to look just as
appealing as all the newer places on the street. There’s a fresh paint job and an accessibility ramp
added next to the small set of stairs leading down to the entrance, along with a new sign and a
redesigned logo that pays enough homage to the original that Louis deems it acceptable. Not
everything has changed though, much to his relief. The little smoker’s patio is still there, twinkle
lights hanging from the underside of the landing of the brownstone above the bar, a big whiskey
barrel sitting in the far corner with an ashtray sitting in the center of it. The front windows are open
to let the summer breeze in; Louis can see that the interior looks pretty much the same, the long,
but narrow space dominated by the massive bar.

Jesus, it’s a sight for sore eyes.

Louis’ stomach suddenly growls in protest, startling him out of his trance; he’s reminded that he
usually eats lunch much earlier than this. He quickly finishes his cigarette, dropping it to the curb
and grinding it out with his heel. Taking a deep breath, Louis squares his shoulders as he strides
towards the bar, trotting down the short set of steps and pushing the door open before he can
chicken out.

Just like that, he’s back home. A neater, more polished home, Louis notes, realizing that all the
furnishings have been updated. But it still feels like home.

It’s that sweet spot between the lunch rush and happy hour, which means the bar is mostly empty. A
table of obvious tourists chat over the remnants of their lunch, their check on the table with bills
sticking out of the folder. Some day-drinking college kids are playing darts in the back while the
dark-haired bartender stands at the end of the bar, his back to Louis as he sorts receipts. This used
to be one of his favorite times to come to Marlowe’s; he never understood why so many writers
would flock to Starbucks when the bars were so much better to work in. Whenever he had the
afternoon off from the cafe and Harry was busy in class, he would bring his laptop to the bar to take
advantage of the quiet, the free wi-fi, and Patrick’s propensity for comping drinks. He wrote most
of his first novel here and by setting foot in this building, Louis feels like a puzzle piece he didn’t
know he was missing just...clicks back into place.

He picks a seat three-quarters of the way down the bar, the spot that had always been his favorite,
equidistant between the front door, the cash register, and the stairs leading down to the bathrooms.
He climbs up into one of the new high-backed chairs, slinging his messenger bag on the empty
chair next to him.

“What can I get ya?” the bartender asks. There’s something about his voice that pings as familiar
in Louis’ brain, but he brushes it off.

“Jameson ginger,” Louis answers, pulling the mystery novel he’d been working on at the office out
of his bag. He places it on the bar without looking, rummaging around the bottom of the bag in
search of his favorite red pen. Zayn always teases him about making his notes directly on a
manuscript as opposed to working on it digitally, but it’s an essential part of his process and he
won’t let it go. “And an order of the Belgian Frites? Shit...where is my fucking pen…”

Louis is so focused on finding his pen that he doesn’t realize the bartender hasn’t answered him, the
silence dragging on.

“Aha,” Louis exclaims at last, triumphantly grasping his pen. “Oh, sorry, did you change the menu?
I was worried when I saw–”

Louis finally looks up, sucking in a sharp breath as he comes face to face with Niall Horan, who
looks back at him with a stormy expression, his lips pressed together in a firm line.

Niall, Harry’s best friend.

Niall, who, at one point, had been one of his best friends as well.

Niall, who he hasn’t spoken to in more than five years.

Shit.

Louis had been so focused on Harry that he had completely forgotten that New York City was
haunted as fuck and there were other ghosts he was gonna have to face before he’ll be able to move
on and build a new life, like some sort of twisted version of Ebenezer Scrooge.

And here before him stands the Ghost of Friendships Past.

“H-hi, Niall,” Louis says, his stammer completely undermining his false sense of bravado.
“Your...your hair is dark, wow. I didn’t...recognize you.”

Louis knows that he sounds lame the second the words leave his mouth. He sits up straight, doing
his best not to crumble under Niall’s unimpressed gaze.

“Y’know, I almost didn’t believe it when Harry said you were back in town,” Niall says after a long
moment. “But I knew he would absolutely never joke about seeing you.”

Louis doesn’t know how to feel about the way his heart flutters at the knowledge that Harry was
talking about him.

Or, he does, but now is definitely not the time to try and unpack that.

“I wondered if you would turn up here eventually,” Niall continues, crossing his arms across his
chest. “I didn’t think you’d actually have the balls to do it though. Clearly, I underestimated you,
Tommo.”

“Do you want me to go?” Louis asks, deflating completely underneath Niall’s scrutiny. “I can
just...I can go. It’s fine.”

Niall harrumphs as he turns his back on him, tapping on the monitor in the corner with more force
than is probably necessary. Louis’ shoulders slump in defeat; he bites his lip as he nods, shoving his
manuscript back in his bag. It’s probably nothing less than what he deserves, but that doesn’t make
Niall’s rejection sting any less.

“Okay,” Louis says quietly, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he stands. He shoves his chair
back into place. “Niall, I’m so–”

“I thought you said you wanted frites,” Niall interrupts, turning back around. “Like I really would
have taken those off the menu, dumbass.”

“Wha–”

“Just sit down, Louis, for fuck’s sake,” Niall orders, grabbing two glasses from a shelf and filling
them with ice. “Your food will be out in a few minutes.”

Ordinarily, Louis might be a little embarrassed at the eagerness with which he yanks his chair back
out, practically tossing his bag aside as he settles back in his spot. But in this moment, he can’t be
bothered to care because he knows he’s just been granted a reprieve. A small one, but a reprieve
nonetheless.
“What are you even doing here?” Louis asks.

“My afternoon guy called out last minute,” Niall answers, bypassing the ordinary bottle of Jameson
and grabbing the Gold Reserve bottle instead. He pours a double shot of whiskey into each glass. “I
couldn’t get anyone else to cover the bar. Pleasures of being the boss and all.”

“Wait, the boss? ” Louis asks, arching an eyebrow as Niall grabs the soda gun, topping up their
glasses with ginger ale. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Niall pops, garnishing the drinks with a slice of lime and then sliding one towards Louis.
“This is my place.”

Louis gapes at him.

The thing is Niall used to joke about buying Marlowe’s all the time. They would sit around the old
barrel tables, the wood surfaces scarred and permanently just a little bit sticky, feeling like the kings
of New York with their cheap happy hour cocktails in hand. Niall would drunkenly rhapsodize
about how he was gonna fix up the place without losing any of its character while Louis and Harry
would listen indulgently, cuddled together as they split a cone of frites. Looking around the room
now, he can’t believe it didn’t instantly click that the bar’s makeover was Niall’s doing. It’s
everything he always said it would be, from the way the warm buttery yellow of the walls opens up
the space, perfectly offsetting the dark cherry-stained wood furniture to the vintage metal beer and
liquor signs nailed into the ceiling to the Cheers -esque mural that Louis immediately recognizes as
Harry’s work, his distinct style unmistakable.

It’s a lot to take in.

“It’s been mine for almost two years now,” Niall continues, clinking his glass with Louis’ and
taking a long sip. “But you wouldn’t have had any way of knowing that, right?” he adds pointedly,
narrowing his eyes at Louis over the brim of his glass.

Louis sips his (very strong, Christ) cocktail, swallowing hard as a wave of regret washes over him.

He’s missed out on so much.

“Niall, I don’t know what to say,” Louis says quietly, dragging his finger through the condensation
on his glass. “Other than I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Nu-uh, Tommo,” Niall states, placing his drink down with a thunk. “You don’t get to show up here
after more than five years of complete radio silence and just tell me that you’re ‘sorry,’ okay?
That’s not good enough.”

“I know it’s not, fuck,” Louis groans. “I just don’t even know where to start or how to–”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Niall interrupts.

The kitchen door bangs open, the scent of freshly fried potatoes filling the room. Louis’ mouth
waters as a server strides towards the bar carrying his order, the tall, metal cone practically
overflowing with steaming frites, three little tubs of dipping sauces clustered around its feet on a
plate. Niall thanks the server, taking the plate from him and placing it in front of Louis.

“These are really hot,” Niall warns. “Careful.”

“Aw, thanks, buddy,” Louis teases, slipping back into their old banter without even thinking about
it. “You still care.”

“Bullshit, I care,” Niall grumbles, lacking any venom. “I just don’t want you to burn your tongue
before you tell me where the fuck you’ve been for the last five years. That’s all. So start talking.”

Louis takes a long, fortifying sip of his drink, the whiskey warming his belly. He very rarely lets
himself even think about those last few months in New York and the immediate aftermath of the
implosion of his relationship with Harry, much less talk about it. The pain of losing Harry is still
there after all these years, even if it’s more of a phantom pain these days than the gaping wound it
once was. He’d much rather keep Harry in a box, nice and compartmentalized, hidden away where
he doesn’t have to deal with him. It’s not healthy, he knows that. But knowing it’s not healthy to
bottle things up doesn’t necessarily make it any easier for him to lay himself bare to another human
being.

But at the same time, this is Niall. Niall, who knew him and Harry together. Niall, who knew what
New York had started to symbolize for Louis, how he had felt like he’d been drowning in failure
and self-loathing. Niall, who is one of the only people, other than Nick, who could understand the
overwhelming sense of loss he felt when the relationship ended. Niall, who definitely deserves an
explanation for his behavior.

Niall, who, judging by the look on his face, could somehow, after everything, still be his friend.

“That night,” Louis starts, his throat tightening as he stumbles over his words. He pauses, swirling
his red cocktail straw through his drink. Straightening up in his chair, he starts over. “The night it
all ended...the night I finally...you know, well, I went to Nick’s–”

“I knew it,” Niall interrupts, snapping his fingers. “I fucking knew it, but that rat bastard refused to
tell me anything.”

“Give him a break,” Louis says gently, unable to keep the fondness for his best friend out of his
voice. “It’s not his fault. I swore him to secrecy. He was just doing what I asked.”

Niall huffs, taking a sip of his drink.

“You know he’s in Chicago now,” Louis says, knowing he’s deflecting but unable to stop himself.
“His boyfriend is in a dance troupe there. He hates it, but he loves Mesh, so–”

“Yes, Louis, I know,” Niall deadpans, crossing his arms again. “We’re Facebook friends. Unlike
you and I.”

“Oh,” Louis says lamely.

Niall stares at him wordlessly, and Louis can tell he sees straight through him.

Okay.

Time to rip off the band-aid.

“Right. Back to me,” Louis continues. “I booked the first flight I could get to California. I was at
my mom’s by lunch the next day.”
“I get that,” Niall nods. “It makes sense that you’d go home for a while. But I never expected that
I’d never hear from you again. Louis, you just...you never came back. You went totally ghost on
your whole life!”

“I know I did,” Louis nods. “And I’m sorry, I really am. But I just...needed a clean break. From
New York, from our life together, from everything.”

“Clean break,” Niall scoffs. “What you did wasn’t a clean break, Louis. It was a total obliteration.
You changed your number, you didn’t answer emails, you locked down all your social media–”

“I had to,” Louis confesses. “Fuck, I know it sounds dramatic, I really do, and, in retrospect, I know
it was a real dick move. But I was in like...survival mode, you know? I had to make a clean break
because otherwise, I would have just gone running back to Harry, begging him to take me back.
Please. I wanted to do that almost as soon as I left. But I couldn’t, I knew I couldn’t go on like that
anymore. It felt like cutting off a fucking limb leaving him, Niall–”

“Harry’s not the only one you left though, Louis!” Niall exclaims loudly. “Fuck!”

He’s loud enough that the kids playing darts look over at them curiously, their constant chatter
halting. Noticing they’ve caught the bartender’s attention, one of the kids holds up his empty
pitcher. (Assholes. Don’t they see they are in the middle of something?) Niall nods, raking his
fingers through his dark hair and taking a deep breath to collect himself. He grabs a clean pitcher
and puts it under the Sam Adams tap, pulling the lever forward.

“Did you...did you not for a second think when you fucked off to god knows where,” Niall
continues quietly as he fills the pitcher, hurt written all over his face, “because I know there’s no
way you’ve actually been in L.A. this whole fucking time, Louis. You forget how well I know you.
Or at least I thought I did. Anyway, did you even consider how you just...vanishing...could affect
people other than Harry? Jesus, I cared about you too, you know! You were one of my best friends
and you just left. You selfish fucking prick.”

Louis is rendered completely speechless, his mouth gaping as he watches Niall angrily flip the tap
shut, the beer sloshing in the pitcher as he pours off some of the foamy head. Carrying the pitcher
in one hand, Niall lifts up the flap at the end of the bar, marching it over to the dart players. Louis
slumps in his chair, taking a long sip of his drink. A great sense of shame overcomes him, settling
like a boulder in his belly.

Niall’s right, after all. He never considered anyone or anything other than getting away from New
York and Harry as fast as he could. And by the time he was in a better place to do so, it felt like his
window for forgiveness had closed. He told himself that no one would want to hear from him, that
the damage had already been done and the best he could do was just move on from that chapter in
his life.

God, he really is a selfish fucking prick.

Louis looks down at his hands, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. Hearing rather than seeing Niall
return, Louis sighs heavily, wincing as the empty pitcher clatters in the sink and the bar flap bangs
shut. He looks up in surprise as the chair next to him is dragged backwards, Niall settling in next to
him. He helps himself to the forgotten cone of fries, taking one off the top and dipping it in mayo.

“Niall, you’re right, and I’m sorry,” Louis says contritely. “I shouldn’t have frozen you out, and I’m
sorry I did. I’m sorry I never reached out to you once I was doing better. I am a selfish fucking
prick.”

“No, you’re not,” Niall sighs, reaching for his glass of whiskey. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it felt
really good saying that just now, but I didn’t mean it. I mean, fuck, I was there, Louis. Maybe not
that night, but I saw how you guys were falling apart. It was terrible for me to watch, I can’t
imagine living it. I can’t...I can’t blame you for how you reacted. Not really.”

“I should have at least let you know I was okay, though.”

“Yes, you should have,” Niall agrees, taking another fry. “That was real shitty.”

“I know it was.”

“So then why’d you do it?” Niall asks, turning towards him. “Did you think I didn’t care about
you? That I wouldn’t want to be there for you?”

“I think I just thought that...well, you were Harry’s friend first,” Louis explains. “No matter how
close we were, you were his best friend, you know? And I just...figured that you would go with him
in the break-up. Because that’s what always happens, yeah? People say at first that they’ll be
friends with both people, but inevitably–”

“Jesus, you’re a cynical son of a bitch,” Niall scoffs.

“I like to think of it as realistic.”

“I would have made it work,” Niall says stubbornly. “I would have.”

Louis sips his drink, eyeing Niall over the brim of his glass; Niall arches an eyebrow in return,
practically daring him to disagree.

“Y’know, I think if anybody could have done it, it would have been you.”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” Niall says sadly.

Ouch.

“I really hope you can forgive me,” Louis says regretfully. “I mean, I don’t expect you to right this
second, but some day?”

“Just don’t disappear on me again, you fucker,” Niall sternly, wagging a finger at him. “In fact, give
me your phone right now so I can get your number.”

Louis eagerly digs his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and sliding it over to Niall. As Niall
thumbs over to his contacts list, pressing the “new contact” button, Louis suddenly feels like a
massive burden has been lifted, another puzzle piece clicking into place. He throws his arms around
Niall, who oofs in surprise as Louis cuddles into him as best as he can, considering the awkward
angle.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Louis mumbles into Niall’s shoulder. “I missed you, Neil. So much.”

“I missed you too, Lewis,” Niall replies easily, patting him gently as he types out a text message to
himself with one hand. He presses send and puts Louis’ phone down, his own phone buzzing on the
other side of the bar. “You’re forgiven. Now eat your fucking frites before they get cold. Well,
colder.”

Niall untangles himself from Louis’ embrace, nudging the cone of fries towards him. Louis grins,
plucking a short, extra-thick one from the middle of the cone and dipping it in the chipotle aioli,
which had always been his favorite. Niall snorts in amusement as Louis pops it in his mouth, barely
suppressing a satisfied groan as he chews.

“Thanks for not taking these off the menu,” Louis says, his mouth half full. “You have no idea how
much I’ve been craving them.”

“You’re welcome,” Niall chuckles, taking another for himself, dunking it in the pesto sauce.

They eat the fries in companionable silence, the last bits of tension ebbing away.

“Another?” Niall asks, pointing to Louis’ nearly empty glass. He grabs a napkin, wiping the grease
and salt from his fingers.

“Please,” Louis answers, grabbing his glass and slurping the last bit down.

“Coming right up.”

Niall claps Louis on the shoulder as he gets up, making his way back behind the bar, stopping to
grab the generous-looking tip left behind by the tourists.

“So, you gotta tell me,” Niall states, mixing their second round of cocktails. “Where did you go
after Cali? Siberia?”

“Like I would really go somewhere that cold,” Louis huffs good-naturedly. “Honestly, Niall. I
thought you said you knew me.”

“Right, right, what was I thinking?” Niall laughs. “Okay, somewhere not cold...somewhere in the
Caribbean? I can see you on some island in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’re not that far off actually,” Louis admits, accepting his new drink. “I went to New Zealand.”

“New Zealand?” Niall parrots. “As in like the other side of the planet, Middle Earth, Lord of the
Rings, New Zealand?”

Louis nods.

“Jesus, you really went as far away as you could possibly get, didn’t you?”

“Technically the West Coast of Australia is the farthest you can get from New York before you start
circling back,” Louis corrects, munching on another fry. “I googled it.”

“So why not there then?” Niall asks, swiping a fry. “Like fully commit to it?”

“New Zealand just seemed like the polar opposite of New York,” Louis explains. “Like, not just the
location, but the feeling. The whole concept of there being more sheep and cows than people was
just really fucking appealing in the moment, y’know? And it was. I was there for a year–”

“A year?” Niall squawks. “How did you afford–”

“My mom helped me out when it came to getting there,” Louis shrugs, not really wanting to go into
it. “And I worked while I was there. A year was the longest I was allowed to stay, without having to
deal with a bunch of legal shit. But really, if not for like, the whole citizenship thing and, well, my
family, I don’t think I would have come back, quite honestly. It was just…”

Louis trails off, thinking of how the Kiwis and their way of life helped stitch his broken heart and
his shattered spirit back together. He thinks of the flat he eventually rented in Nelson, how he
would have coffee almost every morning on his little balcony overlooking the river, scribbling
away in his journal or typing on his laptop. He thinks of the bookshop, of Violet and her two dogs
who always came with her to work, of all the afternoons he spent there, cataloging new arrivals or
working behind the till or organizing the bi-weekly book club gatherings. He thinks of how he was
finally able to set aside his own pride and accept help when Violet offered to connect him with her
cousin, who owned an independent publishing house in San Francisco, giving him somewhere to
land when he went back to the States, setting him on the path that brought him back here, to this
very moment.

“It was everything I needed it to be and more,” Louis says simply, knowing there will never truly
be a way to sum up what it all meant to him.

Not in one conversation anyway.

“But seriously, that’s enough about me,” Louis defers, digging in the cone for the last fry, scraping
it around the nearly empty tub of chipotle sauce, trying to get every last bit of it. “I need to hear
about you, Neil. Starting with how the fuck you ended up buying this place.”

“It’s kind of a long story,” Niall replies, flipping a dish towel over his shoulder.

“I’ve got time,” Louis grins, sipping his drink. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Well, remember how Patrick and I apparently–”

The door bangs loudly and Niall’s blue eyes widen in panic. Louis looks to the door, his stomach
plummeting as he watches Harry stride into the bar, his attention focused on his phone, the ever-
persistent crinkle between his brows deepening as his thumb swipes the screen. He looks
effortlessly put together in a tight red and blue striped tee (Jesus, when did he get those pecs?)
tucked into high-waisted flared jeans, his short curls peeking out from under a faded denim
newsboy cap.
Harry finishes typing, pocketing his phone. He looks up, stopping in his tracks and scowling when
he sees Louis. Louis sits up higher in his seat, arching an eyebrow as he steels himself for the
inevitable explosion.

He refuses to buckle in Harry’s presence.

Not this time.

“Ah, hey, Harry,” Niall says awkwardly, wringing the towel in his hands. “What...erm...what can I
get you?”

“What are you doing here?” Harry demands, crossing his arms across his chest, his biceps bulging.

“Me?” Louis asks, pressing a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “I’m having a drink, what does
it look like I’m doing?”

To prove his point, Louis grabs his drink, taking a long, pointed sip, his eyes never leaving
Harry’s.

“But this is my bar,” Harry grumbles, his eyes narrowing. “You can’t be here!”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“You don’t own Hell’s Kitchen, Harry,” Louis replies coolly, keeping his gaze locked with Harry’s.
“And, if you want to get technical, this was my bar first, I was coming here way before you ever
wal–”

“I mean,” Niall interrupts, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice. “If we’re really being technical,
this is literally my bar, y’know.”

“That’s right,” Louis says, glancing over at Niall and nodding in solidarity. “This is Niall’s bar,
Harry. And I’m a paying customer. I have every right to be here.”

“But you can’t just come here,” Harry protests. “You can’t just waltz in here after all this time and
expect to what? Just slide back into your old life like nothing happened? That you would be
welcomed back with open arms? It doesn’t work that way, Louis.”

“Harry,” Niall cuts in. “He didn’t–”

“Listen up, you curly-haired cunt,” Louis says furiously. “If you think for one second that I took
coming here lightly, then you clearly never knew me at all. Did you know that I’ve been back in
New York for more than a month, Harry? A month! And what have I been doing in that time?
Walking around this city on fucking eggshells, terrified that I could run into you at any moment.
Fuck you for thinking any of this is easy. There’ve been giant chunks of this city I haven’t dared
going near because of you. Who can live like that? Who?”

“But you–”

“‘But you’ nothing,” Louis snaps. “The answer is no one. No one can live like that. I can’t live like
that. I deserve to have a life here too, you know! Fuck, I’m sorry if my being back in New York
inconveniences you, Harry. Believe me, it hasn’t been great for me either! But I’m here and I’m not
going anywhere, so you might as well get used to it. I’m not going to hide or give you free rein of
Manhattan just to avoid maybe running into you, got it? Not anymore. The world doesn’t revolve
around you, Harry, as much as you like to think it does. Grow the fuck up.”

Harry doesn’t reply; he just looks at him, his mouth agape. Louis rolls his eyes, turning back to
Niall, who looks oddly proud of him.

“Niall, sorry buddy, but I gotta head out,” Louis states, digging for his wallet, resolutely ignoring
the way he can practically feel Harry’s gaze scorching his back. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Niall waves, a smile creeping across his face. “On the house, Tommo.”

“Thanks,” Louis smiles, tossing two twenties on the bar anyway. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Definitely,” Niall nods. “I’ve got your number, I’ll text you.”

“Great,” Louis answers, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Thanks for today.”

“Anytime,” Niall answers, extending his fist for a bump.

Louis knocks their knuckles together and then turns to go, his eyes locking on Harry’s. His
expression is inscrutable, his lips pursed and his eyes a dark forest green. Louis keeps his spine
straight and his head held high as he strides toward him, making it very clear that he’s leaving on
his own terms rather than being scared off. He pauses by Harry’s side, looking up at him; Harry
avoids his gaze for once, looking down at the floor, clamping his teeth down on his bottom lip.
Louis opens his mouth to say something but stops, taking in the way Harry’s chin is trembling, the
tip of his nose reddening ever so slightly. It’s pure instinct when Louis reaches for his hand out of
concern; he doesn’t even know he’s done it until his fingertips brush Harry’s. Harry inhales sharply,
taking a step back. Louis looks at him in shock.

“Harry–”

“Please,” Harry whispers, shaking his head. “Please just go, Lou.”

Louis does.

February 2012

“How are you feeling, baby?” Louis asks, gently tucking a loose curl behind Harry’s ear, scratching
his scalp soothingly as their tattoo artist Spyder bandages up his wrist with plastic wrap, the fresh
ink of the anchor stark against his pale skin.

“Feeling good,” Harry answers, slurring ever so slightly as he leans into Louis’ touch like a kitten.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, fidgeting in the chair as he takes a deep breath in and exhales
slowly, immediately repeating the process. “A little woozy.”

Louis studies his boyfriend, shaking his head as he takes in his spacey expression and blown pupils.
He glances over at Spyder, who appears to be too preoccupied with cleaning up his station to pay
them too much mind, and then nuzzles into Harry’s neck, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat.
Feeling just a little wicked, Louis peppers kisses up Harry’s neck, working his way around to his
ear. He snickers as Harry whimpers low in the back of his throat.

“Tell me the truth,” Louis whispers into his ear, gently tugging the lobe between his teeth. “You’re
half-hard right now, aren’t you?”

Harry sputters, squeezing Louis’ thigh tightly. Louis giggles, pressing one last kiss below Harry’s
ear before sitting back, looking at him expectantly.

“I will neither confirm or deny your accusation,” Harry replies after a moment, arching an eyebrow
as he crosses his ankles, leaning back in the chair.

“So that’s a yes, then.”

“I hate you,” Harry grumbles fondly, his cheeks pinkening. “You’re the absolute worst.”

“No, you love me,” Louis grins smugly. “You love me in the permanently altering your body for
me kind of love me, baby.”

Harry’s face softens as he tangles their fingers together.

“Yeah, I really fucking do,” he murmurs.

“I love you too,” Louis echoes reverently. “Love you in that permanently altering my body for you
kind of love you.”

“Well, thank God for that, ’cause it’s your turn,” Spyder interrupts with amused exasperation. “Get
out of my chair, Styles, you’re all done. I just have to make the stencil and get a new needle and
then we’ll get started on your boyfriend here.”
Suddenly, Louis feels like he might vomit, sweat beading at his temples. He leans forward, resting
his elbows on his knees as he cradles his head in his hands.

He really fucking hates needles is the thing.

He loves his tattoos, he really does. They are part of him, a roadmap of his life, each one holding a
very specific memory. He doesn’t regret a single one of them, even the shitty ones. So when Harry
suggested that he design a set of complementary tattoos for them to get on his birthday to celebrate
the one-year anniversary of their meeting, Louis was immediately on board with it. He loved the
idea of his love for Harry being inked into his skin, a permanent reminder that they had found each
other, that they were the loves of each other’s lives.

It’s just the process of getting tattoos that really sucks. He’s never going to be someone who enjoys
getting them, definitely not in the way Harry does, the pain being a whole part of the pleasurable
experience for him. Louis can’t ever really get past the fact that it’s a needle piercing his skin over
and over again in rapid succession. Whoever once said it was just like a rubber band being snapped
on your skin repeatedly was absolutely full of shit and probably a masochist.

God, he can’t believe he’s doing this. And on his wrist too, like completely circling his bony, thin-
skinned wrist. Jesus, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker, why is he doing this? Louis tries to tell
himself that the pain can’t possibly be any worse than his chest piece but then he remembers how
he almost fainted getting that one, so really, how can that be the proper measure?

“Hey, hey,” Harry soothes, immediately picking up on Louis’ distress. He scrambles out of the
chair and squats in front of him, resting his hands on Louis’ thighs, squeezing them comfortingly.
“Baby, you know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, right? We can celebrate our
anniversary another way, it’s not a big deal.”

“No, I want to do it, I promise I do,” Louis says weakly. “It’s your birthday. Our anniversary.”

“Are you sure?” Harry presses gently. “Seriously, you don’t have to.”

Louis looks down at the new anchor on Harry’s wrist; he swears he can actually feel it grounding
him.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Louis says softly. He gently runs a finger along the tape securing the saran wrap
bandage in place, gazing at the tattoo in awe. “It’s so beautiful, Hazza, wow.”

“Yours will be too,” Harry promises. “I’ll hold your hand and talk to you the whole time, Lou. And
Spyder’s great, he’ll be as gentle as he can and you can take breaks if you need to. You’re gonna be
so great, baby, and you’ll be so happy once it’s done.”

“I know, I know,” Louis nods, licking his lips. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Harry affirms, pressing up and kissing him sweetly. “I love you. You’re so brave.”

“I love you, too,” Louis answers, kissing him again. “So much, Harry.”

Harry beams, standing to his full height. He extends his hand towards Louis; Louis takes it,
allowing Harry to pull him to his feet.

“You ready to go?” Spyder asks, carefully placing the stencil on his work station.
“Yes,” Louis says with determination as he sits in the tattoo chair, placing his right arm on the
saran-wrapped armrest. “Let’s do this.”

“Hey, Spyder, can I do it?” Harry asks suddenly. “Place the stencil, I mean?”

“Have at it, kiddo,” Spyder says, removing his gloves. “You remember what to do right?”

Harry nods, his dimple popping as he grins.

“I’ll just pop out for a quick smoke then, okay?”

“Perfect,” Harry grins, settling down on Spyder’s stool and squeezing a dollop of hand sanitizer
into his palm, rubbing his hands together.

“What do you think you’re doing, Haz?” Louis asks, biting back a grin as Harry grabs a cotton ball,
soaking it with rubbing alcohol. “Branding me?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Harry smirks, swabbing all over Louis’ wrist, getting the skin
good and damp. He looks up at him, his expression softening as he shrugs. “I just thought this
would help you get more comfortable. If I did all the prepping.”

“I mean, you’re very good at that,” Louis nods. “The prepping, I mean.”

“Don’t you know it,” Harry winks, tossing the cotton ball in the trash.

Louis really fucking loves this man.

Next, Harry grabs a fresh disposable razor, which, much to Louis’ amusement, is pale pink with
little daisies printed on it. He holds it up, grinning at Louis.

“Look, it even has a moisturizing strip!”

Louis laughs as Harry takes his hand again. He carefully skims the razor over Louis’ skin, paying
careful attention to the knobby bone on the outside, whatever it’s called. He watches in fascination
as Harry grabs a stick of clear, unscented deodorant, rubbing it into his skin as well.

“Tell me what they mean?” Louis asks. “The tattoos.”

“You know what they mean,” Harry replies, picking up the thin piece of stencil paper and holding it
up over Louis’ wrist. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on the
proper placement, shifting the center of infinity knot several times until his trained artist’s eyes are
satisfied that it’s in the perfect spot. He takes a deep breath and presses the stencil to Louis’ skin.

Of course, Louis knows what the tattoos mean. He was there when Harry came up with the idea,
meticulously sketching several iterations of the rope and anchor in his sketch pad before moving on
to drawing them on both of Louis’ wrists with a ballpoint pen, just so he could see how his designs
would translate to reality.

“Tell me again,” Louis demands, his voice hushed, the moment feeling sacred.

Harry looks up, giving him a private smile as he grabs another alcohol-soaked cotton ball.
“An anchor means steadfastness,” Harry explains, dabbing the cotton ball along the stencil paper,
the liquid cool on Louis’ skin. “It symbolizes determination and passion. An anchor is steady. It is
sure.”

He squeezes Louis’ fingers, looking back up at him, his green eyes brimming with emotion. With
love. So much love.

“An anchor is nothing without a rope though,” Harry continues, getting back to the task at hand,
pressing the wet stencil paper firmly, squeezing his big hand around Louis’ wrist, doing everything
to ensure that the design will transfer properly. “A rope symbolizes strength and security. It holds
things together, keeps things close. And this knot?” Harry points out, tracing his finger over its
shape. “It’s an infinity knot. It is binding, the strongest knot there is. It is never ending, always
enduring, no matter what storm it may face.”

Harry bows his head down, pressing sweet, delicate kisses to the top of Louis’ hand. Louis gently
cards his other hand through Harry’s hair, the curls soft and silky under his fingertips.

“Baby,” Louis whispers, his heart just about ready to burst.

“Now, individually, these tattoos are great and can stand on their own just fine,” Harry explains,
carefully pulling the stencil paper away, revealing his intricate design. “But that’s not what they’re
meant to do. Look what they’re meant to do, Lou.”

Harry places his wrist next to Louis, the skin puffy and tender under the saran wrap. The anchor
and rope will entwine whenever they hold hands, tying them together like two ships.

“They’re meant to be together,” Harry says. “Together they mean–”

“Love never ending,” Louis finishes for him, his voice thick with emotion.

“Love never ending,” Harry nods, his eyes shining. “That’s you and me, Baby. You’re stuck with
me.”

“There’s no place I’d rather be,” Louis replies, pressing his thumb into Harry’s dimple, ducking
down and kissing him tenderly. “You’re my favorite person, Harry.”

“And you’re mine,” Harry echoes, bopping the tip of Louis’s nose. “Always.”

“Jesus, you two are sappy,” Spyder chuckles, standing over them, placing the new tattoo gun on his
table. He leans over and studies the stencil placement, nodding his approval. “Are you happy with
this?” he asks Louis.

“Yes,” Louis nods. “So happy with it.”

“Good,” Spyder smiles. “Let’s get started.”

Louis takes a deep breath as Spyder grabs a new pair of gloves from the box on the table. He pulls
them on, kicking Harry’s ankle gently, pointing to the empty stool on Louis’ left side. Harry nods,
getting up and moving to the other side, taking Louis’ hand in both of his. The gun buzzes and
Louis clenches his teeth in anticipation, squeezing his eyes shut and as he grips Harry’s hands.

“Baby, look at me,” Harry urges softly.

Louis exhales slowly, forcing himself to just fucking relax as his eyes flutter open, meeting Harry’s
warm emerald gaze.

“There are my favorite blue eyes,” Harry smiles, his thumbs tracing a soothing pattern on the top of
Louis’ hand. “I’m right here with you. There’s no place I’d rather be. You’ve got this, Lou, I love
you.”

Harry’s words can’t take away that initial sting of the tattoo needle piercing his skin, but for the
first time in his life, Louis doesn’t mind the pain all that much. Not when this is the result. He
squeezes Harry’s hand tightly, breathing through the pain, focusing on Harry’s beautiful face.

“I love you too.”

 Chapter 4

Harry checks his watch as he trots up the stairs of the Christopher Street station, picking up his
pace when he sees the time, picturing Liam’s sad puppy face. He’s only running about fifteen
minutes late, but still, it’s the principle of the whole thing.

He fucking hates running late.

He hates it even more when he can’t even blame the MTA or the Lyft never showing or not being
able to get a cab. No, today Harry can only blame himself, having spent the day down at his studio
in Tribeca, completely losing himself in his work, painting for hours on end, barely even stopping
for lunch. When he finally stopped and checked the clock, he realized he had less than thirty
minutes to get up to Greenwich Village for a “meet the friends” dinner and drinks thing with Liam
and his mysterious new boyfriend. And now, Harry’s late.

What a way to make a good first impression.

Actually, Harry rationalizes, it’s pretty damn miraculous he’s only fifteen minutes late, considering
he needed to tidy up his workspace and wash and dry his brushes properly after working all day.
(He’d learned the hard way back in grad school not to skimp on that process, having had to replace
an entire set after leaving them in solvent overnight.) He’d had to clean himself up as well,
exchanging his paint-splattered denim coveralls for a more suitable ensemble of loafers, wide-
legged tan slacks, and a yellow and white linen shirt unbuttoned over a simple white tank. Catching
a glimpse of his reflection in one of the bar’s windows, he stops, scrunching his nose. His hair is in
that awkward, in-between, floofy phase where he either has to cut it or actually commit to growing
it long again. He sighs, raking his fingers through the unruly curls, fluffing up the ends and tucking
a wayward piece behind his ear.

That’s the best he’s going to be able to do tonight.

Smoothing his tank down his chest, Harry pushes the door to the bar open with his other hand,
stepping inside. Wilfie and Nell’s is like the happy medium between Marlowe’s and the more
pretentious places he used to frequent back in the day. The space is an homage to an English pub,
all exposed brick and wood beams and warm lighting, with large communal tables with cozy
banquettes and long benches, while smaller recesses in the corners house round wooden tables with
artfully mismatched stools and high-back chairs surrounding them. The menu is heavy on comfort
food and the cocktails are fancy enough to feel special, yet priced to where you don’t feel like
you’re blowing your whole budget in one night, a rarity for this part of town. It’s the perfect place
to bring someone that you want to impress without looking like you’re trying too hard and Harry
knows immediately that Liam must really like this new guy.

“Harry! We’re over here!”

Harry turns in the direction of Liam’s voice, grinning when he sees that Liam and Niall managed to
claim the coveted round table in the bay window alcove. A waitress is depositing two cocktails and
a tall glass of dark beer on the table, so he must have managed to beat the boyfriend here. He
makes his way through the crowd, squeezing around what is clearly an office happy hour gathering,
making his way towards the front corner.
“Sorry I’m so late, I was working,” Harry apologizes, clapping Liam on the shoulder as he pulls out
the chair next to Niall, giving him a quick fist bump before he sits. He glances at the empty seats
between him and Liam, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Still beat your boy though, Li.”

“Please,” Niall scoffs fondly, taking a sip of his Guinness. “He told us – well, you – to be here a
half hour before the boyfriend’s supposed to get here.”

“Heeeeeeeeey,” Harry pouts, sticking his bottom lip out dramatically as he turns to Liam. “Did you
really?”

“I’ve been working with you for three and a half years now, H,” Liam chuckles, his eyes crinkling
at the corners. “I know how you get when you’re in the studio.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Harry grumbles. “But you know I hate being late, right?”

“I know,” Liam nods, “and this way you aren’t. Not really. Now here, I ordered you that pineapple
mezcal cocktail you liked so much last time we came here. First round is on me.”

“Aw, thank you, Li,” Harry coos, clinking his glass with Liam’s. “Is this your way of buttering us
up so we’ll like this mysterious new boyfriend?”

“C’mon, he’s not that mysterious,” Liam says, rolling his eyes.

“Liam, you’ve been seeing him for almost two months,” Harry points out. “And we’re only
meeting him now? Mysterious.”

“I just didn’t want to jinx anything,” Liam insists. “Not until we were official. And we just made it
official over the Fourth. I mean, we met on Tinder, for fuck’s sake, the chances of us actually
becoming more than a...well…”

“A fuck,” Harry supplies. “You can say it. We all know what Tinder is for. We’ve all been there,
done that.”

“Hey, it’s classier than Grindr,” Niall counters. “I actually know people who met their partners on
Tinder.”

“Oh my God, I hate you guys,” Liam groans. “More than a fling, assholes. I didn’t think it’d be
more than a fling, but we actually liked each other, y’know? And I’ve told you guys about him! I
have.”

“Barely,” Niall huffs, a teasing glint in his eye. “What’s his name again? Zachary? Ziggy? Zeke?”

“Zayn,” Harry supplies, biting back a grin as he points at Niall.

“Oh, yes,” Niall gasps in exaggeration, snapping his fingers. “Zayn! How could I forget? Zayn
what?”

“Malik,” Liam replies, sipping his cocktail.

“And what does young Zayn Malik do for a living?” Niall asks, steepling his fingers. “Can he
support the lifestyle to which you’ve become accustomed?”

“He works in publishing,” Liam answers. “And I can support myself, thank you very much.”
“Good, good,” Niall nods. “Gainfully employed, but you’re not dependent on him, I like it.”

Liam rolls his eyes.

“Now, now, Liam,” Harry chimes in, enjoying the way Liam’s cheeks are pinkening from their
teasing. He really must like this one. Harry hopes this Zayn is a keeper. “You know we’re going to
have to ask Zayn about his intentions.”

“You really don’t,” Liam says witheringly.

“Oh, but we do,” Harry proclaims. “How else are we supposed to know if he’s good enough for
you?”

“He is,” Liam says, looking over Harry’s shoulder and smiling. “I know he is. Now, be cool you
two, he’s here.”

Liam’s smile widens as he stands, beckoning Zayn over; Harry turns around in his chair, eager to
see who in the hell makes his friend light up in a way he’s never seen before. One of the most
gorgeous men he’s ever laid eyes on ambles towards them across the restaurant, his dark eyes
fixated on Liam. Niall mutters “Goddamn” under his breath, which Harry’s definitely going to
tease him about later. But truly, goddamn is right. Zayn Malik is like a Greek God level kind of
breathtaking, with glowing olive skin, a chiseled jaw, and thick, dark hair that’s swept up high and
off his face, save for one lock falling across his forehead like he’s fucking Superman or something.
Ordinarily, Harry is quite confident about his looks, but as Zayn approaches with his smoldering
eyes and pouty lips, looking like a runway model in a simple, all black ensemble, he can’t help but
feel a little schlubby, quickly rubbing away a smudge of dried blue paint that he missed on his
wrist.

“Um, Li,” Niall laughs nervously. “Did Zayn say he was bringing someone too?”

“Yes, of course,” Liam frowns, looking over at Niall. “He’s bringing his best friend. They work
together. Shit, what’s his name? Lo–”

“Louis,” Harry croaks, locking eyes with him over Zayn’s shoulder. “His best friend is Louis.”

Of fucking course.

Louis’ handsome face pales; he reaches out for Zayn, but Zayn’s too far ahead of him, too focused
on greeting Liam. Niall just starts laughing harder, his face reddening as his cackles get more and
more hysterical. Harry kicks his shin under the table.

“I’m sorry,” Niall gasps through his laughter. “I can’t stop, oh my God, this is...I don’t even know
what. Do you guys like have honing devices implanted or something?”

Apparently they do.

“Oh, fuck, is that...” Liam turns to them, panicked. “From the paintings?”

Harry nods, having lost the ability to properly form words.

“I didn’t know,” Liam says quickly. “Honest, I didn’t. I mean, he said he brought someone to your
show, Harry, but–”
“Hey, you,” Zayn says warmly, sliding an arm around Liam’s waist and ducking in to press a kiss to
Liam’s cheek. Harry can’t help but notice how his friend melts into it despite his distress. Zayn
pulls back, his brow furrowing as he observes Liam’s tight smile and panicked eyes. “What’s going
on? Is everything alright?”

“Um, well, you see,” Liam gulps, skimming his hand down Zayn’s arm, squeezing his bicep. “It
seems that your best friend and my best friends already know each other.”

“What?” Zayn asks, his face puzzled. “Really? That’s wild.”

“I’ll say,” Niall hoots, grabbing his beer and taking a big gulp.

The furrow between Zayn’s eyes deepens as he looks at Harry and then back at Louis, who’s
hovering a safe distance away from the table, his hands clenched by his sides. Louis’ mouth is
slightly agape as he breaks Harry’s gaze, turning his focus to his best friend instead. Harry uses the
opportunity to study him, the familiar pang of attraction twinging in his chest as he takes him in.
His slim black jeans aren’t quite as painted-on as the jeans he used to favor, but still showcase his
assets perfectly, and the baby blue and black diamond patterned short-sleeved sweater brings out
the blue of his eyes. His cheeks and jaw are dusted with a couple days’ worth of stubble while his
hair is artfully mussed, falling softly across his forehead, the silver streaks at his temples glinting in
the light.

Why does he always have to look so fucking good? Honestly. It’s truly annoying.

“Louis?” Zayn asks. “Are you okay? How do you–”

“We,” Louis starts, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Well, we…”

“We used to date,” Harry blurts out, finding his voice.

Harry cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth, Louis visibly recoiling at their dismissive tone.
He knows that was absolutely the wrong thing to say; it feels cheap reducing everything that he and
Louis had together to something as banal as just “dating.” It makes their relationship sound like it
was fleeting or casual when it was the exact opposite. In fact, Harry isn’t sure if he would have ever
qualified his relationship with Louis as “dating,” even back when they first got together. No. Louis
had been it for Harry from day one, his all-time high, never gonna find anything better than this
kind of love. His deepest love. His muse. And now, his greatest regret. All rolled into one person
who stands before him, suddenly thrust back into his life without any warning.

But how exactly do you explain that to someone you just met?

“Right,” Louis clips, his eyes icy. “ Dated. Okay.”

God, Harry is an asshole.

Louis claps Zayn on his shoulder and then spins on his heel, heading towards the exit.

“You’re leaving?” Zayn calls after him, his eyes widening with concern.

“I’m going to smoke,” Louis replies calmly, spinning back around, walking backwards for a
moment. His eyes flit to Harry’s before going back to Zayn’s. “Where I’m gonna think about
whether or not I’m leaving.”
With that, Louis spins back around and marches towards the door, where he gracefully dodges a
couple on their way in.

“I’m really sorry, babe,” Zayn says after a moment, his eyes trained on the door. He sighs heavily
and turns back to Liam, squeezing his hand. “Maybe we should go. We can figure out another time
to do this. Separately, I think.”

Zayn glances over at Harry, his eyebrows knitting in judgement.

“You’re right, I guess,” Liam sighs, looking absolutely crushed, his brown eyes full of
disappointment as his shoulders slump. “It’s probably for the best.”

No.

No, this just won’t do.

“Wait!” Harry exclaims, digging for his wallet as he clambers to his feet. “Just...wait.”

He pulls out his debit card, handing it over to Liam.

“Louis drinks whiskey,” Harry states. “Or bourbon. But really he prefers Irish whiskey. Order him
anything with that. But nothing too fancy or overdone, yeah? He hates when there’s too much extra
shit in a cocktail. Says there’s always one thing that throws off the taste.”

He looks over at Zayn for confirmation, realizing Louis’ drink preferences could have changed
over the years.

“Right?”

“Right,” Zayn nods, his eyes still skeptical.

“Order whatever you guys want,” Harry continues, trying not to think too much about the
unexpected cost. “This round is on me. The next one too. I’m Harry, by the way. Nice to finally
meet you, Zayn.”

Harry extends his hand, trying not to obviously sigh in relief as Zayn takes it, even if he squeezes
just a smidge too firmly.

“Give me ten minutes,” Harry says, pointing at Liam.

“Harry, it’s fine–”

“Ten minutes, Li!” Harry calls over his shoulder as he sets off in pursuit of Louis. “Get a drink!”

Harry isn’t quite sure what he’s going to say to Louis when he bursts out onto the sidewalk, the
summer evening pleasantly balmy. What he does know is that he wants to get the evening back on
track. Liam’s done so much for him over the past few years, and while he may be downplaying it
now, Harry knows that tonight’s really important to him. So the sooner they get over this hiccup,
the better.

Harry looks to his left, his stomach fluttering when he sees Louis sitting on the stoop of the
brownstone next to the bar, his elbows resting on his knees, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers
as he stares into the distance. He takes a long pull off the cigarette, his chest rising as he inhales,
holding his breath for a second before tilting his chin up and exhaling, curlicues of smoke
streaming from his lips. Harry bites the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile in spite of himself.

Louis has always been such an elegant smoker.

Louis glances his direction, catching Harry’s eye. He looks away quickly, shaking his head and
delicately ashing his cigarette and taking another drag. Harry approaches him cautiously, like he
would a spooked animal. Louis exhales slowly, the smoke billowing out of the side of his mouth.

“I’m really not in the mood, Harry,” Louis says, flicking more ash from his cigarette, “for whatever
it is we do now. I’m tired. Can we just not?”

“I come in peace,” Harry says, holding his hands out in surrender. “Promise.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, he just takes another pull, the end of his cigarette glowing orange.

“Can I bum one?” Harry asks, pointing to the pack by Louis’ hip, the lighter resting neatly on top
of the box.

It’s a weak entry point and Harry knows it. Louis knows it too, judging by the way he arches his
eyebrow. Still, Louis scoops up the little cardboard box and lighter and extends them towards Harry
in offering; their fingertips brush as Harry takes them from him. Harry clumsily flips the lid of the
box open, extracting one cigarette from the mostly full pack and then passing the box back to
Louis, their fingers brushing again. He places the cigarette between his lips and flicks the lighter
on, sucking the filter to draw the flame in, lighting it.

Harry hasn’t smoked in years. He was always more of a social smoker or a drunk smoker, not like
Louis, who smoked so regularly that Harry could almost set his watch by it. Even after all these
years, Harry still associates the smell of tobacco with him. He inhales too deeply on the first go, the
smoke burning his lungs. Harry tries to cough subtly, clearing his throat and gently pounding his
chest with his fist, but Louis sees right through him, pressing his lips together to mask his
amusement, his eyes crinkling at the sides.

“Been a while,” Harry croaks, clearing his throat as he hands Louis his lighter back, their fingers
brushing for a third time.

Louis hums, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the sidewalk, immediately pulling a second one out
of the box and lighting it. Harry doesn’t say anything; he knows that Louis tends to be a chain
smoker when he’s stressed or upset and it’s clearly merited right now. So Harry just leans against
the bannister and takes another puff, managing not to cough this time. They smoke in awkward but
not entirely uncomfortable silence, which Harry supposes is a big step forward considering how
most of their other interactions have gone so far. Harry knows that he should start talking, that he’s
the one who chased Louis outside, the one who’s intruding on his private moment, but he struggles
to find the right words to say. He’s not sure if he trusts himself to say the right thing, afraid that the
smallest misstep might set Louis off again and end the evening for good.
“Did you need something?” Louis finally asks, his voice pointed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says simply. “For what I said inside. It came out wrong.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up high, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he takes another puff off his
cigarette. Harry can’t blame him for being surprised. Not really. Being able to readily admit when
he’s sorry has never been one of his strongest suits. Louis exhales, his posture relaxing ever so
slightly as he nods.

“You do talk some shit,” Louis replies, ashing his cigarette. “Dated. Honestly, Harry.”

“I panicked,” Harry explains. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, much less explain...us...and I just
blurted out the first thing that popped in my head and it was dumb, Louis, I’m sorry.”

Louis nods, keeping his eyes trained on Harry’s as he takes another pull off his cigarette, inhaling
deeply. Harry has no idea what he’s thinking and that makes him nuts because once upon a time
Harry was so in tune with Louis that he was certain they could read each other’s minds.
“Y’know,” Louis exhales with a sigh, turning to not blow smoke in Harry’s face. “I was looking
forward to this all day. And like, not just because Zayn was so excited to introduce me to his boy,
but because it was supposed to be a friends thing, a whole like, blending of the inner circles. I
thought it would be a good chance to make some new friends in New York, friends outside of
people from work, you know? It’s so hard trying to make friends, real friends, in your 30s, you
know? At our age, everyone pretty much has all their friends it feels like.”

Harry doesn’t reply, sensing that Louis isn’t really expecting him to anyway. Louis takes another
drag off his cigarette, flicking the ash away as he breathes out.

“It fucking sucks,” Louis continues. “And I know I’m being fucking selfish making this about me,
but I’m bummed out that this night is not going to turn out the way I wanted it to.”

“It still could,” Harry says tentatively.

Louis snorts.

“It could!” Harry protests. “There are three people inside who are or could be your friends. And we
could...we could be friends. We were friends once, weren’t we?”

“We were never friends, Harry.”

Harry knows Louis is right, but still, he refuses to give up on this night.

“Okay, so we were never friends,” Harry concedes, grinding out his cigarette on the bannister and
tossing the butt away. “But we should at least be able to be adults and put our shit aside for one
night, right? For the sake of our best friends who really like each other? Tonight’s not about us. It’s
about them. Liam and Zayn didn’t ask for this.”

“Ask to be collateral damage you mean?” Louis asks wryly.

“Yeah, exactly,” Harry says. “So what do you say?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Louis says, sweeping his hair to the side. “Could we even–”

“We could,” Harry nods, sensing Louis’ resolve starting to crack. “We can. Also, I just gave my
debit card to Liam and told him to buy us all drinks on me. So really, when you think about it,
you’re coming out ahead tonight. C’mon, Lou. Just stay.”

Louis looks contemplative, taking another long drag, the cigarette nearly down to the filter. Harry
chews his lip, his stomach doing a little flip as Louis carefully blows a series of smoke rings, his
cheeks hollowing as he does so. Harry wonders if Louis is trying to torture him on purpose or if
he’s doing it unconsciously; he’d always found it unbearably sexy whenever Louis did that little
party trick, and it isn’t any less hot all these years later. Harry ponders pulling out some of his old
tricks that he used to use to cajole Louis into doing what he wanted (Louis was always a sucker for
his dimples) but he also doesn’t want to push him any harder, the moment feeling fragile. New.

Promising.

“Okay,” Louis says finally, pointing at Harry with his smoldering cigarette. “A truce. For the sake
of our friends, for one night.”

“Well,” Harry grins, rocking back and forth on his heels. “We can start with that anyway.”
“Don’t push your luck, Styles,” Louis huffs, grinding out his cigarette on the step and flicking it to
the sidewalk as he stands. “I’m immune to those dimples now, you know.”

********

Considering the rocky start to the evening, Louis thinks, dinner isn’t all that bad. Sure, it had been a
bit awkward when he and Harry first came back inside, but that was to be expected what with the
two sets of friends checking in with each other and Louis formally introducing himself to Liam
while Niall oh-so-casually slid over one seat so that Zayn and Liam could sit together but Harry
and Louis didn’t have to sit next to each other. But the tension eased as they kept all their focus on
the happy couple, Zayn and Liam basking in the attention as they shared their story, from how they
met all the way up until they’d decided to make it exclusive. It should be depressing, being in the
presence of a fledgling relationship in the honeymoon phase while his own love life is in shambles,
but Louis can’t help but be charmed by the two of them together, Liam’s warmth and earnestness
counterbalancing Zayn’s shy but quick-witted nature.

There are the occasional pangs of sadness, often triggered by the times he catches Harry’s eyes or
when they laugh at the same time, but he shoves those feelings aside, trying to focus on the
positives. One, Zayn is definitely the happiest Louis has ever seen him in the three years they’ve
been friends. Two, Niall is a master of steering conversation towards lighter topics, never allowing
an awkward silence to linger too long. And three, this is the longest he and Harry have shared the
same space without launching some sort of emotional assault on each other, giving him hope that
maybe, just maybe, they actually can learn to co-exist peacefully.

Before Louis even realizes it, they’re more than halfway through the meal and ordering their third
round of drinks as they debate the merits of Avengers: Endgame. While some of the boys switch up
their orders this round, Louis sticks with the cocktail Liam originally ordered for him, surely with
help from Zayn, because it’s exactly the sort of thing he would have ordered for himself, the
refreshing combination of blackberry, lime, club soda, and single malt Irish whiskey perfect for a
warm summer evening.

“...And that, my friends,” Niall proclaims, pounding on the table, their empty glasses rattling a
little, “is why Steve Rogers’ ending sucked. Are we agreed?”

“I think it was romantic,” Liam says, squeezing Zayn’s hand. “Going back and finally having his
dance with Peggy? Steve was always a man out of time and now he gets to spend it with the love of
his life. That’s a good ending!”

“Come on, Li, it completely ret-cons everything we know about her life,” Harry insists. “Not to
mention the fact that ever since Winter Soldier, Steve’s motivation revolved entirely around saving
Bucky Barnes. And we got what? One throwaway bro hug. Garbage.”

“Oh, please,” Louis interjects. “Like Marvel was ever going to go there. They were so ‘no homo’
with Steve that they would rather have him kiss Peggy Carter’s niece over the two very valid male
love interests sitting in the car watching the whole thing go down. We were always gonna get this
ending.”

“Yeah, but is it a good one?” Niall presses.

“Fuck no,” Louis scoffs. “I’m with you and Hazza. Steve’s ending was trash.”
“Aha!” Niall hoots triumphantly, pounding the table again. “That’s three out of five majority, we
win!”

Harry looks at Louis, surprised, yet pleased, his dimple popping ever so slightly and his eyes
glittering in the dimmed mood lighting. Fuck, Louis thinks, feeling blood rush to his face. He’d
used the old pet name without even thinking about it, falling back into their old banter so easily. He
grabs his glass of water, taking a big gulp as he eyes his new cocktail, which the waitress stealthily
dropped off during their heated debate.

Perhaps he should take this last one a bit slower.

“For what it’s worth, I’m with you, babe,” Zayn says consolingly, sliding his arm on the back of
Liam’s chair and tugging him into his side. “It was romantic and they’re just bitter.”

Louis makes gagging noises; Harry giggles as Zayn gives Louis the finger.

“So, Louis,” Liam says once they all collect themselves. “Zayn said you work together? Are you an
acquisitions editor too?”

“No, I’m in development,” Louis answers, stirring his cocktail and taking a tiny sip. “Basically
Zayn buys or seeks out the manuscripts and then I work with the author through rewrites, getting
them to their final draft.”

“So how did you two meet then?”

Louis knows that Liam isn’t intending to put him on the spot, that his question is just a typical
getting-to-know-you kind of question, but at the same time, he can’t help but feel that way. Out of
the corner of his eye, he sees Harry sit a little straighter in his seat as he sips his jalapeno margarita,
trying and failing to mask his interest in what Louis has to say. If Harry’s ever gonna learn what
he’s been up to for the past five years, Louis supposes now is as good a time as any, when they’re
in a neutral environment and surrounded by friends. As he’s done most of the evening, Louis keeps
his focus on Zayn, smiling fondly at his friend.

“We met at an editors conference,” Louis explains. “ACES 2016. Where were we, Zaynie?”

“Portland, Oregon,” Zayn supplies, plucking a fry off of Liam’s plate.

“Right, right,” Louis chuckles, thinking of the high-quality weed that Zayn procured for them on
their second night there. “How could I forget? Anyway, it was my first time there. I had spent a
year in New Zealand, where I ended up working in a bookshop–”

Louis quickly glances over at Harry, who doesn’t even flinch at the information. Niall must have
told Harry about New Zealand, and for that, he’s grateful. The less he has to do, the better, quite
frankly.

“–and when I came back to the States, I started working at an independent publishing house in San
Francisco. It was a small staff, so I got to go even though I had only been there for a little over a
year.”

“I was still in development at the time,” Zayn chimes in. “We got put in the same breakout session
that first day and we just clicked right away. Stuck together the rest of the conference and then
stayed in touch after, obviously. And we saw each other at every major conference or trade show
after that.”

“Those shows are mostly networking,” Louis adds. “Basically an excuse for people in the industry
to be able to hang out in person, so we got to be good friends along the way, even roomed together
at a few of the smaller book expos.”

“So how did you end up back in New York then?” Niall asks.

“When I moved over to acquisitions earlier this year, I poached him,” Zayn boasts. “Knew he
wouldn’t be able to turn down Penguin Random House, and we had an opening for an associate
development editor at one of our imprints, Anchor Books.”

Louis’ heart clenches as he catches Harry tracing the shape of his anchor tattoo with his index
finger, his lips pursed.

At the time, Louis had told himself it was a coincidence that it was Anchor Books that brought him
back to New York. Now, as he studies the familiar black ink on Harry’s wrist, he wonders if it was
fate’s way of calling him home.

“It was the big leagues,” Louis says ruefully, trying to keep his voice steady. “A lateral move, title
wise, but I would have been stupid to not–”

“Wait a minute,” Harry interrupts. “I’m confused. Are you saying you don’t write anymore?”

Louis turns to look at him; Harry looks offended at the thought of Louis not writing, his eyebrows
knit together and his bottom lip pouting.

“I write,” Louis says cautiously, meeting Harry’s troubled gaze. “But it’s on my terms. I’m not like,
chasing the trends or obsessed with writing a bestseller. I just...I finally realized that I have to write
what I love and stop trying to define myself by commercial success. That’s not what it should be
about, you know? It’s about the work. It’s about doing something I can be proud of.”

“But you work at literally one of the biggest publishers in the world,” Harry presses, the crinkle
between his brows deepening. “Like, everything you ever wanted is right there. How could you
not–”

“I say that all the time, Harry, he won’t listen,” Zayn interjects, waving his hand. “I’ve read his
stuff; it’s very good. But Louis has always been set on doing things his way, he–”

“Why are you so stubborn?” Harry asks, turning back to Louis, his eyes blazing. “You heard what
Zayn just said. You’re good. People should be reading your work. You deserve to be published,
Lou, you have always deserved it. How do you still not get that? Jesus, I mean–ow, fuck, Niall, that
hurt!”

Harry scowls, reaching down to rub where Niall kicked his shin under the table. Niall smiles
beatifically, taking a delicate sip of his beer as Zayn’s eyebrows shoot sky high. Louis feels his
cheeks heat as a lump rises in his throat; he forgot what it was like to be the sole focus of Harry’s
attention, how overwhelming it can be when you’re on the receiving end of one of his impassioned
rants. Harry sits back up, fire simmering in his eyes as he looks at Louis.
“I’m sorry,” Harry sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “I know it’s none of my business, not
anymore, I just–”

“But I am published,” Louis states, doing his best to keep his emotions in check. “Self published. It
was the best solution for me really, to do it all myself. I have complete creative control and a best
friend who happens to be a professional editor and only charges me the exorbitant fee of one fancy
dinner out per project–”

“A steal,” Zayn interjects, winking at him.

“Everyone defines success differently, Harry,” Louis continues, “and this is what it means to me.
Now, anyway. It took me a long time to get here and I’m not going to apologize for it. Plus, I
happen to love my job. And I’m really fucking good at it.”

“He is,” Zayn says proudly. “Why do you think I fought so hard to get him? He’s smart and
creative and unbelievably passionate about the work–”

Louis tunes out, taking a big gulp of his drink. Not that he doesn’t appreciate hearing all about his
finest attributes, because he does. He’s worked hard to get where he is, and it’s taken a lot for him
to get here, both mentally and emotionally. This conversation is just all a bit much, especially in
front of Harry, who knows exactly how much Louis struggled to get his work noticed when they
were together. Harry, who is looking at him right now with that slightly awestruck expression that
Louis knows all too well, a smile tugging at his lips and stars in his eyes. It makes his skin prickle
and his heart race because Harry stopped looking at him like that a long time ago. He has no
business looking at him like that now, after all this time and everything they’ve been through. He
can’t handle it. It’s just too much.

“–And then he goes through my slush pile every week.”

“Slush pile?” Liam asks.

“Unsolicited manuscripts,” Zayn explains. “Louis takes a stack home every weekend and sends the
authors feedback on his own time.”

“You really do that?” Harry asks softly.

“It’s really not that big a deal,” Louis shrugs, his cheeks on fire as he tries to downplay the whole
thing. “I usually know in the first few pages if it’s something we’d be interested in. If I see
potential, I give them a referral to an agent, so they can submit through the proper channels. If not,
well...I let them know that someone at least looked at their submission, that they weren’t
just...sending things into the void.”

“That’s amazing,” Harry marvels. “It’s so good of you, Lou.”

“I mean, I just wish I’d had someone do that for me back in the day,” Louis bristles, shifting
uncomfortably in his chair, the adulation in Harry’s voice setting his teeth on edge. “Someone who
saw me, who believed in me and recognized that my work had worth. Someone who opened doors
for me. Y’know, like how Xander did for you and your art.”

Niall whips his head around so fast Louis is concerned he might have given himself whiplash.
“How is he by the way?” Louis asks quickly, unable to stop himself from asking now that he’s
finally said his name aloud. “You haven’t mentioned him at all.”

They fall silent, Louis’ words hanging in the air awkwardly. Something flickers in Harry’s eyes–
pain? Or is it anger? Remorse? Louis grimaces, biting his lip. He hates that he can’t tell anymore.
Harry sighs heavily, breaking his gaze as he starts to methodically shred a napkin. Louis feels like
he might vomit. He knows he’s crossed the line, that he’s officially broken their truce by bringing
Xander up, but he couldn’t help it. He snapped under the pressure of all the attention on him and
his career and that fucking look on Harry’s face. Besides, it’s the one thing that’s been on his mind
ever since Harry came crashing back into his life, and the unanswered questions have been making
him crazy. An apology is on the tip of his tongue when Harry looks back up at him, the expression
on his face rendering Louis speechless.

“Fine,” Harry says, his voice even and his gaze unwavering as he pauses. “I mean, I hear he’s
fine.”

Niall clears his throat, grabbing his beer and taking a huge gulp, decidedly looking straight ahead.
Louis can feel the anxiety radiating off of him and he wonders just what the hell kind of can of
worms he just opened. Louis suddenly realizes that it’s possible that he’s been operating under a
false assumption all this time, that he no idea what the fuck happened between Harry and Xander,
and judging by his reaction, whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t good.

And that? Well, that just knocks his entire world off its axis.

“Who’s Xander?” Zayn asks cautiously, looking around the table.

“Xander Ritz,” Liam supplies, glancing over at Harry, his forehead wrinkling. “He’s–”

“Nobody,” Harry finishes succinctly, brushing his hands together. “Haven’t spoken to him in five
years. Does anyone want dessert? I want dessert.”

October 2012

“I don’t understand why we’re going to all these galleries if you’re not showing anyone anything,”
Louis says, swinging his and Harry’s joined hands as they walk down Twenty-Fifth Street. They
pick up their pace as they cross Tenth Avenue, the Don’t Walk sign blinking orange. “Isn’t actually
seeing your work kind of important if you want to get in somewhere? Or are we just scoping out
the competition, because if you have some kind of spy fantasy you’re not telling me about, I
definitely have other ideas.”

“It’s all about networking, Lou,” Harry says fondly, squeezing his hand. “Xander says putting in
face time at openings is crucial. He says it’s important not only for like, research, seeing where
your work might fit in and all that, but it also gets your face on people’s radar. You never know
who you might end up talking to at these shows, you know. And according to him, this gallery
we’re going to tonight is really open to signing up and comers.”

Ah, yes. Xander. Harry had met him when he attended a show that Harry and several classmates
from the School of Visual Arts had put on in Brooklyn the month before, and he’s been able to talk
about little else since. Xander says this, Xander thinks that. Louis has been very eager to meet this
new friend who captured Harry’s attention so fully; Harry’s been trying to get them all together for
a while, but it’s been tough, between Louis’ work schedule at the cafe, his writing sessions, Harry’s
studio time, and whatever it is that Xander does for a living. But Harry’s finally managed to find a
night for them to meet and Louis can practically feel the excitement vibrating off his boyfriend.

But still, he can’t resist teasing him. Just a little.

“Oh yes, do tell me, Harry,” Louis simpers indulgently. “What else does Xander say?”

“He says that getting in good with a gallery owner is almost, if not just as important as your
portfolio,” Harry replies with enthusiasm, Louis’ tone going straight over his head. “Same with
building your relationships with other artists. And he also says that you have to be strategic in
which galleries you approach, you gotta do the leg work–”

Louis presses his lips together, barely holding back a laugh as Harry stops in his tracks, looking
over at him, his nose scrunching adorably and his bottom lip pouting.

“–and you’re making fun of me, you dick!”

“I can’t help it,” Louis giggles, steering Harry out of the flow of foot traffic, guiding him towards
one of the quiet office buildings lining the street. “It’s just so cute that you have like, this massive
friend crush on this guy.”

“I do not!” Harry protests.

“Oh, baby,” Louis laughs, bopping Harry on the nose and then yelping as Harry snaps his teeth at
him. “You totally, totally do. Just admit it, it’s okay.”

“Oh, God, I really do,” Harry groans, leaning back against the brick wall, looping his arms around
Louis’ waist, pulling him into his chest. “It’s so embarrassing, I swear to God.”

“It’s not,” Louis assures him, returning his embrace and pressing a kiss on the side of Harry’s jaw.
He nuzzles into his neck, breathing in his familiar citrus and sandalwood scent. “I think it’s really
great. I can’t wait to meet him.”

Harry squeezes him tighter, kissing his temple and swaying them slightly.

“I think he really believes in my work,” Harry says, his voice hushed, almost like he doesn’t really
believe it. “He wants to use his connections to help me get ahead. He knows all these people, Lou,
his dad is like some big collector. He really knows his shit and he wants to help me, can you believe
it?”

“Of course I can,” Louis scoffs. “You’re brilliant, Hazza, of course he sees that. And everyone else
will too. This gallery would be stupid not to take you.”

“A gallery, baby,” Harry says. “God, can you imagine if I can get a spot? A legit gallery, not like
one of those pay for play places?”

“Oh, like the one you got an offer from and when we actually sat down to do the math–”

“You mean when we asked Niall to do the math for us.”

“Right, when Niall did the math and we realized that with all those commissions and fees, you
would have had to sell forty thousand dollars worth of art just to break even?”
“Yes, exactly, fuck that,” Harry nods emphatically. “Xander says not only are all those places are
rip-offs, they can look bad on your resume.”

“Well, if Xander says it,” Louis grins, pecking Harry’s lips. “Then it must be true.”

Harry chuckles, kissing him again.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” Harry murmurs, rubbing their noses together. “It means a
lot, having you here with me.”

“Where else would I be?” Louis smiles, pressing his thumb into Harry’s left dimple. “I mean, not
only do I get to support you, but there’s free wine and snacks. Not too bad for a Friday night, if I do
say so myself.”

“We only need to stay for an hour, hour and a half tops,” Harry promises, lacing their fingers
together as they start to walk again. “Then we can head up to Marlowe’s, if you want, or we can
just go home and I can do that thing you like.”

“But what if I want to do that thing you like?” Louis counters with a pout.

“Both?” Harry asks, waggling his eyebrows as he pulls the door to the gallery open, ushering Louis
inside. “How about we do both?”

“Both,” Louis giggles, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to the girl running the coat check,
taking a red ticket in return.

“Mmmm,” Harry hums, kissing him quickly. “Definitely both.”

Harry passes his coat over, taking his ticket in return. He turns to Louis, plucking his ticket out of
his hand with a wink, sliding it into his wallet along with his own.

God, Louis loves him a whole lot.

“Okay,” Harry says, adjusting his half-unbuttoned leopard print shirt around his hips, his cross
necklace glinting against the smooth expanse of his chest. He grabs two glasses of wine from one
of the waiters stationed around the entrance, passing one to Louis. “I wonder where–”

“Harry!” a voice calls from the other side of the room. “You’re here.”

“There he is,” Harry grins.

Louis turns, straightening his spine and smiling pleasantly, trying to keep the surprise off his face as
Xander approaches. He’d had this whole mental image of what Xander would look like, expecting
to meet someone like one of Harry’s art school buddies, quirky and free-spirited with eclectic
fashion sense and a propensity for getting good weed. This guy is the polar opposite, more Wall
Street than East Village, wealth and privilege radiating off of him as he saunters across the room, a
champagne flute in hand. Xander’s good looking, but in a completely basic way, like the
stereotypical prep school boy who would be in the background of Dead Poets Society or
something, with his average height and dark hair and his perfectly square jaw, his teeth blindingly
white as he smiles at Harry. He looks expensive in his perfectly tailored suit, crisp blue shirt, and
striped tie, not a hair out of place. Suddenly, Louis feels woefully underdressed, like he sticks out
like a sore thumb in his Vans, black skinnies and gray sweater, even though he knows it’s one of
Harry’s favorite outfits on him, always saying that the boatneck of the sweater perfectly showcases
his collarbones.

“Hey, man,” Harry says, greeting Xander with a quick hug, clapping him on the back. “Good to see
you, buddy. This is–”

“The famous Louis,” Xander finishes with an oily grin, extending his hand. “Nice to finally meet
you.”

“Likewise,” Louis replies, shaking his hand firmly. “Harry’s said so much about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Xander chuckles, looking Louis up and down appraisingly. “Wow, you look
exactly like your portraits.”

Something about the way Xander says it (and frankly, the way he’s looking down his nose at him)
raises Louis’ hackles; he releases Xander’s hand, stepping back into Harry’s side and sliding his
arm around his waist.

“Well, I would certainly hope so,” Louis quips, squeezing Harry’s hip as he looks up at him.
“Otherwise, what are we doing here trying to get Hazza into this gallery, am I right?”

He daintily takes a sip of his wine as Harry honks a laugh, Xander joining in a few seconds later,
his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“Touché,” Xander says, clinking their glasses together. “So Louis, what is it that you do?”

“I’m a writer,” Louis replies, taking another sip of wine.

“Anything I would have read?”

God, Louis really hates that fucking question. He never knows how to answer it, because there’s
never a simple, positive answer when it comes to his work. It’s like asking an out-of-work actor
what their next project is or asking a single person about their love life. He doesn’t exactly want to
talk about all the submissions he’s sent out this week or the cold calls or the amount of time he’s
spent staring at his computer screen, the blinking cursor taunting him. Not to a stranger anyway.

“I doubt it,” Louis replies. “I–”

“Oh, come on, baby, don’t be so modest,” Harry chides, looping his arm around his shoulder,
always his biggest hype man, no matter what. “First of all, he finished a novel earlier this year–”

“Next great American novel, huh?” Xander interrupts, his grin just on the wrong edge of
patronizing.

“One can hope,” Louis says smoothly. “I believe in it anyway.”

“Y’know, I have some friends in the publishing industry,” Xander says, placing his empty
champagne flute on a passing waiter’s tray, exchanging it for a full one. “You should let me read it.
I could pass it on to them if it’s any good.”

Louis tries not to visibly bristle at the word if. Who does this guy think he is? Louis doubts he’s the
end all, be all of the literary world; Xander really strikes him as a Cliff’s Notes kind of guy.
“Oh, it’s more than good, it’s brilliant,” Harry effuses, grinning over at Louis, Xander’s implication
lost on him. “That would be amazing, wouldn’t it, Lou?”

“Totally,” Louis lies, knowing immediately that he’d rather jump into the Hudson River naked than
hand his novel over to this guy. “Thanks, man, I would really appreciate it.”

“Louis also just had this blog post of his go viral on Reddit last month,” Harry brags, really getting
on a roll now. “There’s no way you didn’t see it, it got like, almost one hundred thousand hits in a
day. It was crazy.”

“Really?” Xander asks, raising an eyebrow. “What was it?”

“Oh, um,” Louis says, suddenly feeling embarrassed and he’s not sure why. “It was just this silly
post I wrote for the premiere of the final season of The Office? It was all the characters as the signs
of the zodiac, like, which character are you based on your sign, you know?”

“It was hilarious,” Harry says proudly. “And scarily accurate.”

“It wasn’t anything serious,” Louis says lamely, his cheeks heating.

Harry looks at him, his brow crinkling in confusion. Louis doesn’t know why he’s downplaying the
piece; the day it went viral was amazing, Louis’ phone exploding with notifications around lunch
time. He and Harry giddily sat in front of his computer for the rest of the day, constantly refreshing
the site as his views climbed higher and higher, to the point where he had to get on the phone with
his hosting service and buy a dedicated server because his little website had crashed from all the
traffic. It had been one of his proudest moments, but now, as Xander smiles at him with a hint of
condescension in his eyes, he can’t help but feel like it was a little dumb. And definitely not
representative of who he wants to be as a writer.

“Wow, that’s great,” Xander says, sipping his champagne. “I’ll have to google it.”

“You do that,” Louis says coolly.

There’s an awkward silence as they sip their respective drinks. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis
sees Harry frowning and he feels awful for judging his new friend so quickly, no matter what his
gut is screaming at him. Harry likes him and that should be enough for Louis to give him a chance.
He takes a deep breath, pasting on a smile as he silently vows to be better.

For Harry.

“It’s really amazing what you’ve been doing for Harry, Xander,” Louis says, hoping he sounds
genuine, because he does mean it. “It’s so helpful having someone that can show us how to
navigate this whole world, right, Haz?”

“Right,” Harry nods, rubbing his arm as he smiles at him gratefully. “’Cause we have no idea what
we’re doing really. They didn’t exactly teach me this part at SVA, you know? They just like, give
you a diploma saying you’re an artist and toss you to the wolves in a way.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Xander says grandly. “Which, speaking of showing the ropes, Louis, do you
mind if I steal Harry away for a bit? I see the owner of the gallery over there, and I’d like to
introduce him, if that’s okay with you?”
“Sure thing,” Louis replies evenly.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “I don’t want to abandon
you.”

“I’m a big boy, I can manage for a bit,” Louis assures him with a smile. “I’ll look at the art. Track
down those passed apps I was promised. I think I see someone with a tray of sliders over there.”

“Grab one for me?” Harry asks. “I won’t be too long, I swear.”

“Take your time,” Louis says. “Knock ’em dead, babe. I love you.”

Harry beams, ducking down and kissing him quickly.

“I love you too,” Harry mutters against his lips, kissing him again. “Definitely doing that thing you
like later.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Harry, come on,” Xander urges. “She’s finishing up her conversation, I want to grab her before
someone else does.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, his voice giddy. “Back in a bit, Lou. I’ll find you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Louis sips his wine as Xander leads Harry away. He watches them go, momentarily seeing red
when Xander’s hand comes to rest on what he likes to think of his spot on Harry’s lower back as he
guides him towards an elegant woman in a sleek black pantsuit.

Oh.

Oh.

A knot forms in the pit of his stomach, the wine souring ever so slightly as he looks down at his
scuffed Vans, taking a cleansing breath. When he looks back up, Xander has his hands to himself.
Louis swallows hard, telling himself he’s seeing things. Harry looks back at him, his eyes
sparkling, dimples carving deep craters in his cheek as he waggles his eyebrows. Louis snickers,
shoving his trepidation aside as he gives Harry a subtle thumbs up, pursing his lips in a kiss.

Right. He has some sliders to track down.

Present Day

“Alright, boys, gather ’round,” Niall says, pulling out his phone as the five of them spill out onto
the sidewalk, the last round of drinks they had with dessert leaving them all a little tipsy. “We gotta
have a selfie.”

“Oh, god, Neil, really?” Louis groans, combing his fingers through his hair. “I look like shit.”

“Yes, Lewis, really,” Niall says stubbornly. “I want to commemorate this momentous occasion of
the five of us coming together.”
“Just come take the picture, Lou,” Harry pleads, slinging an arm around Liam. “You know there’s
no use arguing with him when he’s like this.”

“That’s right,” Niall says. “Now c’mon, stop primping, you look gorgeous.”

Louis rolls his eyes, biting back a smile as he takes his place on the end of the line, resting his chin
on Niall’s shoulder, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. Niall holds up his phone, huffing
in frustration as he tries to get them all in the shot.

“Switch with me,” Niall tells Louis. “I gotta be on the end. And no making faces, Tommo!”

“God, I forgot how fucking bossy you can be after a few drinks,” Louis grumbles fondly, obliging
him.

“Okay, everyone cuddle in,” Niall orders, holding up his phone. “I’m going to take a couple.”

They all squeeze together, Zayn moving in front of Liam so they can all fit in the frame. A shiver
shoots up Louis’ spine as the tips of Harry’s fingers brush his arm as he scoots in closer; Harry
adjusts, curling them in and resting his fist on Liam’s shoulder. Louis makes a silly face in one of
the pictures, earning an affectionate punch from Niall. They all laugh out loud as Niall hits the
shutter one more time.

It feels good. Laughing together.

“These are great,” Niall grins, looking up from his phone as a black sedan pulls up to the curb. “Oh,
this is me. I’ll text you guys the pics. I had fun tonight! See ya!”

“Is he always like that?” Zayn asks bemusedly as Niall crawls in his car, slamming the door and
waving at them as it pulls away. “A human hurricane?”

“Yes,” Harry and Louis say simultaneously, watching Niall’s car disappear into traffic. “Always.”

“You want to go to mine, babe?” Liam asks, stepping to the curb and holding out his hand to hail a
cab. “It’s closer.”

“Sounds great,” Zayn answers, smiling at him gently.

God, they are so cute and Louis isn’t at all jealous.

“Zayn Malik,” Louis clucks, shaking his head. “If you come into the office wearing the same outfit
as yesterday, I’m telling everyone.”

“Shut the fuck up, Louis,” Zayn huffs, giving him a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You sure
you’re okay to get home?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, casting a quick glance at Harry. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” Zayn nods, turning to Harry. “Nice meeting you, Harry.”

“Likewise,” Harry says, taking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “Night, Li. Text me
tomorrow?”
“You bet,” Liam says, opening the cab’s door, gesturing for Zayn to get in first. “Have a good
night. Good to meet you, Louis.”

“Same to you, Payno,” Louis waves. “See you around, I hope.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Liam beams as he climbs into the cab, closing the door behind him.

“Oh, you’ve gone and done it,” Harry chuckles, watching them go. “You nicknamed him; he’s
going to be yours for life now, I hope you know that.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Louis smiles. “I can see why you like him.”

“Yeah, he’s the best,” Harry agrees. “Zayn’s great too. They’re great together.”

Louis nods, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He offers it to Harry first, raising an eyebrow in
question.

“I’m good, thanks,” Harry declines.

Louis nods, sliding one cigarette out of the box and placing it between his lips. He lights it, inhaling
deeply as he pockets the pack.

“You taking a car too?” Harry asks after a moment.

“Nah,” Louis says, gesturing down the block with his cigarette. “Train’s just right down there.
You?”

“Same,” Harry says, scuffing his loafer on the sidewalk. “I don’t like to take cars unless I’m like,
really drunk. Or really tired. The money adds up quick, you know?”

“I do,” Louis says. “Um...shall we, then?”

Harry nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they start down the street.

“Where are you living these days?” Louis asks, mainly to fill the silence.

“I’m up on 102nd between West End and Broadway,” Harry answers.

Louis laughs out loud, taking another pull off his cigarette as he looks to the heavens, wondering if
whoever is up there pulling the strings is proud of themselves.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks, his nose scrunching in confusion. “It’s a great area, I’ve been there
for three years–”

“No, I know it’s a great area,” Louis laughs with disbelief, ashing his cigarette. “I know because I
live on 110th and Morningside.”

“Are you serious?” Harry asks, stopping in his tracks, his eyes wide. “One stop away? How...how
have I never seen you on the train or something?”

“I usually walk over to the C train,” Louis explains. “It’s a little closer than the 1, both to my
apartment and my office.”
“Still,” Harry marvels. “That’s wild.”

“You could call it that,” Louis quips, smiling at Harry crookedly. “I could call it something else.”

“Earlier tonight, when you first showed up, Niall asked if we had like, honing devices implanted or
something,” Harry says. “I’m beginning to wonder if he was on to something.”

“I don’t know,” Louis teases. “Are you saying you put something in me without my permission,
Styles?”

“I mean, if we’re being technical about it, I was in that neighborhood first,” Harry banters back.
“So I really should be asking that question of you, Lou. Have you been tracking me all this time?”

Louis can’t help but notice how different this conversation is compared to the argument they had
over who got to keep Marlowe’s the week before. There’s no venom at all in Harry’s voice now,
just gentle teasing.

“Oh no, you’re on to me,” Louis deadpans. “I definitely implanted a chip in your shoulder all those
years ago, X-Files style. Sorry I never told you.”

“Oh, so that’s why I can never go through metal detectors without setting them off,” Harry giggles.
“I was wondering.”

“Yeah, well, now you know,” Louis smiles.

They fall silent. Louis takes another drag off his cigarette, exhaling slowly. His phone buzzes in his
pocket right as they reach the train station; Harry’s must go off too, he steps out of the flow of
traffic to stand in front of a closed Starbucks as he pulls his phone out, unlocking it. Louis follows
him, pulling his phone out as well.

“Niall sent the pictures,” Harry says, holding up the screen to show Louis. “He also made a
WhatsApp group for us.”

“You think he’s trying to Parent Trap us?” Louis jokes, unlocking his phone and opening the chat,
trying to deduce the chain of emojis Niall has titled it with. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“I think he just wants us all to be friends,” Harry says after a moment. “It would be nice, don’t you
think?”

Louis looks at him, smiling at the very familiar frog face Harry is making as he studies his phone
screen intently.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “Yeah, it would be nice.”

“Which one is your number?” Harry asks, finally looking up at him. “There are two here I don’t
recognize. Which one is yours?”

“Oh,” Louis fumbles, looking down at his phone, two unnamed contacts listed in the group chat,
though only one of the numbers is unfamiliar. “Um, the 646 area code is me. Zayn is 718.”

“Got it,” Harry says, swiping his screen. “Mine is–”

“I remember your number, Harry.”

Harry fish mouths and Louis can tell he wants to say something, but then he chooses not to, simply
nodding as he goes back to his phone. Louis saves Harry’s number, as well as Liam’s, his pulse
fluttering as he does so. He goes back to his cigarette, knowing Harry is lingering, waiting for him
to finish so they can get on the train together. Louis scuffs his sneaker on the pavement, screwing
up his courage.

“Harry, what I said about Xander earlier,” Louis says awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have
brought him up.”

“Oh,” Harry says softly, his eyes trained on the sidewalk. “That’s...that’s okay.”

“It’s really not,” Louis insists. “I was being petty, and I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, cracking his knuckles. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They fall silent once more, the air between them heavy with all the things unsaid.

“You were right about him, you know,” Harry admits after a long moment, looking Louis dead in
the eye. “Xander. You were right about everything.”

“O-oh,” Louis stammers, the knowledge that he was right all along sending him reeling. It’s not
nearly as satisfying as he once thought it might be. He doesn’t feel vindicated, he just feels...sad.
Sad for himself, sad for Harry, sad for what they lost. “What...what happ–”

“I think we’ve ripped enough old wounds open for one evening,” Harry says firmly, closing the
subject. “Don’t you?”

Louis nods, his still tipsy brain trying to process everything in. He finishes his cigarette, grinding it
out on the building’s facade and sticking the butt into a smoker’s pole before reaching for his box
again.

“You coming?” Harry asks, tilting his head towards the subway entrance.

“You go ahead,” Louis says, tapping another cigarette out of the box with shaky hands. “I think I’m
just gonna walk to the C at West 4th. It’s a nice night and it’s–”

“Closer to your place,” Harry nods, clearly knowing exactly what Louis is doing, but choosing not
to call him on it.

“Yeah.”

“G’night then, Lou,” Harry says, nodding at him as he turns towards the station. “Enjoy your
walk.”

“Thanks,” Louis says quietly. “I’ll see you around, Haz.”

“I hope so,” Harry says, smiling at him as he stops on the first step. “Night.”

With that, he trots down the stairs, leaving Louis alone. Louis watches him go, his emotions a
jumbled mess that he can’t even start to unravel right now. He leans back against the brick wall of
the Starbucks, taking a deep pull of his cigarette, the comforting, familiar act a balm on his frayed
nerves.

When Louis gets home forty-five minutes later and checks his email, he’s not the least bit surprised
to see a message in his inbox indicating that the first thing Harry did when he got home was order
all three of his books from his website.
 Chapter 5

April 2012

Louis clicks the TV off, tossing the remote aside and flopping back on Harry’s couch dramatically,
staring at his bedroom door and willing it to open. As much as he’s tried to, he can’t concentrate on
anything other than the fact that Harry is currently reading his finished novel behind closed doors.

He really needs to have a talk with his boyfriend about what the phrase “I’m almost done!” actually
means because this isn’t it.

Louis supposes he’s not being entirely fair, though. His novel is nearly four hundred pages (three
hundred and eighty six, to be precise) and he’d only given Harry the completed draft yesterday,
surprising him with a copy that he’d gotten printed and bound at the Staples on Forty-Seventh
Street. Harry had cried, kissed him, and then yelled at Louis for not telling him that he was actually,
actually finally finished after working on it for more than a year, playfully swatting him with the
heavy manuscript.

Then he’d immediately gotten dressed and thrown all his stuff in his backpack, leaving Louis naked
and half-hard in his bed, because he had to go home and read it right now and there was no way he
was gonna do it with Louis breathing down his neck, monitoring every single little reaction. Harry
had even gone so far as shutting his phone off, leaving Louis to his own devices all day, breaking
his silence only to send him his standard good night text, no mention of the book or what he thinks
of it so far.

The wait has been torture, to tell the truth.

It’s been the longest twenty-four hours of Louis’ life, impatient, insecure, and a little bit horny
never a good look on him. (He should have known to give Harry the book after their usual lazy
Saturday morning fuck, not before; he’s so dumb.) He’d spent the day mentally reading along with
Harry, wondering where he was in the story, who his favorite character was, and what exactly he
thought of that plot twist in chapter twelve. He’d slept fitfully, questioning if he should have cut
that scene with Adam and his father at the end or not, wondering if it was a little too heavy-handed,
even for a coming-of-age story about a gay teenager from a small town learning to spread his wings
after spending a summer abroad.

Maybe Louis had jumped the gun a little, showing up on Harry’s doorstep half an hour after getting
his good morning text. But he couldn’t help it. Honestly, Louis thinks he deserves some kind of
medal for waiting this long. Harry hadn’t been the least bit surprised to see him, kissing him and
smiling at him indulgently and then banishing him to the living room before marching right back
into his room, declaring he was “almost finished” as he shut the door.

That was forty-five minutes ago.

Oh God, Louis thinks, clutching one of the end pillows to his chest as he rolls to his side. What if
Harry’s finished already?

Fuck, what if he didn’t like it? What if he hates it? What if he’s hiding in his room because he
doesn’t know how to tell Louis the truth? Or worse, what if he climbed out onto the fire escape and
ran away?
Fuck.

Louis presses the end pillow over his face, screaming into it.

It’s totally fine if Harry hates it, he tells himself. People have different tastes, it’s really no big
deal.

Except it is a big deal.

Those three hundred and eighty-six pages are just the past fifteen months of his life, every word on
every page soaked in his blood, sweat, and tears. It’s his beating heart, his soul laid open and bare.
Not that he didn’t understand before, but now Louis really understands how Harry must have felt
all those months ago when he painted him for the first time. He has a whole new appreciation for
how scary it had to have been for Harry to make himself vulnerable and how brave he was to share
his art with Louis in such a way, especially when their relationship was so delicate and new. It
should be easier now , Louis reasons, but he really doesn’t think it is. They’ve been together for a
year, the best year of Louis’ life. He loves Harry with every fiber of his being, and more than that,
he trusts Harry implicitly. His rejection would be devastating, something Louis isn’t sure he’d ever
be able to recover from.

Louis startles as the bedroom door creaks open, feeling a little dizzy as he sits up too quickly, the
blood rushing from his head. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart as Harry
emerges, his eyes red-rimmed and his cheeks tear-stained, clutching Louis’ manuscript to his chest
as if it were something precious.

Louis relaxes ever so slightly because that? That is a very, very good sign.

He smiles at Harry and Harry just looks back at him, his eyes shining with pride. He opens his
mouth to speak, but appears to have been rendered speechless, closing his mouth and shaking his
head as his smile widens, his dimples carving deep craters in his cheeks. Still, Louis still needs to
hear the words, no matter how pathetic that may be given Harry’s reaction.

“Did you...like it?”

“Like it?” Harry parrots, his face scrunching in offense. “Did I like it, Louis?”

“Well, did you?”

It has to be the obvious neediness in his voice that finally spurs Harry into action. He strides across
the room, his eyes never leaving Louis’ as his brows knit in determination. Gently placing Louis’
novel on the coffee table, Harry climbs into Louis’ lap, straddling his thighs. Louis swallows hard
as Harry cups his face in his huge hands, his thumbs gently brushing his cheekbones as he gazes at
him adoringly.

His eyes are so, so, so green. Louis may not be able to paint them, but he can certainly write
sonnets about them. No. Novels about them.

“Baby, I didn’t like it,” Harry says, his voice reverent. “I fucking loved it. I loved it so much.”

With that, he dips his head down, capturing Louis’ lips with his own, kissing him thoroughly. Louis
melts underneath him, the tension of the last twenty-four hours dissipating as he kisses him back
with equal fervor, gripping Harry’s thighs to ground himself, bunching the soft, gray cotton of his
sweatpants in his fists. Harry’s tongue presses against his lips and Louis moans, opening for him
immediately, his tongue meeting Harry’s eagerly. Louis has no idea how long they just kiss and kiss
and kiss, getting completely lost in Harry and how he tastes like the second cup of coffee he always
has on Sundays and the refreshing smell of his citrus body wash and the comforting weight of him
in his lap, his skin soft and warm under his fingertips. He tangles his fingers in Harry’s silky curls,
tugging his head to the side so he can take control of the kiss; Harry goes easily, whimpering
prettily in the back of his throat as he ruts forward in Louis’ lap. Louis’ cock starts to perk up in his
sweats as Harry rocks forward again, his own semi nudging against Louis’ belly.

He’s breathless and panting and more than ready to get naked right there in the living room, Niall’s
rules about sex on the couch be damned, when Harry breaks the kiss, sitting back on Louis’ knees.

“Niall will kill us,” Harry grins cheekily, blatantly adjusting himself. “You know the rules.”

“I do,” Louis groans, trying to rein in his hormones even as he gives Harry’s pert little ass a
squeeze, Harry arching into it. “Fuck, okay.”

“Later,” Harry says, beaming at him, his pink lips all swollen and spit-slick and his curls a wild
halo around his head.

Fuck, how did he get so lucky?

“I am,” Harry murmurs, ducking down and pressing a gentle kiss to one cheek then the other, Louis
giggling as he does so, “so fucking,” dropping a kiss on the tip of his nose, “proud of you, baby.
You did it.”

“I did do it, didn’t I?” Louis grins, tucking one of Harry’s curls behind his ear. “Finally. Only took
fifteen months.”

“It was worth the wait,” Harry enthuses, reaching out and smoothing Louis’ hair across his
forehead. “I mean, seriously, Lou, it’s so fucking good? It took me so long to finish because I kept
going back and re-reading things–”

“You could have said so!” Louis laughs, tickling Harry’s sides. “I was going crazy out here!”

“And that ending!” Harry continues, looping his arms around Louis’ neck. “The scene where Adam
stands up to his dad? I was a fucking mess.”

“It’s not too much? Too cheesy?”

“Absolutely not,” Harry states firmly. “We need that...fuck...what’s the word? Like when I just
needed that cry?”

“Catharsis,” Louis supplies, smiling at him fondly.

“Yes!” Harry exclaims. “It wouldn’t have felt complete without it, you know? It was all so perfect.
Oh! You know what else was perfect? Chapter twelve! When Seth kissed Adam in the middle of
that argument? I didn’t see that coming, you did such a good job having them hate each other–”

“Move in with me,” Louis says suddenly.

“I mean, I had secretly hoped that he and Seth would get together, but I never thought–wait, what
did you just say?”
Harry’s eyes are big as saucers, his mouth agape as he stares at Louis in shock. Louis looks up at
him, swallowing hard; his heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears as his pulse races. He’s been
wanting to ask Harry to move in with him for a while now. They practically live together anyway,
both of them having keys to each other’s places, usually spending at least 4 nights a week together,
their wardrobes intermingling. But Louis had thought he would ask in a more romantic way,
splurging for a fancy night on the town or oh so casually passing him the real estate section of The
Village Voice over their morning coffee, with all the promising listings circled. He’d certainly never
expected to ask Harry this way, with no forethought, both of them in their sweatpants and the ink
barely dry on his completed novel, but at the same time, it feels so incredibly right and so
incredibly them.

His eyes close as he takes a deep, cleansing breath, holding it for a few seconds. As he exhales
slowly, his eyes flutter open and a wave of calm washes over him as he meets Harry’s glittering
emerald gaze.

He’s never been more sure of anything in his whole life.

“I said,” Louis says, licking his lips. “Move in with me, Harry.”

“That’s what I thought you said,” Harry says softly, an awed expression on his face. “You really
wanna live with me, baby?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, his fingers tracing patterns on Harry’s thighs. “I really do.”

“I really wanna live with you too,” Harry grins, his dimples coming out in full force. “I’d move in
with you tomorrow if it wouldn’t leave Niall hanging, rent wise.”

“No, we can’t do that to him,” Louis says. “I was thinking we could shoot for June 1st? That gives
plenty of time for Niall to find someone–”

“And get me through graduation next month,” Harry adds thoughtfully.

“Right, you can focus on your final portfolio,” Louis nods, tangling their fingers together. “And it
gives us time to find a place we really like–”

“I like your place!” Harry interrupts eagerly. “Let’s go there!”

“Baby, my place is too small for both of us full-time,” Louis chuckles. “Also, my lease is up in July
anyway, we’d just have to move again.”

“Ew, no, thank you. A new place on June 1st it is then.”

“Exactly,” Louis giggles. “Besides, don’t you want to find a place that’s just ours, Hazza? One that
we can make a home in together? Somewhere–”

“–only we know?” Harry finishes for him, his face softening.

Louis nods, so happy he feels like he’s going to shatter into a million little pieces. Harry smiles,
gently tracing his finger down the slope of Louis’ nose, tapping the end of it before closing the
small distance between them and kissing him sweetly. Softly.

“I love you,” Harry whispers against his lips, kissing him again. “So much. I can’t believe I get to
live with you.”
“I love you too so much,” Louis answers between kisses. “And I can’t wait to live with you, baby.”

“Holy shit!” Harry exclaims with a giggle, raking his hand through his hair and then grabbing
Louis’ face in both of his hands and kissing him sloppily. “We’re going to live together, Lou! You
sure you won’t get sick of me, me, me all the time? Twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-sixty-five
days a year? That’s a lot of me, baby.”

“I could never have too much of you,” Louis grins, completely sincere. “That all sounds pretty
fucking perfect to me, honestly.”

“Speaking of perfect,” Harry says, twisting around and grabbing Louis’ novel from the coffee table.
“I would like to discuss this more. I was oh so rudely interrupted before when I was trying to sing
your praises–”

“By me asking you to live with me, you dick!”

“Like I said,” Harry clucks, flipping through the manuscript. “Rudely interrupted. Now, if you
don’t mind, I’d like to share with you my favorite passages from your book, if that’s okay. I
highlighted them and everything, see?”

Harry turns the book out to show him, the swath of neon yellow blindingly bright.

“Hazza,” Louis laughs. “That entire page is highlighted. The next one. too!”

“They were two very good pages, Louis,” Harry says seriously, chewing on his lip. “No, this isn’t
what I want to start with. I think, actually, I should just start from the beginning. Hope you’re
comfortable, baby, we have a lot to discuss…”

Present Day

When it comes to Sunday mornings, Harry is a creature of habit. He’s always loved a lazy Sunday,
but over the past few years, they have become essential to him. It’s a routine that he cherishes, one
that he is protective of, one that he needs in order to recharge for the week ahead. Harry knows he
doesn’t have a typical nine to five job (thank fuck) and that he often has the luxury of being able to
set his own schedule, but he’s still needed to learn the importance of carving out a day for himself.

It wasn’t an easy lesson to learn. Harry used to think he needed to be constantly promoting himself,
making sure to be seen out and about on a consistent basis, keeping his face and his work present in
people’s minds. He was told he always had to be thinking ten steps ahead, anticipating trends and
adjusting himself to fit them. Because you never know when opportunities might present
themselves, or, conversely, when they might vanish completely. It’s not a sustainable way to live,
though, and it took the rug getting ripped out from underneath him for Harry to realize that he
doesn’t have to be on all the time. The hustle can go on without him for one day; his career won’t
be over if he says no to things or if he checks out for a while. He’ll be just fine, if not better for it, if
he does.

So Sundays have become his day and he has a very specific routine.

As much as Harry would love to sleep in, once he hit thirty, his body refuses to let him sleep too far
past 8:30, not unless he’s been on a hell of a bender the night before. He makes a big pot of coffee
and he makes breakfast, even if he has brunch plans later. Then he curls up on his couch with his
coffee and either catches up on his DVR or gets sucked into whatever Real Housewives repeats are
on Bravo at the time. Sometimes he’ll take himself to the movies in the afternoon or he’ll spend
hours wandering the far-flung corners of the Met, steering clear of the more congested touristy
exhibits in favor of the more obscure ones. Or sometimes, he’ll just stay on the couch all day with
Netflix. If he picks up a sketchpad or a paintbrush, it’s for him and the simple love of doing it, not
worrying where a particular piece might fit into his next show or if he’ll be able to sell it. He’ll hit
the Gristedes around the corner in the evenings and take the time to cook dinner, Niall and Liam
sometimes joining him if there’s something good on TV that night.

Really, Sundays are his favorite days.

This particular Sunday, three days after what Harry is referring to as that dinner with Louis and the
rest of the boys, is definitely a three cups of coffee kind of Sunday. He’s on his couch, clutching his
half-full mug in one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other, looking at movie times
and pondering whether or not he actually wants to change out of his threadbare sweats and t-shirt
and join the rest of the human race today.

The doorbell rings.

For a split second, Harry panics, thinking that he’s forgotten a commitment that’s going to disrupt
his quiet morning, but he relaxes as he exhales. It’s probably just Mrs. McCluskey across the hall in
1B; she usually bakes for her grandkids on Sundays, and this wouldn’t be the first time that she’s
needed a cup of sugar or a few eggs from him. He doesn’t mind at all, she’s a sweet lady and she
always bakes a little extra for Harry to say thank you.

“Coming!” Harry calls as he places his mug on the coffee table, hauling himself to his feet and
padding over to the door.

The very last person he expects to see when he swings open the door is Louis Tomlinson.

Harry blinks several times, certain that he’s hallucinating, that all the time he’s spent thinking about
Louis over the past couple of weeks has finally gone to his head.

But no, sure enough, Louis is standing there in his hallway, very much real and looking a little
panicked and pale, like he didn’t really expect Harry to be home or something. He’s clutching a box
to his chest as if it were a shield, shifting his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet, like he’s
ready to make a break for it at any minute.

“Louis?” Harry asks, shaking his head in confusion. “What are you doing here? In my building?”

“Oh, God, I knew this was a stupid idea,” Louis groans, carding his hand through his hair and
squeezing the back of his neck. “Sorry to bother you, Harry, I’m an idiot–”

“No, no, you’re not,” Harry replies, his brain trying to catch up with his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m
just...how do you even know where I live?”

“Because you told me, you idiot,” Louis replies, thrusting the box towards Harry’s chest. “Unless
there is another Harry Styles who lives on 102nd Street who–”

“Oh my God,” Harry gasps, taking the box from him eagerly. “Are these your books?”

“Personally delivered to your door by the author,” Louis quips, rocking back on his heels. “Take
that, Amazon.”
Harry laughs, bracing the box against the door jamb as he pulls the flap open, revealing Louis’
books, his first novel, Feels Like Home, sitting on the top of the pile, its cover depicting a Tuscan
villa.

“Oh, wow,” Harry breathes, pulling it out of the box. “This is a real book, Louis, holy shit. I mean,
I knew it would be, but actually seeing it–”

“I’ve come a long way from printing things out at Staples, eh?” Louis asks with a wry smile.

“I’ll say,” Harry agrees, sticking the first book under his arm. “Holy shit. Sorry, I keep saying
that.”

He reaches into the box and pulls out the other two books, dropping the empty box just inside his
apartment. The second book, titled Defenseless, has a vivid green cover, with the title, the simple
outline of a cityscape, and Louis’ name printed in royal blue. The last book has a stark white cover,
the title Only the Brave taking center stage in bold, graffiti-style black letters. He glances up at
Louis, who’s watching him nervously, chewing on his lip.

“These are amazing,” Harry enthuses, holding all three of them up together, displaying them
proudly. “Thank you so much for bringing them over, Lou, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis says, looking down and scuffing his sneaker against the floor. “I was packing
the box up and I just thought...well, it was like the same distance to the post office as it was to your
apartment, so it just seemed dumb to put it in the mail, you know? When it was just traveling ten
blocks and all. And I had your address, so...”

Louis trails off, shrugging his shoulders. Harry desperately wonders if Louis just wanted to see
him, but he can’t exactly ask that.

“How’d you know I’d be home?” he asks instead.

“I took a guess,” Louis replies as he looks up, smoothing his hair across his forehead. “Lazy
Sunday and all.”

Harry nods, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Did you want to come in?” Harry asks, taking a chance. “I still have some coffee on, if you
wanted to–”

“No, no, I should go,” Louis declines quickly, looking a little spooked. “I, um, have some errands
to run and work to do, so. Yeah. I should go.”

“Okay,” Harry nods.

“Thanks for buying the books–”

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies. “There’s just one problem though.”

“What’s that?”

“I paid an extra fifteen bucks for priority shipping for these,” Harry says, trying to keep a serious
expression on his face. “And yet, they haven’t gone through the postal service, so it seems you owe
me a refund.”
“Oh, um,” Louis bumbles, his eyes widening as he pats his pockets. “Shit, you’re right. Sorry,
I...shit...I need to go to the ATM, I don’t have any cash on me–”

“You can pay me back by buying us drinks at Marlowe’s,” Harry offers. “When I’m finished with
the books.”

“Paying for your drinks all night is not the same as refunding you fifteen bucks, Harold!” Louis
protests.

“It is when Niall’s behind the bar,” Harry grins cheekily, crossing his arms across his chest and
leaning against the door frame. “What do you say?”

Harry knows it sounds like he’s asking his ex-boyfriend out on a date. Hell, maybe he is. He
doesn’t know what he’s doing. All he knows is that he’d like to see Louis again. On purpose this
time. When his hair isn’t a little greasy and he can have a nicer outfit on.

That doesn’t make it a date, does it?

Louis sizes him up for what feels like an eternity, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like he can
see right through him, which to be honest, he probably can. Harry’s heart starts to pound in his
chest in anticipation, wondering if he’s pushed things too far.

“How about we meet for coffee instead?” Louis offers finally. “There’s a great coffee house around
the corner from my office, we could go there on my lunch or something.”

He’ll take it. Baby steps.

“Sounds great,” Harry says smoothly. “I’ll text you when I’m done. I’ve got a big project to work
on this week, so it may take awhile–”

“It’s fine,” Louis says shyly. “No rush. I’ve got an author turning in what I hope is a final draft this
week, so I’ll be swamped too.”

They smile at each other for a few moments. Harry feels like champagne bubbles are fizzing in his
veins.

“I, um, I’ll let you get back to your Sunday then,” Louis says finally, shoving his hands in his
pockets, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “I’m sure you have Housewives to watch.”

“Always,” Harry chuckles. “Thanks again for bringing these by.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis replies. He starts heading down the hall, but stops, turning back to Harry,
a nervous expression on his face. “Um...don’t read too much into Defenseless, okay? I...well...I
wrote it when...well...you’ll see.”

Harry nods, looking down at the green and blue book in the middle of the other two.

Oh, God.

It must be about him.

Harry doesn’t know why it never crossed his mind until now that Louis would write about him.
Considering how many times Harry painted him and how those paintings have been displayed in
galleries all over the city for years, it’s really only fair though.

“I...I won’t,” Harry manages to say, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. “Promise.”

Louis nods, offering him a timid smile before pulling the door open, trotting back out into the warm
summer sunshine. Harry watches him go, the weight of the books suddenly heavy in his hands.

Well, then. He has some reading to do.

November 2013

Harry huffs in frustration as he buttons up his black shirt all the way to the collar, immediately
popping the very top button back open so he can fucking breathe. He tucks the shirt into his tightest
pair of black skinnies, sucking his stomach in and hopping in place as he buttons them. Even
though he feels like it’s burning his wrist, Harry steadfastly ignores his watch as he fastens his belt.

Louis should have been home twenty minutes ago.

It’s fine, he tells himself as he grabs his black jacket off its hanger, shrugging it on. They don’t
really need to be at the gallery for another hour. An hour and fifteen minutes if they want to be
fashionably late. An hour and a half if they want to make an entrance, which Harry doesn’t really
want to do. Sure, it’ll take some time to get a cab during peak evening hours on a Friday and then
fifteen to twenty minutes to get all the way across town to Tenth Avenue, and that’s if there is no
traffic on a Friday, which is not likely, but whatever, it’s fine. They have plenty of time.

As long as Louis gets home in the next ten minutes or so.

It’s fine.

Harry turns to face the mirror, studying his reflection critically as he tugs the sleeves of the jacket
so all the lines are straight on his body. He hadn’t been too sure about this jacket when he first tried
it on, worrying that the mandarin collar, elaborate gold embroidery, and matching gold buttons
might make him look like the conductor of a marching band or a circus ringmaster. Xander had
countered that the military styling of the jacket made it trend more Prince Charming because what
kind of band leader or ringmaster actually wore Saint Laurent anyway.

He had a point. And, as usual, Xander was right. The jacket hits the perfect note for tonight’s event
and it had better. He’s going to be paying it off for the next several months. Or until he gets a few
more major sales. Every time he gets his credit card bill, Harry has to remind himself that he’s
investing in his brand which is just as important as his art.

Harry finally checks his watch, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth in annoyance. He grabs his
phone, opening up Twitter and pulling up the MTA’s page, checking for any sort of major delays on
Louis’ line.

Surprisingly, everything appears to be running on schedule for once.

So where the fuck is Louis?

Harry looks around the bedroom helplessly, as if Louis will suddenly jump out from behind the
curtains or something.
If he lays out Louis’ outfit for him, it could shave a few minutes of getting ready time off once he
finally gets home.

He opens their shared closet, wrinkling his nose as he rifles though Louis’ side. It’s not that Louis
doesn’t have taste because he does. He always looks good, well put together and never sloppy. His
style just tends to run casual and sporty is the thing, and that just...well, that just doesn’t really
work for cocktail parties. It can be like pulling teeth to get Louis out of his beloved Vans and
Adidas jackets, but that’s what he’s going to have to do tonight. Harry pulls out the black cashmere
turtleneck he’d bought him for Valentine’s Day this year and the double-breasted black blazer that
showcases the curve of his waist and the flare of his hips and lays them out on their bed. He grabs a
pair of jet-black skinnies from their dresser, checking the size to make sure they actually belong to
Louis, before tossing them on top of the sweater, nodding in satisfaction.

That’ll look perfect.

Harry hears keys jangling in the lock and sighs in relief as he checks his watch again. They’ll be
cutting it close, but they’ve gotten their shit together in less time than this. He turns back to the
mirror, flipping his hair forward and raking his fingers through it, flipping it back and scrunching
up the ends.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

“Babe, I’m home,” Louis calls from the living room. “And I’ve got Chinese!”

Harry’s stomach drops.

Did he really just say–?

“You’ve got what?” Harry answers, coming out into the living room.

Ice water rushes through his veins when he sees Louis standing at their breakfast bar, his back to
him as he unloads a big brown paper bag of Chinese takeout, lining up the little white and red
containers in a row. It’s enough for a proper feast; it looks like Louis got all their favorites, in
addition to two bottles of red wine.

“Chinese,” Louis answers, popping a wonton in his mouth as he pulls a greasy white bag of egg
rolls out of the bag. “I had a craving, so I stopped at East Garden on the way home. They were
mobbed–”

“Louis,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice calm and even.

“Sorry, I know I should have texted, but I thought I’d–”

“Louis,” Harry tries again.

“–surprise you? Like we could have a proper night in–”

“Louis!” Harry shouts.

“Jesus, Haz, what?” Louis asks, finally turning to look at him, his eyes wide and startled.

“We have to be at the Agora in forty-five minutes,” Harry states, taking a deep breath and
clenching his fists at his sides. “The opening night party for their new exhibit? Ring any bells?”
Louis’ face pales, his posture deflating as he places a container of egg drop soup on the counter.

“Fuck,” Louis sighs, raking his hand through his hair. “Harry, I completely forgot, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry assures him. “We’ve got time, we can still make it–”

“Or we can just skip the party,” Louis interjects.

“We can’t skip the party.”

“But I bought all this food!” Louis protests. “So much food! I just dropped almost fifty bucks at
East Garden getting all this and you know how cheap they are. Not to mention I got the wine–”

“Just put it all in the fridge,” Harry suggests impatiently, barely stopping himself from tapping his
foot. “We can eat it when we get home, it’ll be fine.”

“Reheated egg rolls are disgusting, Harry,” Louis scoffs. “They get soggy and gross and there’s no
crunch when you microwave them. I might as well throw them away.”

“What do you want me to do, Lou?” Harry asks, tossing his hands in the air. “I can’t go back in
time and have you not buy Chinese.”

“We can just not go to the party!” Louis exclaims. “It’s really that simple! It’s just a party, Harry,
you go to them like 4 times a week, if not more. What makes this one so special that we absolutely
can’t miss it?”

“These are the people who are producing my show in January,” Harry explains, trying his best to
remain calm, even though he’s ready to tear his hair out.

“Can’t you just call someone and say you’re sick? It’s November, people get sick. Just cough
convincingly, it’ll be fine.”

“You don’t get it,” Harry says, clenching his teeth. “They’re producing my show and it’s not a good
look if I don’t show up to support their other projects. This is their gallery–”

“I just don’t get why the fuck you’re sucking up to them, Harry,” Louis huffs indignantly. “Like,
whether or not you go to this party isn’t going to change the fact that they put your show all the
way out in fucking Red Hook, when they own space in Manhattan. Space that you should be in, by
the way, but what do I know?”

Harry knows Louis has a point there, but he doesn’t feel like giving it to him. Not right now. And
definitely not when Louis is using that point to be petty.

“Oh, so you do listen,” Harry snaps. “That’s good to know at least.”

“Of course I listen to you, what the fuck, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. “Just feels like you have a bit of selective hearing going on right
now, because I definitely reminded–”

“I said I was sorry I forgot!”

“Did you really?” Harry accuses. “Because that’s awfully convenient, Louis.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis asks, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “Do you think I
forgot on purpose?”

“I mean, it’s no secret you hate going to these things,” Harry states matter-of-factly. “We all know
it. Everyone knows it.”

“And yet I still go,” Louis points out. “I go because, for some reason, you always want me there,
though I don’t really know why anymore. I go, and I have my shitty wine and I smile and nod and
pretend I know fuck-all about composition when I’m really just looking at something I could have
painted in nursery school. And the whole time, Harry, you’re off acting like some sort of politician,
shaking hands with everyone in the room and completely ignoring me–”

“It’s called networking, Louis!”

“And if anyone actually deigns to talk to me,” Louis continues, ignoring his interjection, “as soon
as they realize I’m no one important, that I’m just the plus one, they don’t want to talk to me
anymore. And then I’m left alone in a corner. Waiting for you. This is all I’ve been doing for the
past year and I’ll keep doing it because I love you, but I don’t want to do it tonight.”

“Louis–”

“I’ve had a shitty day, and I’m tired, and I want to spend a night in with my boyfriend. I want to
curl up on the couch with him because I miss him,” Louis entreats, closing the space between them,
grabbing the lapels of his jacket as he looks into his eyes. “I fucking miss you.”

Harry tries not to flinch at the way the expensive fabric bunches and wrinkles in Louis’ grasp.

“I feel like I never see you anymore, babe. Like really see you, not like the version of you at these
events where you’re just selling yourself all the time, just you. My Harry,” Louis says earnestly,
tapping Harry’s chest for emphasis. “I want us to drink cheap red wine and stuff our faces with
Chinese food while we watch stupid movies and then maybe even fuck on the couch later. Like we
did when we first moved in together. Can we do that please? I really need that tonight. I’m asking
you, Harry, please.”

Harry has to admit that the whole idea does sound tempting. He and Louis have been out of sync
lately, never quite being able to find themselves on the same page. A night in away from the
constant hustle and bustle could do them a world of good. He’s opening his mouth to agree to skip
the whole thing when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Harry takes a step back, Louis’ hand
dropping as he pulls his phone out and unlocks it; he sighs when he sees a text from Xander asking
him if he’s on his way and reminding him about some of the people on the guest list he absolutely
has to meet tonight.

Fuck.

Harry closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he takes a deep cleansing breath. He
exhales slowly, locking his phone and putting it back in his pocket.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Harry says evenly. “I get that you’re not going, and that’s fine. I guess.
But I have to go. It’s important. There are important people that I have to meet tonight.”

Louis’ face hardens.

“Fine,” Louis says flatly, crossing to the breakfast bar and grabbing one of the bottles of wine,
cracking the screwtop open. “Go, then.”

Harry sighs, going back into their bedroom to get his boots. Shoving aside the outfit he’d laid out
for Louis, he sits on their bed and pulls on his leopard print boots. He stands, looking in the mirror
and smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket; the sound of the cabinet banging open and then shut
echoes from the living room. Harry starts at his reflection for a few moments before straightening
his shoulders and fluffing the ends of his curls, steeling himself for the night ahead.

So he’s on his own tonight. It’s fine. Totally fucking fine.

“I should only be a few hours,” Harry says to Louis’ back. He grabs his scarf from the row of
hooks by the door, looping it around his neck. “I won’t go out for any drinks or anything after, I
promise. I’ll come right home.”

“Okay,” Louis replies, the bottle of red wine glugging as he pours himself a generous glass.

“Save me some Chinese?” Harry asks tentatively, his hand on the doorknob.

“You know makes me crazy?” Louis asks, whirling around to face him, the wine sloshing in his
glass. “I’m sorry, can I say this? You know what makes me absolutely fucking nuts? The fact that I
don’t need to save you any Chinese, Harry. It’s all right here! Hot and waiting for you right now. I
shouldn’t have to save it for you!”

“I told you–”

“No,” Louis says firmly, his eyes stormy. “No! We could be together, here together, sharing our
night and spending our time together. Like I asked you to, just now. But you’re choosing someone
else to be with!”

“I’m not choosing–”

“No, you are!” Louis exclaims. “Harry, that’s exactly what you’re doing, don’t you get it? You
could be here with me or you could be there with them and it’s like, as usual, guess what you pick?
Not me! It’s never me anymore!”

“It’s not about picking someone, Louis,” Harry growls. “God! I’m making choices, important
choices for my career! Don’t you fucking get it? I have to go–”

“No, Harry, you don’t have to go to another party with the same twenty jerks you already know!
It’s always the same people there, no matter how much you keep saying it’s a networking
opportunity. You’re just gonna wind up having the same fucking conversation that you do every
time, just with different art pieces hanging in different galleries. How in the fuck does that help
your career? It doesn’t.”

“You’re wrong!” Harry protests. “Like tonight, Xander says that a big–”

Louis snorts, raising his eyebrows as he takes a gulp of wine.

“What?” Harry questions, stepping farther back into the living room, because clearly they’re doing
this now. “You know, Lou, I really wish you would just say what you felt instead of just making all
these passive-aggressive eyerolls and eyebrow raises like you think I don’t see them. What’s your
problem with him? Really? Cause you’ve never liked him, not from the very beginning.”

“He’s never liked me either, in case you haven’t noticed. He always talks down to me, always
somehow manages to belittle me or make me feel unimportant. Oh, he’s very good!” Louis says
viciously, holding up a finger when Harry starts to protest. “He always does it just enough to where
it always seems like he’s joking or where it seems like a harmless comment to everyone other than
the one person he’s directing it to. He’s an entitled, over-indulged trust fund brat who’s never heard
the word ‘no’ his entire life, Harry. You’ve just got your head too far up his ass to really see him for
who he is.”

“And who is that, Louis?” Harry asks, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “Tell me because, believe me,
I’m dying to know.”

“He’s a pretentious asshole,” Louis spits. “And you’re an asshole when you’re with him. And the
worst thing is, I don’t think you even realize it, Harry. It’s like I barely recognize the man I fell in
love with anymore. Did you know you have a different laugh around him? You have this big,
beautiful, honking laugh that just bursts out of you, Harry. It was one of the first things I fell in love
with, and it’s always been one of my favorite things about you. Or it used to be, anyway. I wish you
could really hear what you sound like around him. You do this forced ‘ha ha ha’ and it’s so obvious
you’re just laughing because everyone else is, not because you actually think something is funny.
Truly, it’s so fake it makes my skin crawl.”

“I make your skin crawl? ” Harry asks, completely horrified, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jesus,
Lou, are you even listening to yourself right now?”

Louis takes another gulp of wine.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Maybe you do know how you sound. Maybe you like it. Maybe you’re
fine being fake with all these people, but I’m not. It’s gross and I hate it. It’s not you. I know you
think you’re just putting in the work, trying to get ahead, trying to put yourself out there, but it’s all
just bullshit, Harry! Because what you’re actually doing? Just ain’t it, baby. How in the hell did
Xander fucking Ritz convince you that he’s the end all, be all of the New York art scene, Harry?
And I know that text you got just now was from him. You were this close to skipping the party, I
know you were, I could see it in your eyes, and then he texted and you changed your mind. Don’t
deny it.”

“Do you see me denying it?” Harry snaps.

“I just want to know why whenever he says ‘jump,’ you say ‘how high?’” Louis demands. “He
doesn’t know shit, he only ever says what people want to hear but he’s somehow made you think
that the sun shines out of his ass. He’s a sycophant without a single shred of artistic integrity who
only gets in anywhere because of the names in his Blackberry. Names that he didn’t even get on his
own merit! Every single thing he has is thanks to mommy and daddy, he’s never worked for
anything–”

“That’s enough, Louis,” Harry snarls. “Do you have any idea how much Xander has done for me?
The amount of doors he’s opened?”

“You do know he wants to fuck you right?”

They fall silent, Louis’ savage words like a slap across his face. Harry stares at him in shock; Louis
takes a long sip of his wine, his eyes trained on Harry’s over the brim of his glass.

“Fuck you, Louis,” Harry says after a long moment. “You’re just jealous.”

“What am I jealous of? Of Xander? Please.”

“No,” Harry says, rage and resentment simmering in his belly. “You’re jealous of me. You’re so
jealous you can hardly see straight.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I fucking am,” Harry sneers. “You’re jealous and you’re projecting because you really
want...no... need to find some sort of excuse as to why I'm succeeding and you’re not. Because, of
course, the only reason I’m getting anywhere is because someone wants to fuck me.”

“Don’t twist my words around, Harry, I didn’t say that!”

“You did though,” Harry retorts. “You basically just said that the only reason someone like Xander
would want to help me is because he just wants to fuck me. That has to be it right, it has absolutely
nothing to do with me being talented and him wanting to help me get the opportunities I deserve.
Yeah, he may have set up some things for me, but he didn’t get them for me, Louis. I did that. Me.
Me and my talent. And I’m sorry that you can’t deal with that. But I’m not going to apologize for
or feel guilty about my successes. I refuse to do that.”

“Harry, I’m not–”

“No,” Harry interrupts, pointing at him. “No, you had your turn already, Louis. It’s my turn now, so
listen up. You want to know what makes me crazy? What makes me nuts? You’re not the only one
who’s hurting here, you know. And I really don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do anymore,
so help me out here.”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw twitching as he stares Harry down.

“What makes me crazy,” Harry barrels on, patting his chest for emphasis, “is that I have always
supported you, Louis. I’m your biggest fan. I have been from the get-go, baby. I believe in you. I
believe in your stories and what you’ve got to say about the world we live in. I hate that it’s so hard
for you right now. I wish I could fix it, I really do. I would go banging on the doors at the Random
House building if I thought that could help you. I would pass out copies of your novel on the street
or leave them on the subway if I thought that would get you noticed!”

“Do you think I’m not trying?” Louis asks, his voice strained. “I try every fucking day.”

“I know you do,” Harry agrees. “And it’s gonna happen, I know it will. And as soon as you get
published, I am going to be on the front row of every single signing cheering you on. I’m on your
side every day, Louis, so why can’t you just be on mine?”

“You think I’m not on your side?” Louis exclaims, a tear slipping down his cheek. “That I don’t
support you? Jesus, Harry, all I do is support you. Everything is always you, you, you, nothing but
you all the goddamn time! There’s nothing left for me! Nothing!”
“See, you just did it again!” Harry shouts. “Stop blaming me! This is not my fault! Why are you
making me feel like I’ve committed some sort of felony for doing what I’ve always sworn I was
going to do? I will gladly go to all the parties and shake all the hands and have the fake
conversations if that’s what’s gonna move me forward. You gotta do what you gotta do. I would do
anything to see you succeed, baby, but I can’t do it for you. Only you can do that. You’re the only
person standing in your way. And I’m sorry you’re struggling, but I refuse to lose just because you
can’t win. I’m not going to fail so you can be more comfortable in this relationship, Louis!”

Louis sucks in a sharp breath, the color draining from his face as another tear slips down his cheek.

Fuck.

Harry can’t believe he actually said that.

It’s not like he has never had that thought before, because he definitely has over the past few
months, in his darkest moments. He just never expected to actually put a voice to them.

“Louis–” Harry starts, reaching out for him.

“No,” Louis croaks, grabbing the bottle of wine and heading towards the bedroom. “No! Just go to
your fucking party, Harry. You’re late. Very late, actually.”

The bedroom door slams so hard the pictures on the wall rattle. Harry looks down at his watch.

He’s very, very late.

Still, Harry stays rooted in place, staring at the bedroom door, willing Louis to just come back out
so they can apologize and move on. He counts backwards from twenty, sighing heavily when he
gets to zero.

He’s probably in there waiting for Harry to knock right now, since he threw the last punch. But
Louis had gotten his licks in, too. A few below the belt. Why should he have to apologize first
when Louis is the one who started it?

Harry’s phone buzzes in his pocket again, jolting him out of his trance. He strides towards the door,
grabbing his long black coat off its hook. As he shrugs it on, he glances back towards the door.

It stays closed. Harry shakes his head, grabbing his keys and pulling out his phone, typing out a
quick reply to Xander. He yanks the door open, letting it slam heavily behind him as he goes.

He doesn’t have time for a game of emotional chicken. Not tonight.

He’s very, very, very late.

 Chapter 6

Two weeks.

Louis takes a drag off his cigarette and exhales slowly, weaving his way through the midday crowd
on Eighth Avenue.

Two weeks is a long fucking time to wait.

Logically, Louis knows that two weeks is not that long at all. Harry had told him that he was busy
working on a major project, and God knows Louis remembers what Harry can be like when he gets
lost in his work or has a deadline. He either sits and stares catatonically out the window, mapping
everything out in his brain or he paints for hours on end, his normally healthy eating habits giving
way to a steady diet of Doritos, peanut butter M&Ms, and Dr. Pepper. There’s no in-between. Or at
least there wasn’t when they were together.

Louis also knows that he had told Harry that he was busy, and he was. He’d spent the past week
and a half fine-tuning what he is confident is going to be the thriller for next summer, the ultimate
beach read that everyone and their mother will be talking about, the one that Louis will definitely
see the movie adaptation of in theaters two years from now and yell about how the screenwriter did
his favorite character wrong or how that plot twist was his idea, you know. But no matter hard he
tried to devote his full attention to his work, Louis couldn’t help the niggling voice in the back of
his head whispering that Harry had read the original draft of Feels Like Home in just over twenty-
four hours – so what the fuck was taking him so long?

Louis could have texted Harry asking for an update, but he didn’t want to come off as too needy.
And besides, despite the tentative new friendship between them, Louis didn’t think they were quite
at a texting just to chat level yet, even if it really wasn’t “just because” texting but “ohmyGod, just
tell me what you think of my books” texting. So, Louis had let it be, even though the radio silence
made him a little nuts.

Two weeks is a long fucking time to wait.

Louis takes another puff of his cigarette, flicking the ash into the street as he dodges around a group
of slow-walking tourists.

To be fair, Harry had texted him on Friday morning, simply saying that he had finished Only the
Brave the night before. So really, it had taken him ten days to read all three books. Which is not
long at all, if you think about it. And Louis had thought about it, doing the math in his head. The
books average about four hundred pages each between the three of them, so that’s twelve hundred
pages, which meant Harry read about one hundred pages a day, while working at the same time, so
in reality, he read the books quite fast. Probably as fast as he could, really.

But then Louis had put Harry off when he’d asked if Louis was free that afternoon, saying he
wasn’t free until Monday. He hadn’t been at all emotionally prepared to see Harry on Friday, and he
really wanted the safety net of being able to say he had to get back to work, as opposed to seeing
him on the weekend when everything felt looser and open-ended and dangerous. Self-preservation
is a bitch really, because not only had Louis prolonged the agony of getting Harry’s verdict on his
books, the entire weekend felt like it was some kind of countdown, Louis incredibly aware of every
hour ticking away until his coffee date (is it a date? He is paying, it’s definitely a date, what the
fuck is he doing?) with Harry at twelve-thirty on Monday.

As the sign for Ground Central comes into view, Louis takes a final drag off his cigarette, inhaling
deeply as the paper burns all the way to filter. He flicks the butt into the subway grate and checks
his watch, pondering if he has time for another before heading inside. He’s five minutes early, and
Harry is perpetually ten minutes late, no matter how many times he says how much he hates being
late, so Louis figures he does. He fishes his box of cigarettes out of his pocket, patting his other
pocket for his lighter at the same time as he steps out of the flow of foot traffic, standing on the
curb in front of the coffee shop.

Louis extracts a cigarette and then nearly drops the box when he looks up and sees Harry waiting
for him, casually leaning against a light pole. Five minutes early.

Harry hasn’t noticed him yet, his attention focused on his phone, so Louis takes the chance to drink
his fill, his traitorous heart fluttering in his chest at the sight of him.

Harry looks like the epitome of summer, effortlessly breezy in an unbuttoned crisp white short-
sleeve shirt layered over a deep scoop-neck tank, which is tucked into a pair of mid-thigh length
cuffed beige shorts with the button details on the sides that draw attention to his narrow hips. He’s
wearing white sneakers and ankle socks, and he has the longer curls on the top of his head held
back off his face with a little clip. Louis can’t help but look him up and down, appreciating how the
shorts showcase Harry’s long legs and his endearingly knobby knees. (Who the fuck actually has
cute knees? Harry does.) Louis shudders when he sees that said endearingly knobby knees are now
framed by four tiny tattoos. They appear to be cursive writing, but he’s not close enough to see
what they say. That doesn’t even matter right now though, because all Louis can think about is how
much it must have hurt getting fucking knees tattooed. The top two wouldn’t have been too bad,
given that they’re more on muscle, but the bottom two. Those are right on the fucking bone, just
looking at them sends a shiver up his spine. But then again, Harry always had more than a little bit
of a pain kink, so God knows, he probably got off on it.

Fuck.

Thoughts like these are exactly why Louis is limiting himself to only seeing Harry on his lunch
break or in a group situation because clearly, he can’t be trusted when left unsupervised.

“You gonna smoke that or what?” Harry asks suddenly, his smooth, deep voice like honeyed
whiskey.

Louis startles out of his reverie, coming back to himself. Harry’s looking at him, a smirk tugging at
his lips and Louis can tell that his eyes are sparkling, even behind the huge Breakfast at Tiffany’s
style sunglasses he’s wearing. He looks down at the forgotten cigarette in his hands, feeling blood
rushing to his cheeks.

He’s been caught.

“Well, I was going to,” Louis replies primly, carefully sliding the unsmoked cigarette back in the
box in the most dignified way he can manage. “I wasn’t counting on you actually being here on
time, Styles, much less being here early.”

“Heeeeeeeey,” Harry pouts, his face scrunching in disgruntlement. “I resent that implication! I hate
being late.”
“More like you resemble that implication,” Louis grins. “Need I remind you that you were late to
your own birthday party–”

“Well, you said you were on your lunch hour,” Harry protests good naturedly, his dimple popping
out to say hello. “I didn’t want to waste any time by being late.”

“O-oh,” Louis stammers. “Well then.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my ways in the past few years, Louis,” Harry continues teasingly, shoving his
sunglasses up on top of his head. His eyes are indeed sparkling. “You don’t know!”

Louis marvels at how a remark like that would have felt like a punch in the stomach a month ago,
Harry’s words filled with venom, slung at him like a weapon; now he just feels a familiar and not
entirely unwelcome warmth spreading through his chest as Harry smiles down at him.

“You’re right,” Louis admits with a smile. “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

God, he’s so fucked.

“It’s good to see you, Lou,” Harry says after a moment.

The logical side of brain is screaming at him to run in the opposite direction as fast as he can,
reminding him of all the ways he and Harry hurt each other before, how bad they were together
there at the end, and all the ways history could be repeating itself and how easily his fragile heart
could be shattered again.

The emotional side of his brain keeps his feet rooted in place because, after all, Harry has always
been his anchor, even after all this time.

“It’s good to see you too, Haz,” Louis replies.

Harry’s smile widens as he extends his arm towards him. For several terrifying seconds, Louis
thinks Harry is going to pull him in for a hug, every muscle in his body tensing in anticipation
because, no, he’s not ready for that kind of contact. Not in the slightest. Louis freezes, his eyes
widening; Harry looks back at him in bemusement, flicking his eyes down to his outstretched fist
and then back up to Louis’ face. He arches an eyebrow in expectation.

Oh.

It’s entirely possible he is a dumbass.

Louis awkwardly raps their knuckles together, registering the warmth of Harry’s skin even with the
brief contact. He can’t help but giggle as Harry explodes his fist, complete with sound effects.

One thing definitely hasn’t changed about Harry. He is still an absolute goober.

“Should we, ah–you know?” Louis says, wincing at his lack of eloquence as he waves towards the
door.

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “We should.”

Harry beats Louis to the door, his longer legs getting him there in two strides. He pulls the door
open, coming just short of bowing as he grandly gestures for Louis to go in ahead of him.
“Did you know that the other night Liam told me to be there a half hour before you guys were due
to get there?” Harry asks as Louis passes by him.

“And what time did you get there?” Louis asks over his shoulder, getting in the short line in front of
the register.

“About ten minutes before you,” Harry answers, coming to stand next to him.

“I rest my case,” Louis says airily, looking up at the menu, even though he always gets the same
thing whenever he comes here. “Now what’ll it be, gotta get your whole fifteen dollars worth, you
know.”

“Lou, you don’t really have to, I was just teasing, y’know–”

“No, no, Curly,” Louis insists, the pet name slipping out without even thinking about it. “Get
whatever you want to get, as long as it adds up to fifteen dollars. A deal’s a deal.”

Two spots of pink rise on Harry’s cheeks as he gazes up at the menu. Louis tells himself it’s
because of how hot it was outside.

“Um, the kale and brussels sprouts salad,” Harry decides finally, “and the biggest iced caramel
macchiato they have. With extra caramel, please.”

Louis nods, pressing his lips together to stop himself from laughing because the order is so very
Harry.

“What?” Harry asks, turning to him, his hands on his hips. “What’s so funny? It’s under fifteen
dollars! In fact, I have money to spare, Lewis.”

“I know you do,” Louis chuckles, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “It’s just...it’s like the duality
of man, you know? Ordering the healthiest thing possible and then getting the sugariest drink on
the menu?”

“Find a man who can do both,” Harry grins cockily. “And I do. Do both.”

It’s Louis’ turn to blush. From the heat outside, of course.

“What are you getting then?” Harry challenges. “Since you’re clearly the superior orderer here?”

“Ham and cheese croissant, toasted,” Louis says automatically, “and a flat white.”

“Getting fancy with your coffee in your old age, Louis?” Harry asks with a lopsided grin. “You
used to be a dark roast of the day with half and half kind of person. Maybe a latte if you were
feeling indulgent.”

His chest tightens at the thought of Harry remembering his coffee order after all this time.

“First of all,” Louis replies archly, stepping forward as the line moves. “I’m not old, you jerk. I’m
only two years older than you, remember?”

“The grays say otherwise,” Harry interjects.

“Take that up with my mother’s side of the family,” Louis huffs, combing his fingers through his
hair self-consciously. “I can’t help my genetics! Y’know, I’ve actually been thinking about coloring
them–”

“Don’t you dare!” Harry gasps. “They’re perfect!”

Louis turns to Harry, who looks back at him, completely scandalized, clutching his metaphorical
pearls at the thought of Louis covering his grays. Louis laughs, the warmth in his chest spreading to
the tips of his fingers and toes. Harry joins him, letting out a big, honking laugh, clapping his hand
over his mouth when the person in front of them turns around and gives them an annoyed glance. It
only makes Harry laugh harder.

Jesus, he missed that sound.

“What was the second thing?” Harry asks quietly, once they’ve calmed down.

“What second thing?”

“You said ‘first of all,’ like you had a list or something.”

“Oh right, flat whites,” Louis nods, picking up his lost train of thought. “They’re like, practically
the national drink of New Zealand. The Kiwis claim they actually invented them, it’s like this
whole rivalry with Australia that I don’t really get, but it’s very real. Anyway, I got addicted to
them over there. They aren’t quite right here, the milk’s not as good, you know, but this place gets
it pretty close.”

When Louis looks back over at Harry, his eyes are suddenly sad, even though he’s trying to hide it
with a smile; Louis cringes, the reality of their situation rushing back to him and he can’t help but
feel sad himself, the magnitude of everything they lost looming large. After all, this is not just a
casual lunch date like they used to do all the time and there’s a reason why he knows about flat
whites in New Zealand and it’s not a good one. And here he is, chattering on about it like he was on
a fun trip or something, living his best life. Harry doesn’t know how hard those first few months
were, how he wandered from place to place, isolating himself from the rest of the world, not letting
anyone in as he licked his wounds and tried to stitch his broken heart back together. Louis wonders
if he should tell Harry all about it, but the conversation feels a little too heavy for coffee.

“Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those guys that gets all snobby about American food,” Harry
banters weakly. “Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me how shitty our chocolate is.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started on that,” Louis jokes awkwardly. “You wouldn’t believe the
difference in Kit-Kats.”

Harry snorts, scuffing the sole of his sneaker against the tiled floor. An awkward silence settles
between them as the person in front of Louis pays for their order. Louis looks over his shoulder at
the line that’s lengthened behind them, the lunch crowd slowly taking over the shop. He gently
elbows Harry to get his attention.

“Why don’t you go snag us a table?” Louis asks. “It’s starting to get crowded in here.”

Harry nods, giving him a small, tight smile as he goes; Louis sighs heavily, grateful for the small
reprieve and the chance to reset the conversation. He steps up and places their order, adding on a
black and white cookie, knowing that Harry will break it in half, handing him the vanilla side of the
cookie while he keeps the chocolate. (“Why they don’t make a just chocolate version of a black and
white cookie, Lou, I’ll never know.”) He keeps his eye on Harry as he hands over his credit card,
relief coursing through him when Harry avoids the more intimate couches and low coffee tables in
the back reading nook, choosing one of the few remaining high two-tops instead. Harry catches his
eyes as he climbs up into his high-backed chair, raising his eyebrows as if asking for his approval.
Louis nods, giving him a thumbs up as he slides his card back into his wallet, taking a small
number placard from the cashier for their food.

Their drinks are at the coffee bar in a matter of minutes, the crew of baristas working like a well-
oiled machine during the lunch rush. Louis grabs the drinks, the number placard for the food, and a
straw for Harry, and starts making his way back to the table. As he weaves through the increasingly
crowded space, struggling not to spill hot espresso all over himself, he can’t help but think how
much easier this would be if he had giant paws for hands like Harry; he’s seen him carry two two-
liters of soda in one hand like it’s nothing.

“I loved the books,” Harry blurts out right as Louis carefully deposits his drink in front of him.
“I’m sorry, I should have said that right away, Lou, I got distracted. I’m sure you’ve been driving
yourself crazy wondering.”

“Me?” Louis asks, brushing his hair back with faux-casualness as he sits, as if Harry didn’t just
undo the knot of anxiety that’s been sitting in his stomach for the past two weeks. “I am super chill
all the time, Harry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Harry laughs, unwrapping his straw and sticking it through the lid, swirling his drink around and
taking a long sip.

“God, that’s really good,” Harry sighs appreciatively.

“I told you this place was great,” Louis says, delicately sipping his piping hot coffee so as to not
burn his tongue.

“But seriously, Louis, I fucking loved the books,” Harry enthuses, placing his drink on the table.
“It’s like I forgot how much I missed reading your writing until I sat down and did it? You just have
this way of making people feel things, you know? Like there’s no bullshit, you don’t mince any
words, you just cut right to the heart of things and it’s just...wow.”

“Thank you,” Louis says, his cheeks heating from the praise. “That, um, that means a lot. Coming
from you.”

“You’re brilliant, you know,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “I hope you know that. Just really
fucking talented.”

“I don’t know if I’d say brilliant,” Louis replies. “But yeah, I do know that talent was never the
problem. It...um...it took a lot for me to get to that place of acceptance.”

Harry looks at him for a long time, his face soft with understanding. Louis tries not to squirm under
his gaze, his stomach going on an Olympic-level tumbling run. He blesses whatever higher power it
is that’s watching over them when a waitress chooses that moment to deliver their food, diffusing
the moment. They both smile and thank her as she picks up their placard, scurrying away to another
table.

“I didn’t order a black and white cookie, Louis,” Harry states with amusement.
“Yeah, well,” Louis shrugs. “The cookie brought your order up to fifteen dollars. Sixteen, really, so
technically, I own half of it.”

“The vanilla half,” Harry grins, his dimples carving deep craters in his cheeks as he delicately
breaks the cookie in two, placing the white half on Louis’ plate. Louis presses his lips together,
trying to contain his smile.

“Sitting down and reading Feels Like Home again was something else,” Harry says, digging into
his salad with vigor, his tongue darting out of his mouth as he brings his fork to his lips. “It was
like...reconnecting with an old friend. It brought back a lot of memories.”

Louis just hums, taking a bite of his sandwich. There are a lot of memories that surround that first
novel, the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. He wonders which ones stood out to Harry the
most.

“You changed it though,” Harry continues, his eyebrows knitting together. “It’s like you
streamlined it. Like, you expanded some scenes but then took out that whole subplot with Adam
and Ashley, for one thing.”

“Did you miss it?” Louis challenges with a knowing smile.

“Y’know, I didn’t realize it was gone until I finished,” Harry admits. “It lifted right out. The whole
story was a lot stronger without those added complications.”

“Exactly,” Louis nods. “It turns out my advisor was right after all. About that plotline, at least. I
was just too close and, quite frankly, too arrogant and too precious about my manuscript at the time
to see it.”

“I mean, it was still amazing before you made all the changes,” Harry says stubbornly. “I stand by
that.”

“I had my friend Violet read it,” Louis explains, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “She owned the
bookshop where I worked in Nelson, just a really smart lady who really knows her shit. You would
have liked her. Talk about not mincing words.”

Harry smiles.

“She reminded me that sometimes, when it comes to writing, you have to kill your darlings, no
matter how attached you may be to them. And I was too attached to that plot line, and it really just
detracted from the whole point of the story, y’know?”

Harry nods, swirling his drink in his hand, trying (and failing) to catch his straw between his lips
without breaking eye contact. Louis stifles a giggle, sipping his coffee as Harry finally catches it
between his lips, slurping noisily.

“I really loved Only the Brave,” Harry says, setting the cup down. “That one is a real page-turner; I
couldn’t put it down! I stayed up until like 2 AM finishing it.”

“The highest compliment, honestly,” Louis grins, taking a bite of his croissant.

“When did you publish that one?”

“January,” Louis replies after swallowing, pressing his napkin to his lips. “It’s really new.”
“You can really see how your writing has matured in that one,” Harry praises. “Well...through all of
them, really. It’s something I really noticed, reading all three of them consecutively. And Only the
Brave is just...it’s really confident. Like you really know who you are now and you’re
just...completely unapologetic about it. And that’s just really wonderful to see. And to read.”

“Careful there, Haz,” Louis teases, deflecting because he’s starting to feel a little overwhelmed. “I
may not be able to fit my head through the door if you keep going on this way.”

“And Defenseless…”

Harry trails off, looking down at his salad and searching through it with his fork, spearing a cherry
tomato. He pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he looks into the distance.

Louis holds his breath, steeling himself for Harry’s critique, once again questioning himself for
even giving it to Harry in the first place. He could have lied and said it was out of print, but he had
felt like Harry needed to read it, that maybe it would give him some sort of insight into where his
head had been when their relationship had unraveled. He knows that there are many moments
where the character inspired by Harry is painted in a bad light, where he is overly ambitious,
selfish, and uncaring, too wrapped up in himself to see how badly his partner is hurting. But there
are equally as many moments where Louis’ character is a jealous and insecure bastard who can’t
handle his partner’s success. It had been very important to him to place the blame as equally as
possible, to make it as raw as he could and that meant taking a good, hard look at himself as well.
And he thinks it’s why the book works and why people have responded to it the way they have.

“I thought the way you played with the timeline was really effective,” Harry says finally, his gaze
unwavering as he meets Louis’ eyes. “Telling it out of order, knowing the end before knowing the
beginning? That was...something.”

“Yeah,” Louis says awkwardly, fidgeting in his chair, feeling incredibly exposed. “It’s...it’s my
most popular book, if you can believe it. People, um...they really just love their tragic love stories, I
guess.”

“I guess so,” Harry agrees, his eyes mournful.

Silence settles between them. The burden of their shared history and all the words left unsaid are
like a palpable weight pressing down on their shoulders, Harry literally slumping in his chair as he
picks at his salad. Louis sighs heavily, balling up his napkin in his fist, squeezing tightly as he takes
a deep, cleansing breath.

What else is there to say really?

The silence drags on, both of them lost in their own heads. Harry stops picking at his salad, a
crinkle forming between his eyebrows as he stares at it like it’s offended him or something. Louis
feels antsy, fidgeting in his seat and fighting the urge to excuse himself for a much-needed
cigarette, just to get a little space.

Everything had been going so well.

“Lou, I–”

“Harry–”
They both stop, chuckling softly.

“You go,” Harry says, smiling shyly.

“Niall’s been bugging me to have friends over,” Louis says, breaking off a corner of his cookie. “I
mean, I haven’t had anyone other than Zayn over since moving in, and Niall says the apartment
will be cursed if I don’t have a housewarming party soon.”

“Sounds about right,” Harry snickers, some of that sparkle coming back to his eyes.

“Anyway, I was thinking about hosting a game night on Saturday,” Louis continues, cracking his
knuckles. “Nothing too extravagant or anything. Just the boys. Niall, Zayn, Liam too, of course,
and...you. If you want to come, that is. I know it’s short notice, you may not even be free–”

“Lewis,” Harry interrupts, the mirth twinkling in his eyes belying the serious expression on his
face.

“Yes, Harold?”

“Are we becoming friends?”

“Y’know, stranger things have happened,” Louis laughs, carding his fingers through his hair,
smoothing it aside. “So can you make it?”

“Yeah,” Harry grins. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Cool,” Louis says breezily, returning Harry’s smile. “I’ll put all the details in the group chat.”

“Cool,” Harry echoes, popping a piece of his cookie in his mouth.

“Okay, your turn,” Louis says, draining the rest of his coffee. “What were you going to say
before?”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking down at his cookie, breaking it into several chunks. “I just…”

Louis waits patiently as Harry contemplates his next words; he appears to make a decision,
exhaling slowly and looking up at Louis with a smile.

“I just wanted to know if you were working on anything new?”

Louis doubts that’s what Harry was actually going to say before, but he lets it slide, more than
happy to stay on easier topics.

“Okay, it’s in the super early stages, so don’t get too excited yet, but,” Louis says, pausing to lean
forward conspiratorially and causing Harry to do the same, “I just started outlining a sequel to
Feels Like Home.”

“What?” Harry yelps loudly, causing several people at surrounding tables to turn around. “Are you
serious?”

“Harry!” Louis giggles, looking around the crowded coffee shop. “What did I just say?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear anything other than you saying you were writing a sequel to Feels Like
Home,” Harry says, practically squeeing with excitement. “Tell me everything, I need to know!”

“Well, I like the idea of checking in on them ten years later. Y’know? Like did Adam and Seth
make it–”

“Um, of course they did,” Harry scoffs. “Don’t do this to me, Lou.”

“Well, I just think it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Louis insists. “I mean, they were eighteen
and it was a long distance thing…”

Louis doesn’t get back to his desk until just past two-thirty that afternoon. He ignores Zayn’s
arched eyebrow as he passes his office on the way in, figuring he’s eaten enough lunches at his
desk to justify the extra hour. And it’s not like Zayn can talk. Louis knows for a fact that his “long
lunch meeting” the week before was really just him sneaking out to a Versace sample sale.

Besides. It’s none of his business.

April 2013

The aroma of garlic, melting cheese, and tomato sauce greets Louis as soon as he pushes the
apartment door open, instantly lifting his bad mood.

“Oh my God,” Louis moans, his mouth salivating as he drops his backpack by the door, stepping
out of his Vans and kicking them aside. “Baby, did you cook dinner?”

“I did,” Harry answers, popping out of the kitchen in greeting, a knife in one hand, a baguette in the
other. “I hope you’re in the mood for lasagna for the next few days, I made a ton. I got stuff for
garlic bread too.”

“Mmmmm, that sounds amazing,” Louis says, gently pecking Harry’s lips when he purses them for
a kiss. He rubs their noses together before pulling back, tucking a curl that’s come loose from
Harry’s bun behind his ear. “Best boyfriend ever. You always take such good care of me, baby, I
love you.”

“Love you too,” Harry replies, ducking in for another kiss. “Wine’s open over there. I’ve been
letting it breathe.”

“Does Three Buck Chuck actually need to breathe?”

“All red wine needs to breathe, Lou, even the cheap stuff,” Harry says seriously. “The tannins. ”

“Oh, yes,” Louis says in a snooty voice. “The tannins.”

Harry giggles, going back to slicing the baguette.

“You think it’s ready then?” Louis asks, picking up the bottle.

“No idea,” Harry laughs. “Pour us some anyway?”

“Of course,” Louis says, sliding over the glasses Harry had set out, giving them both a generous
pour. He hands Harry his wine, settling down on one of the barstools with his own, content to just
sit and watch Harry slice bread for a moment. It’s been a minute since they’ve been able to cook
dinner together. Well. Since Louis has been able to watch Harry cook dinner for them; Harry gets
very territorial in his kitchen, usually banishing Louis to alcohol or ice cream duties, which is fine
by him. He’s a horrendous cook, completely hopeless in the kitchen. He’s really only ever pulled
off one meal, and to this day, he’s pretty sure that stuffed chicken was damn near inedible, no
matter how much Harry had praised it at the time.

They used to do this at least once a week, especially right after they moved in together, high on the
novelty of domestic bliss. But their schedules have been off the past couple of months, cozy nights
in like tonight suddenly becoming a rare commodity. Harry’s time of late has been occupied with
studio sessions and meetings since officially signing with Agora Gallery in January, while Xander
has been acting as some sort of publicist or manager or something, filling Harry’s evenings with
various dinners, parties, and gallery openings. Meanwhile, Louis has been working a lot of the late
afternoon/early evening shifts at the cafe, freeing up his days to keep on pounding the pavement,
still trying to find some sort of traction, any sort of traction in his writing career, be it an agent or
someone who believes in his book enough to publish it.

Louis has been trying to keep his chin up, but it’s exhausting. He keeps telling himself it takes time,
that nothing is going to happen overnight, but it’s been a year since he finished Feels Like Home
and he has nothing to show for it other than a growing stack of rejection letters.

It’s hard not to throw in the towel sometimes. He’s come close a few times, checked the classified
ads for boring, stable desk jobs that would pay him a living wage. But when it comes down to it, to
actually giving up, he just can’t. He didn’t get himself deep into student debt – undergrad and grad
school – just to quit when it doesn’t happen for him right away. This is how he’s been his whole
life, stubborn to a fault; when he sets out to do something, he does it. And of all the things he’s set
out to do, his writing is the most important. He can’t explain it; he just knows this is what he’s
meant to do. Meant to be. A writer, not a waiter.

But lately he just can’t help but wonder if he’s kidding himself.

“I thought you weren’t going to be home till later,” Louis says, taking a sip of his wine. “Didn’t you
say you had a ‘drinks thing’ tonight?”

“I did,” Harry grins, spreading some garlic butter on a slice of bread. “I got out of it ’cause I missed
you too much. We haven’t had a night like this in ages and I wanted to do something nice for you. I
might have gone a little overboard with the flowers, which you haven’t even noticed yet, by the
way, but then again, you do always think with your stomach first–”

Louis whirls around, his insides turning to mush when he sees the massive bouquet of sunflowers
sitting on the coffee table. Daffodils are actually his favorite, but Harry had brought him sunflowers
on their first official date, proclaiming that they reminded him of Louis.

They’ve been their thing ever since.

He turns back to Harry, his mouth agape; Harry grins, his dimples out in full as he winks at him,
turning his attention back to preparing the garlic bread.

“Thank you, Hazza,” Louis says softly. “For the dinner and the flowers, of course, but mainly just
for being here, baby. This is such a wonderful surprise.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Harry says simply.

“How was your day?” Louis asks, taking another sip of wine.

“Good, good,” Harry nods, sipping from his own glass. “I met with Glenne and Jeff over at the
gallery to discuss the next couple of collaborative shows I’m going to be featured in, what pieces to
use, all that kind of stuff, you know. But get this, Lou, they’re already talking about giving me a
solo show! Can you believe it?”

“Wow,” Louis breathes, a little taken aback at how fast everything is suddenly moving. “That’s
incredible, baby, you’ve only been signed for what? Not even four months?”

“I know, it’s crazy,” Harry agrees, popping the tray of garlic bread in the oven and setting the timer.
“Sometimes it feels like things are moving just a little too fast, but this is what I’ve always wanted,
right? And it all seems to be happening.”

“Definitely happening,” Louis smiles. “I’m so proud of you, Haz, you deserve it.”

“I mean, we’re still in early talks for the solo show,” Harry hedges. “It’s not happening anytime
soon, they are definitely gonna need to see more from me first. They were talking a lot today about
how I need to push myself, but honestly, I couldn’t hear too much past the words ‘solo show,’ you
know?”

“I can imagine.”

“What about you?” Harry asks, grabbing a sponge and wiping the counters down, cleaning up after
himself. “Weren’t you having lunch with your old advisor from NYU today? How did that go?”

“Ugh,” Louis groans. He takes a long sip of wine, all the reasons he was in a not-so-great mood all
afternoon coming screaming back to him.

“That bad?” Harry asks, looking up, his emerald eyes full of concern.

“It was pretty bad,” Louis scowls. “Julian said that I need to consider cutting Feels Like Home
down to YA novel length. He thinks it could be more marketable that way. He said everyone’s all
about YA now, that’s what I should be going after if I want to get published.”

“How much would you have to cut?”

“At least twenty-five thousand words,” Louis sighs, placing his glass on the bar. “Fifty pages.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry sputters. “Fifty pages! That’s so much, Lou!”

“I know,” Louis agrees. “I know. Actually, he thought I should shoot for getting it down to about
three hundred and twenty pages. And then he started listing off plot lines I could cut? Like, right
away he said the Adam and Ashley storyline could go. He didn’t even have to think about it.”

“Oh my God, Lou,” Harry says, topping off Louis’ glass of wine.

“And like, I didn’t want to be rude because Julian did me a massive favor just by reading it, and I
wouldn’t want him to blow smoke up my ass but just...wow. It definitely wasn’t what I expected to
hear. None of it was. Like, the page count is one thing, I’m sure I could do another pass at
tightening up the story, I guess. Even though I feel like I’ve done as much as I can without
sacrificing my vision, you know?”
“I don’t get why you need to cut it though,” Harry questions. “Like, Hunger Games and Twilight
are YA, right? And they’re plenty long, longer than your book for sure.”

“Technically mine’s longer than the first Hunger Games book,” Louis corrects. “Though not by
much. And it’s not really a fair comparison. Genre or sci-fi/fantasy stories always have more
wiggle room for word count because of all the world building you have to do.”

“So just make Adam a vampire then,” Harry suggests with a teasing grin. “Boom! Bestseller! Top
of the charts! A big Hollywood movie starring a handsome and moderately famous actor from a
CW show.”

Louis snorts derisively.

If only it were that easy.

“I would have to do a complete rewrite–”

“Baby, you know I’m joking about the vampire thing, right,” Harry interjects. “Do not under any
circumstances make Adam a vampire.”

“No, no, I know you are, but this is what I’m telling you,” Louis says impatiently, the panic he felt
during that lunch bubbling up again, threatening to spill out of him. “I can’t just dice up my story
and repackage it like a YA novel just like that. It’s not the voice I wrote it in, it’s not the
demographic I was intending it for. Fuck, most YA books are written from first-person perspective
and mine’s in third-person omniscient! I would have to completely start over, Harry, don’t you
see?”

The timer goes off, startling them both. Harry quickly turns it off, pulling the tray of garlic bread
out of the oven, as well as the lasagna dish, placing them both on the counter and flicking the oven
off. He turns back to Louis, taking one look at him and promptly scurrying out of the kitchen,
coming to stand in front of him, his eyes full of concern and pity, which just makes Louis feel
worse.

“Starting over would mean I’ve wasted this entire year,” Louis admits shakily, tears suddenly
stinging at his eyes. “And it could be at least another year before I could try again, depending on
how fast I rewrite it. Fuck, by then this whole YA boom could be over. And then where would that
leave me? Just the thought of it makes me want to vomit. How did I fuck this up so badly? How?”

“You didn’t fuck it up, Louis,” Harry soothes, placing his hands on Louis’ shoulders, looking him
in the eye. “You’re a brilliant writer.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“Look,” Harry says, his voice steadfast. “I know you respect Julian but this whole YA thing? It’s
just his opinion. He’s one person, baby, he’s not speaking for the entire publishing industry.”

“He might as well be,” Louis sniffs, the tears spilling over. “I’ve gotten no feedback, no indication
that anyone out there is reading any of my submissions. Do you know how many copies I’ve sent
out, Haz? Digitally and physically? It’s been so many I’ve lost count. I’m wasting so much money
on envelopes and postage and for what? They’re all just going right to the garbage can or the spam
folder. I’m lucky if I get a rejection letter. All that work and no one cares.”
“Someone will care,” Harry says, his face determined as he gently wipes a tear from Louis’ cheek
with the pad of his thumb. “I know someone will. You’re too good to just go unnoticed, Lou.”

“Wanna bet?” Louis huffs, swiping under his eyes. “Did you get the mail today?”

“It’s on the breakfast bar,” Harry says, frowning. “I haven't looked through it yet. I started on
dinner basically as soon as I walked through the door–”

“Let’s see what we have today, shall we?” Louis asks dramatically. “I mean, like I said, I’m lucky if
I get anything, so who knows! Maybe today will be a winner!”

Louis strides over to the breakfast bar, grabbing the small pile of mail; Harry watches him sort
though it, his mouth downturned.

“Bill, bill, junk, junk,” Louis says, tossing Harry’s credit card bill, the cable bill, an advertisement
for a new Broadway musical, and a pre-approved credit card application aside. “A-ha!” he cries
triumphantly, holding up two thin, pre-printed envelopes addressed to him. “Behold the standard
form rejection letter!”

“You don’t know that, Louis,” Harry insists, biting his lip.

“Oh, come on, Harry, please,” Louis sneers. “You remember how college acceptance letters work
right? Thick is good and thin is bad. And this is as thin as they come! Let’s see, this one is from one
of Random House’s imprints. Thought I would take a shot, yeah? Sure, it’s the biggest publishing
house there is, but you never know,” Louis spits out, ripping the envelope open and pulling out the
single sheet of paper. “Dear Mr. Tomlinson, we regret to inform you–”

Louis crumples up the letter before even finishing it, tossing it to the floor.

“It’s going to finish up by saying they don’t take unsolicited manuscripts and I should find an
agent,” Louis explains. “That’s what they all say. Okay, this one is from an agency, because, believe
it or not, I know I need a literary agent to get published. Unless I’m very, very lucky that is, which
we’ve established I’m not, so.”

“Lou–” Harry chokes out, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Dear Mr. Tomlinson,” Louis reads. “Unfortunately, at this time, we aren’t taking on any new
clients–”

He crumples that letter up as well, dropping it next to the other one.

“That one will say to contact them again in six months,” Louis jeers. “What it really means is to
contact them when you have something published, which, I can’t fucking do if I don’t have a
fucking agent. See how I’m totally fucked here, Haz? I can’t win no matter what I do!”

“Okay, so we try other things,” Harry suggests. “Xander said he has contacts in the publishing
industry, remember? I’m sure he would help you out if I asked–”

“Yeah, right,” Louis laughs bitterly. “I’m sure he’s absolutely chomping at the bit to help me out.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? He said before that he would, so–”

“Goddammit, Harry, please just stop trying to fix everything!” Louis shouts in frustration. “Fuck!
You can’t fix this!”

Harry recoils, almost as if Louis had slapped him, the tears finally spilling down his cheeks. He
looks at him a long time before shaking his head, dodging around him and heading into the kitchen.
Louis grimaces, massaging his temples as he listens to the cabinets bang open, the clattering sound
of Harry pulling down plates echoing through the quiet apartment.

He’s such an asshole.

Louis takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as he follows Harry into the kitchen. Harry is
hunched over the stove, cutting into the lasagna with more vigor than he should, sniffling ever so
slightly.

Not only is he an asshole, he is a complete and utter shit for taking out several months’ worth of
frustration on the man he loves just for trying to help him.

“Baby,” Louis says softly.

“Don’t call me baby,” Harry orders, not looking at him, keeping his eyes focused on the lasagna.
“I’m mad at you.”

“Baby,” Louis repeats, coming to stand behind him.

He tentatively reaches for Harry, gently resting his hands on his hips. Relief courses through him
when Harry doesn’t flinch away, melting into his touch instead. Louis sighs, wrapping his arms
around his waist entirely, pressing their bodies together. The knife clatters against the Pyrex dish as
Harry drops it, bringing his hands to rest on top of Louis,’ twining their fingers together. Louis
holds him, pressing a kiss to the back of his slightly sweaty neck and resting his chin on his
shoulder.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” Louis breathes, swaying them together gently, pressing another kiss to the side
of Harry’s throat. “I had a shitty day. I’ve had a shitty couple of months, really, and I took it out on
you, I’m sorry.”

“I just don’t know what you want from me, Lou,” Harry says softly. “Tell me what you need, I want
to give it to you.”

Louis considers his request, idly pecking kisses on Harry’s shoulder to ground himself.

“I think sometimes I just need you to listen to me,” Louis says finally, releasing a shaky breath. “I
need you to just...let me say these things. Let me share what’s in my head and what I’m afraid of
without offering a solution or anything?”

“Okay,” Harry replies. “I’m sorry you had a shit day, baby. I’m sorry you’ve had a rough few
months. I wish I could make it better for you, I really do.”

“You did,” Louis reassures him, kissing the curve of his jaw. “You did just by being here. I love
you.”

“I love you too,” Harry smiles, pulling Louis’ arms around him tighter. “Even when you’re an
asshole.”
“Did I ruin dinner?” Louis asks timidly, looking down at the lasagna and garlic bread.

“No,” Harry answers, his dimple popping as he smiles. “I can reheat the bread. The lasagna’s
actually perfect now.”

“Good,” Louis says, smacking a kiss to Harry’s cheek, squeezing his waist before he untangles
himself from their embrace. “’Cause I’m starving.”
 Chapter 7

Harry bites his lip as he pushes his paintbrush through the swirls of red, yellow, and white on his
palette, mixing them together. The shade still too light for his liking, he dips his brush into a blob of
concentrated red paint, scooping some up and bringing it down to the mixed orange, folding it in
carefully. He adds a dab of burnt sienna, smiling in satisfaction when the color finally, finally starts
to look the way he wants it to look. Another small dab of the sienna and it’s perfect, a deep, vibrant
coral, exactly the shade he’s been looking for, but couldn’t find in the extensive collection of paints
he already owns.

Humming along with the Rumors album, Harry wipes his brush on the rag on his knee, cleaning it
off. He pops a couple of peanut butter M&Ms in his mouth, chewing and swallowing as he loads up
the brush with the coral paint. With his brush in one hand, Harry grabs the little remote on his work
station with the other, turning the music up louder. Tossing the remote back down, he turns back to
his canvas.

“’Cause I feel that when I’m with you,” Harry sings softly, blending the coral in below the
saturated red and orange, creating a gradient effect. “It’s alright, I know it’s right.”

Harry keeps humming to himself as he goes back for more paint, working with the coral, mixing
some white and a little bit more yellow into it as he draws it farther down the canvas, making the
color less and less intense as he goes. Finally, he puts his brush down, flexing his fingers and
rolling his head from side to side, releasing the tension building in his neck. He pushes his stool
back, getting to his feet and taking a few steps back so he can properly see the big picture coming
together on his canvas.

He grabs a handful of Doritos, munching on them as he takes it all in, eyeing it critically. A man
dominates the left quadrant of the canvas, collapsed on his knees, his head upturned, his hands
extended in supplication. The man sits in a pool of light, the source of which starts in the top right
of the canvas; the light streams down on him like a rainbow, as if being filtered through stained
glass. There’s a lot of detailing yet to be done, and Harry needs to work on making those colors
look more translucent, but he can’t help but be pleased with how the painting is taking shape so far,
his work coming out exactly as he saw the scene in his mind’s eye.

“I didn’t know it was going to be this hard,” Danny admits out loud, falling to his knees in the
empty chapel. “Please, I’m begging you, have mercy on me. I don’t know what to do, please, just
tell me what to do.” He looks up, searching helplessly for an answer that he’s sure will never come.
The clouds outside shift, sunlight suddenly pouring through the large stained glass window above
the altar, bathing him in a veritable rainbow of light. He looks at the colors dancing over his hands
and laughs, closing his eyes and savoring the warmth on his cheeks.

Looks like he’s got his answer.

Louis’ words had leapt off the page, lodging themselves into Harry’s brain and making his fingers
itch to pick up a paintbrush. If he hadn’t been so engrossed in Only the Brave, desperately needing
to know how Danny’s story ended, he would have packed up his things and gone to his studio that
instant, the whole scene demanding to be put to canvas. As it was, like he had told Louis over
lunch, he stayed up until two in the morning finishing it, barely able to see through his tears by the
end. He knew he wanted to paint the chapel scene. No. He knew he needed to paint it. It was the
best kind of inspiration, when an idea grabbed him, constantly at the back of his mind if not at the
forefront, and he knew it wouldn’t let him go until he put brush to canvas.

To his mild annoyance, he hadn’t been able to start on the painting right away; he was still finishing
up a major commission, working tirelessly on the two portraits throughout the weekend, devoting
all his attention to them. The chapel scene never left his mind though, Harry doodling ideas in his
journal at night, trying to come up with the perfect composition that could convey the duality of
Danny’s despair and hope. He’d finally been able start on the painting yesterday, setting up the
blank canvas the second the door had shut behind his satisfied client, working until well past eleven
last night and coming back early this morning, eager to dive right back in.

Harry wonders if he should have said something to Louis about the painting, if he needed to ask for
his permission or not. He’d come close to doing so several times over the course of their lunch, but
he stopped himself, not wanting to pull the focus off of Louis and his accomplishments. Besides, he
has no idea how Louis will react to the idea of it all, his art career having become such a point of
contention between them when they were still together. The friendship they’re forging now still
feels fragile, and he doesn’t want to backslide into snarky comments and sharp comebacks like they
had a few weeks ago.

He’ll just show it to him when he’s finished. That’s what he’ll do. And if Louis tells him to fuck off
and trash it, then he will, even if it’s one of the best paintings he’s ever done.

Newly resolved, Harry brushes the excess orange Doritos dust from his fingers, walking over to his
sink and washing his hands, wiping them off on his paint-spattered coveralls.

Right. Time to work on the yellows.

He sits back on his stool, grabbing his tube of primary yellow and squeezing out a big blob on his
palette. Adding a dab of burnt umber and a smidge of white, he mixes the paint, gradually folding
in more burnt umber until he gets the exact golden color he’s looking for, the gold of a late summer
afternoon. He loads up his brush and turns back to the canvas, ready to get back to work.

Someone knocks at the door.

Harry startles, his brush hovering just over the canvas. He’s never been more grateful for his steady
hands than in this moment, because that could have been a disaster.

“H?” Liam calls from outside. “You alive in there?”

“Barely,” Harry answers drily, putting his brush to the canvas, not wanting to waste the paint he had
just so painstakingly mixed and loaded. “Door’s open.”

“You haven’t been answering my texts,” Liam states, entering the studio and closing the door
behind him.

“Why, hello to you too, Liam,” Harry says, eyes focused on the canvas, carefully brushing in the
gold next to the orange. “Lovely to see you on this fine Wednesday. It is Wednesday, right? It’s
hard to keep track when you don’t have a real job.”

“Hi, Harry, hello,” Liam says with an audible eyeroll. “You haven’t been answering my texts. I’ve
been trying to get a hold of you all morning.”
“I’m working,” Harry replies, experimenting with a crosshatch stroke, mixing the orange and the
gold. He wrinkles his nose, immediately deciding he doesn’t like it. He grabs a different brush,
working quickly to rectify the mistake, fully blending the two colors together instead. “M’phone’s
on silent.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that out around the fifth unanswered text,” Liam quips, rolling a stool over
to the other end of Harry’s work table.

“You know how it can distract me,” Harry pouts, finally looking up at him. “I didn’t even take it
out of my bag today because I’ve really been in the zone–”

“You still need to check your phone every once in a while, H,” Liam chides gently, placing a large
paper bag on the table. “And you also need to eat.”

“I am eating!” Harry insists, using his brush to point to his half eaten bag of chips.

“Things other than junk,” Liam says witheringly, reaching into the bag and retrieving two large
salads. “Vegetables. Protein. Y’know, real food.”

“Is that a kale caesar from Sweetgreen?” Harry asks, eying the familiar brown container. His
stomach grumbles. “With chicken?”

“Yup,” Liam affirms with a grin. “You ready to take a break?”

“Yeah, I could use a break,” Harry agrees, wiping off his brush and resting it on the lip of his easel.
He sets his palette aside and grabs his remote, turning the music down. He wheels over to Liam,
gratefully accepting one of the salads from him. “Thanks, Li.”

“Anytime,” Liam smiles, sitting on his stool and passing him a can of LaCroix. “And look, they
even had the grapefruit seltzer you like so much.”

“It’s not grapefruit, Liam,” Harry says seriously, cracking the can open and taking a long sip, the
citrus flavor incredibly refreshing. “It’s Pamplemousse!”

“You’re an idiot,” Liam laughs fondly. “Are you delirious? When was the last time you had a real
meal? How long have you been here anyway?”

“Dunno,” Harry answers, stretching his arms over his head. “Since eight, I think? Maybe earlier?”

“Harry, it’s after one o’clock,” Liam states disapprovingly.

“I was in the zone!” Harry protests, popping the lid off his salad and digging in.

“I can see that,” Liam nods, gesturing towards the new painting. “Which, I definitely want to talk
about that in a minute, but first, there’s a reason I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day, H–”

“Is everything okay?” Harry asks, suddenly concerned. “Fuck, I’m such an asshole–”

“No, no,” Liam assures him, waving his fork in the air. “Everything’s fine. Great, actually. Really
great.”

Liam doesn’t say anything else, he just takes a bite of his salad, a smile tugging at his lips as he
chews. Harry watches him expectantly, waiting for him to continue, but Liam just continues to eat
his lunch.

“Oh my God, you’re killing me, Lime,” Harry groans. “Stop being so dramatic and tell me what’s
going on!”

“The head of the Kelly Gallery called me this morning,” Liam starts, pressing his napkin to his lips.
“She was at the show last month, you know.”

“Yes,” Harry nods, his heart starting to race. “Margaret. I remember her. How is she?”

“Well, she’s good,” Liam says casually. “Except that she suddenly finds herself with a gaping hole
in her fall schedule because one of her artists had to drop his show due to some extenuating
circumstances. She called me wanting to know if you would be interested in helping her out of a
tight spot?”

“Liam,” Harry says, not daring to hope, not until Liam actually says the words. “What exactly are
you saying?”

“I’m saying that the Kelly Gallery is offering you a solo show,” Liam informs him, pride shining in
his warm brown eyes. “Four weeks, starting on October first.”

“Oh my God!” Harry exclaims, leaping to his feet, his hand flying to his hair as he looks around his
studio, already mentally cataloging the pieces he has. “Oh my God? Liam? Are you serious?”

“Very,” Liam grins, getting to his feet as well, crossing over to him. “All you have to do is sign on
the dotted line, H.”

“Holy shit!” Harry cries, throwing his arms around Liam’s neck and squeezing tightly, tears of joy
stinging at his eyes. “Holy shit, Liam. We did it.”

“You did it, buddy,” Liam says, returning the bear hug. “You deserve this so much, Harry, I’m so
proud of you.”

“I just…” Harry starts, pulling away from him and scrubbing his hands down his cheeks, wiping
tears away. “I can’t believe it. After everything that’s happened over the past few years, I didn’t
know if I was ever gonna get here again, you know? And I wouldn’t have, not without you
believing in me, Li, just...thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Liam beams, his cheeks pinkening from the praise. “It’s my pleasure, y’know. I
knew you could do it.”

“Oh my God, I have to get a show together in two months!” Harry yelps. “Less than! Six weeks,
seven at the absolute max–”

“It’ll be a tight turnaround,” Liam agrees, settling back down on his stool. “But you can do it.
You’ve got a lot of existing work, we just need to land on a theme for the show. Then we can start
putting things together, taking a look at what we could pull–”

“Okay,” Harry says, taking a deep breath to calm himself as he sits. “Okay, yeah, I can do this.”

“Once we go through your inventory, we’ll have a better idea of what kind of new stuff you need to
do. Which, speaking of,” Liam says, pointing to the unfinished canvas. “I can’t believe you started
on something new already. Didn’t Mrs. Adams just pick up her commission?”
“Yesterday at noon,” Harry confirms, ripping his piece of bread in half and taking a bite. “I’ve been
working on this ever since. I had to make myself stop and go home last night, you wouldn’t believe
how close I was to just sleeping here.”

Liam lets out a low whistle, his eyebrows furrowed as he studies the painting. Harry chews the
inside of his cheek, watching him nervously.

“What do you think?” he finally asks. “I mean, I know it’s still got a ways to go, but–”

“I think it could be the centerpiece of your show,” Liam says matter-of-factly. “That’s what I
think.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely,” Liam nods. “It’s really strong, H, the strongest I’ve seen from you in a while. The use
of light and shadow? How the rainbow seems to be revealing what was already there–”

“That’s what I was going for!” Harry interjects excitedly. “Like it’s telling him something about
himself that he already knew!”

“It has the potential to be really powerful, touch a lot of people,” Liam says solemnly. “It really
speaks to the queer experience, I think.”

“Exactly,” Harry agrees. “Exactly.”

“What inspired it?”

“Oh, um,” Harry fumbles. “Well, you see…”

He trails off, buying some time by taking a big bite of his salad. Harry hates this part of his job,
hates having to explain the meanings behind his paintings, even to Liam, whose actual job revolves
around selling him and his work to others. He much prefers to let people take away their own
interpretations and meanings, because the moment you tell someone exactly what a piece of art is
about, the magic is gone.

And Harry wants to hold on to the magic of this one. For just a little while longer.

“It’s inspired by something I read recently,” Harry says honestly. “Something that just...grabbed a
hold of me and wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t not paint it, you know?”

Liam looks at him for a long time, an eyebrow raised. Harry looks back, keeping his expression
placid, hoping that his current explanation will be enough. Finally, Liam nods, turning his attention
back to his salad; Harry tries valiantly not to let his relief show as he takes another bite.

“So Louis is hosting game night on Saturday, huh?” Liam asks pointedly, picking through his salad.
“And you’re going?”

Oh, Liam knows. He definitely knows.

“Yeah,” Harry says through a mouthful of salad. He pauses to swallow, grabbing his seltzer and
taking a sip. “I mean, I was invited, wasn’t I? Why shouldn’t I go?”
“I’m just making sure you’re okay with it,” Liam says. “It’s gotta be more than a little bit weird for
you, being thrown into a friend group with your ex, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m fine,” Harry informs him. “More than fine. In fact, Louis and I actually had lunch on Monday.
It was supposed to be just coffee and then the next thing we knew we’d been there for two hours. It
was...nice. Really nice.”

“Nice?”

“It’s just nice that we can be friends,” Harry says, a little defensively. “Because that’s what we are
now. Friends. That’s all. And it’s great.”

“Okay, Harry,” Liam deadpans. “If you say so.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, taking another bite of salad.

“Have you told Louis about everything you went through after he left?” Liam asks after a moment.
“Does he know how–”

“No,” Harry interrupts, cutting him off. “He doesn’t. I told him he was right about Xander, but
didn’t elaborate. I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“I think you should tell him,” Liam says. “I think it’s important for him to know.”

“What good would it do though?” Harry challenges. “Seriously, Li, what would be the point in
telling him?”

“I mean, to start, it would–”

“It wouldn’t change anything that happened,” Harry says firmly. “There’s no sense in dwelling on
the past. I just want to move forward. Start over with a clean slate. Okay?”

“Okay,” Liam placates, holding his hands up in surrender. “It was just a suggestion.”

“And I appreciate the input, I do,” Harry acknowledges. “But I know what I’m doing.”

“Can you really have a clean slate with him though?” Liam presses. “With all that history–”

“I don’t want to rock the boat,” Harry admits. “Not when we’ve just gotten to a good place, you
know?”

“I get that,” Liam nods. “Honestly, I do. But, H–”

“Besides,” Harry grins slyly, wanting to steer the conversation back to lighter topics, “everything
happens for a reason. Think about it, Li. If I had never driven Louis to the point of leaving me and
if Xander had never revealed himself to be a complete piece of shit, I never would have met you,
Liam–”

“And God knows where you’d be without me,” Liam quips, finally the subject letting go.

“Exactly,” Harry nods, pounding the table with his fist for emphasis. “I’d be lost without you. I
certainly wouldn’t be gearing up for my own solo show if not for you. Have I said thank you yet?”
“You have,” Liam grins. “You can keep saying it though, I don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” Harry says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Liam replies. “Once we’re done eating, do you want to go back to painting or
do you want me to stay so we can go through your portfolio and decide which pieces to pull? The
rest of my afternoon is free, I can do whatever.”

“Stay,” Harry nods decisively. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

July 2013

Someday, Louis thinks, pausing on the fourth floor landing to catch his breath. Someday, if he ever
manages to sell a book and make it big, he’s going to buy them a townhouse. A townhouse just like
the one that Harry is obsessed with on Real Housewives, one that’s big enough that they could
convert an entire floor into a working art studio for him. Because if there’s one thing Louis is sick
of right now, it’s having to trek down to the farthest outskirts of Chinatown if he ever wants to
surprise his boyfriend at work, since a tiny studio in a sixth floor walk-up on East Broadway is all
they can afford at the moment.

Louis takes a fortifying sip of his milky iced coffee, the miserably humid weather finally prompting
him to switch over from his regular brew. He carefully moves Harry’s melting venti caramel
Frappuccino to the crook of his right arm, quickly wiping the condensation away on his jean shorts.
Finally situated, he takes a deep breath, his gaze focused on the flight of steps in front of him.

Two more floors.

Harry’s been spending more and more time in the studio lately, and while Louis gets it, he still
misses when Harry used to work out of the apartment, spending afternoons sketching on their fire
escape or commandeering half the living room, always asking Louis for feedback, bouncing ideas
off of him. When he first started renting the studio, he would still try to work from home a couple
days a week, coordinating with Louis’ days off from the cafe so they could be together. It’s only in
the past two months that Harry moved to working exclusively in the studio, claiming he couldn’t
work in their apartment because there were too many distractions there and he needed to buckle
down and focus. Louis tried not to take too much offense to that, because Harry has a big show
coming up next month, one that’s essentially an audition for a solo show. It had stung though,
hearing that his boyfriend thought of him as a distraction, but if there’s one thing he can respect, it’s
Harry needing space to work. God knows he’s had those days himself. Maybe not so much lately,
but he definitely remembers locking himself in his apartment for days on end while he was trying
to finish his novel, only emerging to buy more cigarettes or accept his take-out order.

So, as a fellow creative, he gets it, he really does. Even if it’s left him feeling a little neglected.

But as much as he respects Harry’s process, he can’t resist the allure of a summer Friday afternoon.
The cafe had been dead, most of the regulars probably already on the jitney to the Hamptons, so his
manager cut him early, telling him to enjoy the weekend. Faced with a glorious two and a half days
of freedom ahead of him, Louis had hopped on the train to Canal Street, stopping at Starbucks
before walking the rest of the way to the studio, hoping to convince Harry to blow off work for the
afternoon and go day-drinking with him. Harry’s been cooped up there all week, working his ass
off; this is exactly the kind of afternoon they both need. Louis pats himself on the back for being
such a thoughtful boyfriend.
Louis pushes open the door to the sixth floor with his shoulder, frowning when he hears laughter
echoing down the hall; it’s coming from Harry’s studio, the door of which is ajar. Louis strides
quickly down the hall, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He thought Harry was working?

“Hazza?” he calls out after announcing his presence with a knock on the door, not wanting to just
barge in.

“Lou?” Harry answers.

“Yeah, it’s me, can I–”

“Come in,” Harry finishes for him as he swings the door open, looking surprised, yet delighted, a
massive smile on his face. “Baby! I thought you were working?”

“I was,” Louis replies, stopping to kiss Harry’s lips gently before handing him the Frappuccino.
“Surprise?”

“The best surprise,” Harry beams, kissing him again. “Thank you for this.”

“Sorry it’s all melty,” Louis apologizes. “It’s like a million degrees outside and the nearest
Starbucks is all the way back at–”

“It’s perfect,” Harry enthuses, taking a noisy slurp. “Just how I like it. What happened at work?”

“It was super slow, so Jamie cut me,” Louis explains, sipping his own coffee. “You know how it is,
summer Friday and all–”

“Gotta love summer Fridays, I took one myself today.”

Louis shudders involuntarily at the sound of Xander Ritz's silky smooth voice, it's like nails on a
chalkboard at the best of times.

Which this is not.

He looks over Harry’s shoulder to where Xander is leaning against one of the work tables, his arms
crossed over his chest and a permanently smug expression on his face.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Xander’s suit jacket is slung over a chair, leaving him in his basic Wall Street bitch light button
down, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. The knot of his cobalt blue tie is loosened, making him
look completely at home in Harry’s space, like he comes here all the time...and maybe he does?
God, Louis can’t stand the thought of it. He can’t stand him, like, truly can’t stand him.

“Oh, hi, Xander, nice to see you,” Louis says airily.

“Louis,” Xander replies, looking down his nose at him ever so slightly. “How are you?”

“Good, good. Sorry, I don’t have any coffee for you,” Louis simpers, unable to keep the bitchiness
out of his voice. “Didn’t know you’d be here and all.”
“It’s actually great you’re both here,” Harry says before Xander can reply, ushering Louis farther
inside the studio, closing the door behind him. “I was just showing Xander the new pieces I’ve
been working on for this show–”

“They’re stunning, H,” Xander interjects. “I’ve been telling you, they’re just stunning. Glenne and
Jeff will be crazy not to give you the solo show once they see these.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, grinning from ear to ear. “I only get 5 pieces for the show, so I gotta make a
big impression.”

“Believe me,” Xander enthuses, laying it on thick. “You will.”

Louis barely suppresses an eyeroll, pressing his lips together. Jesus, he knows Harry is talented,
incredibly so, but the way Xander is gushing just feels disingenuous, like he’s blowing smoke up
Harry’s ass, only telling him what he wants to hear rather than being honest. But it’s the use of the
phrase “I’ve been telling you,” that’s really bugging Louis at the moment because is Harry really
asking Xander fucking Ritz for feedback so much that he has to say “I’ve been telling you,” like it’s
some sort of ongoing thing? Louis can’t help but feel hurt. It wasn’t all that long ago that he was
the first person Harry came running to for advice about his work, be it showing him rough sketches
or just brainstorming concepts over dinner.

Louis wonders just when exactly he slipped down on the totem pole.

“...Lou? Can you?”

“What?” Louis asks, shaking himself out of his daze. “Sorry, babe, I spaced out, what do you
need?”

“Tell me what you think? Of the paintings?” Harry asks patiently, a little crinkle forming between
his brows as he tilts his head curiously. “It would be nice to get a fresh perspective on them. And
your opinion really matters to me–”

It doesn’t matter enough, an insidious voice whispers in the back of Louis' mind. Would Harry even
be asking him if he hadn’t randomly shown up today or would he have kept them under wraps until
the show?

“–so can you give ’em a look? And be honest.”

“Of course,” Louis smiles, shoving those ugly thoughts aside. This is Harry, the love of his life. His
partner. The man he’s gonna marry someday. Of course he matters, he’s always been a part of
Harry’s process.

Even if he’s joining it a little late this time.

“Anything I need to know?” Louis asks, placing his coffee on the corner of the work table. “Any
sort of story to them?”

“No,” Harry grins, bouncing on his feet a little as he straightens one of the easels, the painting, like
all the others, facing the other side of the room. “I mean, there is, obviously there’s a concept, but I
don’t want to bias you or anything. Just...tell me what you think.”
“Got it,” Louis replies, brushing his hands together, making a bit of a show of it, much to Harry’s
delight. “So, let’s see here…”

He trails off as he rounds the corner, the paintings coming into view.

The thing Louis has always loved about Harry’s work is how it’s rooted in photorealism, how he
obsesses over the smallest details in order to capture moments as accurately as possible, be it
painting every individual eyelash or specks of dust reflected in a beam of sunlight streaming
between buildings. He’s always taking pictures of things that inspire him, studying them as he
paints, adding them to an ever-growing collage of snapshots slowly taking over one wall of his
studio. Seeing people, seeing moments has always been what Louis has considered to be Harry’s
greatest gift, what has always made him stand out from the crowd.

So these new paintings shock him, to say the least.

It’s not that they are bad, per se, it’s just that they don’t feel like Harry. Everything special about
his work is missing, and Louis hates himself for thinking it, but these new paintings look like
everything else he’s seen at various galleries over the past few months, gallery hopping on Friday
nights having replaced their usual bar nights at Marlowe’s. The new pieces feel more abstract, more
surreal, more conceptual, way less personal and way less likely to tug at the heartstrings. Louis
stops in front of a large painting that looks like a pale imitation of a Jackson Pollock. He furrows
his brows in thought as he looks at the pale blue background with a myriad of colors dripped and
swirled over the canvas in a vaguely familiar pattern.

“That one’s inspired by the transit system,” Harry explains helpfully. “See how I only used the
colors that the MTA does? And followed the routes?”

“Oh, yeah, I see that,” Louis nods, doing his best to keep his face neutral as he processes all this. “I
thought it looked familiar.”

The room falls silent again; Louis feels ready to come out of his skin, feeling not only Harry’s eyes,
but Xander’s eyes on him as well, watching his every move and scrutinizing each microexpression,
just waiting for him to speak up.

“What?” Harry finally asks, a nervous edge to his voice. “Lou, what is it?”

“Well,” Louis hedges, casting a quick glance over at Xander, really not wanting to do this in front
of him. “They’re interesting, that’s for sure.”

“But?” Harry presses.

“But nothing,” Louis says calmly, despite feeling like he’s slowly being backed into a corner.

“Bullshit,” Harry says, calling his bluff. “There’s clearly a ‘but,’ Louis, it’s written all over your
face. Just tell me what you think, I’m asking you to. Please.”

“Well,” Louis says delicately, “they’re just...they’re really different from your usual style, Haz.”

“Oh,” Harry says, hurt flashing in his eyes. “Okay, and?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“It’s not that they’re bad,” Louis says quickly, knowing immediately that “bad” was the wrong
word choice by the way Harry blanches. “They’re just not what I was expecting, that’s all.”

“Glenne and Jeff told me to push myself,” Harry says, tilting his chin stubbornly. “This is me
pushing myself. I can’t keep doing the same thing over and over again, Lou. How am I ever
supposed to grow if I just stay the same?”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t grow, baby,” Louis corrects gently, trying not to let that sting
because if there’s one thing Harry has done over and over again, it’s paint him. “I’m just asking if
this evolution means letting go of everything that caught their attention in the first place.
Everything that makes you special, Hazza, that makes you different from everyone else. I mean,
I’m not an expert, but–”

“That’s right, you’re not,” Xander pipes up suddenly, coming to Harry’s defense. “These paintings
are everything that’s on trend right now. They’re what sells. You would know that if you paid any
attention to all the shows we’ve been going to.”

“I have paid attention,” Louis says coolly, even though he’s seething on the inside. “But what about
standing out? Why should Harry have to follow these trends like some sort of lemming?”

“Because we’re trying to play the long game here,” Xander explains, his voice dripping in
condescension. “When Harry’s well known, he can be the one setting the trends, but until then? He
has to follow them. It’s about anticipating what people will want to buy. Art is a business too,
Louis. Gallery owners get commissions on every sale they make. They want to invest in what sells,
and if Harry wants any shot at a solo show, at making a name for himself in the art world, this is
what has to be done. It’s not being a lemming, it’s being smart. Following trends is smart.”

“Even if it means sacrificing your artistic integrity?” Louis protests, turning to Harry.

“Do you really think I’m sacrificing my integrity?” Harry asks, flinching away from him, hurt
written all over his face.

“Harry, baby, I’m just saying this isn’t you,” Louis insists, pointing at the painting.

“Maybe it is though,” Harry insists, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Maybe it’s
exactly who I am. Did you ever think of that?”

Louis deflates, all the fight leaving him. It’s not like he’d even wanted to do this anyway, but Harry
had insisted, so he did. And now it’s clear that Harry’s digging his heels in and there’s just no way
he’s going to hear him out right now, so he lets it go, no matter how much it upsets him. Still, he’ll
be goddamned if he shows any weakness in front of Xander fucking Ritz, so he straightens his
shoulders, meeting Harry’s gaze unflinchingly.

“Right, yeah, okay,” Louis says evenly, grabbing his iced coffee and taking a long slurp. “Like I
said, I’m not an expert. It’s your call, Harry.”

“Thanks for the input,” Harry says, his voice equally even. “I appreciate it.”

“Anyway,” Louis says with forced breeziness. “I’d just come down to see if you wanted to blow off
work for the rest of the afternoon, but clearly, you’re busy. I’ll just give Nick a call. He’s never one
to turn down day-drinking. Maybe you can meet us later?”
“Yeah, may–”

“We have that show at the Gagosian tonight, Harry,” Xander interrupts. “Remember?”

Louis turns to Xander and gives him a long, hard look; Xander just looks back, his eyes gleaming.
Louis really just wants to wipe that smug grin right off his face.

“Right,” Harry nods. He turns back to Louis, raising his eyebrows in question. “You wanna meet us
there? Six-thirty?”

“Okay if I skip tonight?” Louis asks, knowing he’s absolutely not going to have the bandwidth to
go to another fucking gallery tonight. “I won’t have time to go home and change, and I haven’t
seen Nick in ages, so–”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Harry sighs, looking tired all the sudden. “I’ll see you at home then. Thanks for
the coffee.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis says, leaning in and brushing their lips together softly. “See you later. I
love you.”

“You too,” Harry replies. “I’ll text when I’m on my way home.”

“Nice seeing you Louis,” Xander smirks.

“Yep,” Louis says, giving him a curt nod as he heads for the door. “See ya.”

Louis doesn’t quite slam the door as he goes, but he definitely lets it close harder than it should as
he digs for his phone, unlocking it and sending Nick a 9-1-1 text.

He’s got some drinking to do.

 Chapter 8

The sound of the buzzer rips through the apartment just as Louis starts pouring tortilla chips into a
bowl. The last few chips scatter over the table, and he sighs, willing his heartbeat to slow after the
jump the sudden noise had given him.

“Shit,” Louis mutters, sweeping up the handful of chips that escaped the bowl and dumping them
back in, tossing the empty bag in the trash. “Is it six already?”

A quick glance at the clock on the microwave confirms that it’s only ten minutes till six. Louis
scurries over to his intercom and presses his call button, wondering if it could be Harry that’s ten
minutes early.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Zayn’s tinny voice echoes through the speaker. “And Liam.”

“C’mon up,” Louis replies as he buzzes them in. Now that he thinks of it, he’s not surprised that
Zayn and Liam are the first ones there, remembering what Harry said about Liam tricking him to
being on time for that meet the friends dinner. It makes a lot more sense than Harry being early.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

While he waits for Zayn and Liam, Louis surveys his apartment, his stomach fluttering. It’s been a
long time since he’s hosted a party and he’s forgotten how nerve-wracking it can be having a group
of people in his home. He’s always been a bit of a packrat, his apartments always littered with
books and magazines and stray manuscripts and empty coffee mugs. It’s not that he’s messy, per se,
it’s just that his living spaces tend to perpetually be in a state of slightly less than organized chaos,
other than when he lived with Harry, who actually enjoyed keeping things neat and clean. He hasn’t
lived here long enough for the clutter to truly take over yet, so for tonight, he’s managed to contain
the chaos to his bedroom, the combination living and dining space neat and (he hopes) welcoming,
the blinds open to display his spectacular view of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

He grabs the bowls of chips and salsa off the island that separates the kitchen from the rest of living
space and places them on the small dining table that he’s designated as a makeshift buffet. Niall had
volunteered to bring wings and frites from Marlowe’s and Harry had leapt at the chance to be in
charge of dessert, so he’d focused on chips and various dips and had even gotten a little vegetable
platter. No one other than possibly Harry will touch it but it makes him feel like a responsible adult
anyway. There are small paper plates and napkins to the side, since they’ll be on the couch and
loveseat to actually play games. He glances over his shoulder to double check that his box of Cards
Against Humanity is on the coffee table, as well as a deck of cards in case they want to play poker.

The doorbell rings.

“Coming,” Louis calls, his socked feet sliding a little on the hardwood floor as he hastens towards
the door. He swings the door open, revealing Zayn and Liam, both of whom are holding multiple
telltale liquor store black plastic bags. “Planning on opening our own bar, are we boys?”

“It seemed food was taken care of,” Zayn grins, holding up two bags, the necks of beer bottles
sticking out. “So we come bearing booze.”
“Lots of booze,” Liam echoes.

“Come in, come in,” Louis says, holding the door open to usher them inside. “Those must be heavy.
Liam, good to see you again, welcome, make yourself at home.”

“Thanks for having us,” Liam grins, placing his bags on the island. (Louis pats himself on the back
for the foresight of keeping that clear, he’s such a good host.) Liam pulls out a green bottle of
Jameson and hands it to Louis. “This is for you. Happy housewarming.”

“You really didn’t have to,” Louis objects, even as he takes the bottle. “I’ve–”

“He insisted,” Zayn smiles, kicking off his shoes, lining them up on the wall next to Louis’ battered
Vans. He strolls into the kitchen and starts unloading the bags, balling up the empties and stuffing
them in the tube under the sink, completely at home in Louis' kitchen.

“It is a housewarming party right?” Liam asks, stepping out of his shoes as well. “I know I saw that
in the chat.”

“It’s game night,” Louis corrects. “No matter what Niall says.”

“Still,” Liam protests good-naturedly. “My mom taught me that it’s rude if you don’t bring the host
a gift.”

Louis looks over at Zayn, who shrugs, looking at Liam fondly.

“Thank you,” Louis says, touched by the simple gesture. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Liam replies, going back to unloading the bags, pulling out a liter of ginger ale
and a large bottle of white wine.

“You guys really covered all the bases, didn’t you?” Louis asks with amusement.

“Yeah, well,” Liam shrugs. “We weren’t sure what people would be in the mood for. And there’s
really no such thing as too much alcohol, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees. “Y’know, I knew I liked you, Payno.”

Liam beams at the nickname, his eyes crinkling at the corners. At the sound of the buzzer, Louis
places the bottle of whiskey on the island and goes back down the short hallway to the intercom.

“Cold beer’s already in the fridge,” Louis calls over his shoulder as he presses the call button
without answering. “Grab me a Peroni, will ya? Help yourselves to whatever you want. Well, leave
the grapefruit beer, I got that for Harry since he really only drinks fruity beers.”

Louis returns to the kitchen area to find Liam looking at him curiously, the refrigerator door
hanging open.

“What?” he laughs nervously. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, no, sorry,” Liam replies, extracting three bottles of beer from the fridge, closing the door with
his hip. “It’s just that Harry’s been on a grapefruit seltzer kick lately, it’s all he drinks. So it’s just
funny you got him grapefruit beer, like how would you know to do that–”
“O-oh,” Louis stammers awkwardly. “Lucky gu–”

“–but then, it’s like, of course you would know, right?” Liam finishes, his eyes widening when he
looks at Louis. “Shit, I’ve made it weird, haven’t I? Sorry, it’s just easy to forget that you and Harry
have a history, you know? Like–”

“Babe,” Zayn interrupts smoothly, grabbing the bottle opener magnet off the fridge and taking the
beers from Liam, placing them on the island. He pops one open and hands it back to Liam. “Did
you see Louis’ view? It’s pretty sick.”

“Oh, wow,” Liam breathes, plucking a Dorito out of a bowl as he strides farther into the living
room. “You can see the whole cathedral.”

“Part of the reason I took this place, really,” Louis says, smiling at Zayn gratefully as he accepts a
beer. Zayn looks at him, his mouth twisted with amusement. “It’s at the high-end of my comfort
range, rent wise, but the view is worth it–”

“Tommo!” Niall’s voice calls from the other side of the door, followed by a faint thump. “My hands
are full, lemme in, will ya?”

Louis chuckles, padding over to the door and opening it.

“Jesus, Niall,” Louis laughs in disbelief as he looks at the large red insulated bag he’s clutching
with both hands. “Did you bring the entire menu?”

“I may have gotten a little carried away,” Niall admits as he steps inside, Louis shutting the door
behind him. “It’s not my fault that my bar has a spectacular array of apps, Louis.”

Thankfully, Liam and Zayn have put away all the booze, so the island is clear again, the pair of
them having moved over to the chip table, where they are munching away. Niall greets them as he
hefts the red bag up, resting it on the counter and unzipping the flap. He pulls out a paper bag and
hands it to Louis; Louis peeks inside, smiling when he sees pint sized tubs of assorted dipping
sauces. He unloads the bag, stacking the containers neatly on the counter.

“Now, let’s see here,” Niall says, pulling out aluminum tray after aluminum tray, like he’s reaching
into Mary Poppins’ magic take-out bag or something. “I brought both regular hot wings and then
these soy-garlic ones we’re thinking of adding to the menu, you guys can be my test case, let me
know what you think. Mozzarella sticks. Spinach artichoke dip. Liam, you wanna put this with the
chips?”

“God, this stuff is my favorite,” Liam groans happily as he takes the tray, peeling off the lid and
digging in as soon as he sets it down.

“I know,” Niall winks. “I’m very good at my job, you know. Okay, lastly we have some buffalo
cauliflower for anyone who wants to pretend to be healthy. Oh, and frites, of course. Tommo, you
may want to put them in the oven if we’re waiting on Harry–”

“Nah, I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Louis dismisses, looking at the time. “He’s still in his usual
window, it’s fine.”

“You’re the boss,” Niall says, pulling out a bag of plastic servingware and then zipping the bag
back up. “Where can I put this so it’s out of the way?”
“Hooks by the door,” Louis answers, pointing towards the door. “Can I get you a beer, Neil?”

“Yes, please,” Niall grins as he goes to hang the bag. “You got Guinness?

“Do I have Guinness?” Louis huffs, placing his beer on the counter and pulling open the fridge,
grabbing a black bottle. “What kind of host do you think I am? I got these just for you.”

He pops the lid off the bottle with the bottle opener and hands it to Niall.

“Cheers, buddy,” Niall says, clinking the necks of their bottles together. “Thanks for having us.
Can’t wait to kick your ass in Celebrity later.”

“Fuck off,” Louis scoffs. “You think you can actually beat me, Horan?”

“Oh God, here we go,” Zayn groans, curling into Liam. “Niall, why’d you have to go and poke the
bear?”

“Doesn’t really seem like he needed much poking,” Liam observes drily, scooping up more spinach
dip.

“Listen, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m just here for the food and the booze,” Zayn says.
“Do we really even need to play games?”

“Excuse me, Neil,” Louis says, ignoring Zayn’s pleas as he turns to Niall, his hands on his hips.
“When have you ever beaten me?”

“Excuse me, Lewis,” Niall challenges, his blue eyes gleaming. “Do I need to bring up
Thanksgiving 2012?”

Louis takes a deep breath, preparing to launch into a tirade about just exactly how Niall had
cheated that Thanksgiving by stacking the deck with sports figures (who the fuck knows who Jack
Nicklaus is anyway?) but the buzzer cuts him off just as he opens his mouth.

“Saved by the bell,” Louis says, pointing at Niall as he starts towards the door. “And what did I tell
you? Ten after six! Ha! I win.”

“It wasn’t a competition, Louis,” Niall deadpans.

Louis presses the button to buzz Harry into the building, giving Niall the finger behind his back;
Niall’s cackles fill the apartment and Louis can’t even pretend to be mad at him, the familiar sound
filling his chest with warmth. Louis lingers by the door listening to Niall regaling Liam and Zayn
with the story of Thanksgiving 2012, and he just...smiles, shaking his head fondly. If someone had
told him a year ago that he would be back in New York, he would have laughed and called them
crazy. And yet, here he is, bickering with Niall like no time has passed and eagerly awaiting
Harry’s arrival so game night can get started.

Life’s funny, isn’t it?

It’s not like his life has been paused until this moment, but sometimes it feels that way, like
someone up there has hit play again, the movie of his life jolted back into motion after being held at
a standstill for so long. Louis doesn’t regret the choices he’s made over the past five years, not
entirely. It’s just strange that they’ve led him back here, to this moment, right back where he
started. He wonders if this is just how his life is supposed to go, that all roads would lead back here
eventually. And what exactly does that mean?

He takes a long sip of his beer, shoving those thoughts aside.

They’re a bit too maudlin for game night, especially after only half a beer.

The doorbell chimes, breaking his reverie. Louis quickly glances at his reflection in the mirror on
the opposite wall, tugging his t-shirt down around his hips and raking his fingers through his hair
until it’s perfectly mussed. He takes a deep, steadying breath as he twists the doorknob, pulling the
door open.

Louis keeps hoping that one day he’ll magically develop some sort of immunity to Harry Styles,
something, anything that prevents him from getting knocked on his ass just from how fucking
pretty he is, but today is not that day. It’s not even that Harry’s dressed up in anything special; he’s
the picture of Saturday night casual in white sneakers, loose plum-colored slacks, and a soft-
looking vintage tee, the pale blue writing telling him to enjoy health and eat his honey. It’s
everything about him though, from the way his short curls are tousled to the adorably patchy
stubble on his upper lip and chin to the simple strand of pearls around his neck. But what really
sends Louis over the edge, making his stomach do a little flip-flop, is the way Harry’s face lights up
when he sees him, his dimples popping in his cheeks and his little bunny teeth clamping down on
his bottom lip.

Yeah, today is definitely not that day.

“Tsk, tsk, Harold,” Louis clucks teasingly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the
door jamb. “Look at the time. So much for changing your ways, huh? That lasted for how many
days?”

“Okay, okay,” Harry concedes with a grin. “I’m still always late, you’re right. But I have a
legitimate excuse this time, I swear.”

“And that would be?”

“Cupcakes,” Harry replies, holding up two stacked Tupperware containers. “I had a mishap with
one of the batches, so I had to re-do them and then they had to cool all the way before I could frost
them because the frosting would melt otherwise and yeah. Legit excuse. You gonna let me in or
what?”

“That depends,” Louis says. “What flavor are those cupcakes?”

“Red velvet,” Harry answers with a smug grin, his eyes twinkling because he knows red velvet is
Louis’ favorite.

“I guess you can come in then,” Louis shrugs, swinging the door open wider for him.

“And these other ones are Nutella stuffed vanilla cake with raspberry buttercream,” Harry
continues as he steps inside. “They’re the ones I fucked up the first time, but they’re delicious, I
promise.”

“I’m sure they are,” Louis says, clearing some space on the island for him. “Thanks for making
them. You didn’t have to go so over the top, Haz, honestly, store-bought would have–”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry scoffs, placing the Tupperware down and brushing his hands together.
“I hardly ever get to bake anymore, it was fun. And I figured you could like, I don’t know, take the
leftovers to the office on Monday or something?”

“I could, yeah–”

“Excuse me, Harry,” Niall butts in, suddenly appearing at his side and cracking open one of the
containers. “Did I hear you say you baked? And you’re already offering up the leftovers? I’m hurt,
honestly. I get first dibs on those.”

“Yes, yes, of course, sorry, they’re all yours,” Harry says, grinning at Louis over Niall’s shoulder as
he gives him a quick hug. He waves to Liam and Zayn. “Hi guys, good to see you.”

Liam and Zayn echo their greetings as they grab paper plates from the small stack on the table.

“Yeah, yeah, everyone dig in while it’s still hot,” Louis announces, clapping his hands together.
“Harry, drinks are in the fridge behind you. We’ve got pretty much anything you could want.”

“Cool, cool,” Harry says, turning around and pulling the fridge open, drumming his fingers on the
door as he ponders his choices. “Ooh! Grapefruit beer, awesome!”

Harry shuts the fridge and grabs the bottle opener, popping the top off his beer and taking a long
pull.

“God, that’s really good,” Harry sighs appreciatively, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Louis catches Liam’s eye over the tray of wings, his cheeks heating when Liam mouths “I told you
so.”

“Harry, I hear congratulations are in order,” Zayn says, grabbing one of the sets of plastic tongs
Niall had set out, helping himself to some mozzarella sticks. “Liam told me about your new solo
show, that’s awesome.”

“What?” Louis asks, looking over at Harry in surprise. “You have a solo show? Since when?”

“Since Wednesday,” Harry answers carefully, placing his beer on the counter as he meets Louis’
eyes. “I just found out about it on Wednesday afternoon. I’m still kind of processing it all, really. It
was a pretty big shock, wasn’t it Liam?”

“Not to me,” Liam says, spooning some blue cheese dressing on his plate. “This has been a long
time coming.”

Louis fucking hates how wary Harry sounds, like he’s not even sure if he’s allowed to bring up his
career in front of him, like he feels like he has to reassure Louis that he didn’t know about this
when they had lunch on Monday. He hates to think about the lingering damage left in the wake of
their relationship, like Harry could possibly think that he can’t celebrate his successes or that he
needs to downplay them for fear of stepping on some sort of emotional landmine.

Well. That kind of thinking ends tonight.

“I think that’s amazing, Harry, really,” Louis says genuinely, looking him right in the eye so Harry
can see how much he means it. “Congratulations. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Lou,” Harry beams as Louis clinks their beer bottles together. “Cheers.”

“When’s the opening?”

“October first,” Harry replies, his cheeks turning a pretty pink. “At the Kelly gallery in SoHo.”

“Mark your calendars, boys,” Louis says grandly as he grabs a plate. “On October first we’re
suiting up and going to a gallery opening in SoHo.”

“Yeah right,” Niall snorts, adding frites to his plate. “Harry hasn’t let me go to one of his openings
in years.”

“Why not?” Louis puzzles. He looks over at Harry, who’s suddenly very interested in the buffalo
cauliflower, heaping it onto his plate. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Niall states, looking between Harry and Louis, his brow wrinkling in
confusion. “I mean, I always know when the openings are, of course, but–”

“I just prefer that the people I care about come on a different night,” Harry finishes for him,
carefully drizzling ranch over his cauliflower. “I’m always too busy on opening night, lots of hands
to shake, lots of networking to do and all that.”

Harry’s eyes flick up, finding and holding Louis’ gaze for a heavy beat, a moment of understanding
passing between them.

“I just don’t think it’s fair,” Harry continues quietly, turning his attention to the soy garlic wings.
“Inviting people out when I can’t actually spend time with them.”

“Y-yeah,” Louis stammers, trying not to show just how much Harry’s admission has rocked him to
the core. “Yeah, that makes sense, of course. We’ll pick another night to come.”

“Sounds great,” Harry says, offering Louis a tiny smile before looking to the others. “So, um, game
night? What are we playing? What’s the plan?”

“Right,” Niall says, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “Game night. Right before you got here, we
agreed that we would start with Celebrity–”

“I mean, we didn’t agree, per se,” Zayn interjects. “But Niall and Louis started taunting each other,
so–”

“Sounds about right,” Harry grins.

“Obviously Louis and I are captains,” Niall continues, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “And
really, it’s only fair to split up the couple, right? Right, Louis?”

“Right,” Louis agrees, trying to get up to speed, still reeling from Harry’s confession. “It’s only
fair–”

“Well, first to bunny up gets first–oh, too slow, Tommo!” Niall taunts, getting the jump on Louis
and making bunny ears.

“Goddammit, Neil, are you twelve?” Louis grumbles. “A little quick on the draw, I see. Must suck
for your sex life.”
“Whatever,” Niall crows gleefully. “Dibs on Liam!”

“Well, if I get stuck with Zayn–”

“Gee, thanks,” Zayn deadpans, plopping down on the couch with his beer and plate of food. “Love
you too, Louis.”

“–then I want Harry,” Louis finishes, ignoring the way Harry’ cheeks dimple as his nose
scrunches.

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes darting between the pair of them. Louis tilts his chin
stubbornly, refusing to back down or acknowledge the implications of choosing his ex-boyfriend as
his teammate. This isn’t the time for relationship baggage, this is game night and his pride is on the
line.

“It’s only fair,” Louis insists. “Zayn’s already admitted that he sucks.”

“Again, thanks,” Zayn pipes up from the couch.

“Besides,” Louis argues. “You three spend way too much time together. It would give you an unfair
advantage.”

“Fine,” Niall concedes. “You get Harry.”

“I’m not some prize to be won, you know,” Harry jokes, settling next to Zayn on the couch, placing
his plate of food on the coffee table. “I’m a human being!”

Louis snorts in amusement as Niall pulls his phone out, unlocking it.

“I have the app on my phone,” Niall says, pressing on a bright orange icon, his home screen
dissolving. “Highest score after six rounds gets the leftover cupcakes?”

“Deal,” Louis says, thrusting his hand out.

“How does this benefit the rest of us?” Liam asks, sitting on the love seat.

“Shhhh, Liam,” Harry giggles. “Just let it happen.”

“I’ll even let you go first,” Louis says graciously, shaking Niall’s hand. “Since you’re the smaller
team.”

“How kind,” Niall simpers. “I need another beer first. Anyone else need one?”

They all raise their mostly empty bottles; Liam gets up to help Niall get the drinks as Louis plops
down on the couch next to Harry, who looks at him, bemused.

“Get your game face on, Styles,” Louis orders, cracking his knuckles. “We don’t want to have a
repeat of Thanksgiving 2012, do we?”

“You mean the year Niall cheated?”

“Exactly.”
 ********

“Okay,” Liam announces, looking at the score on the screen of Niall’s phone after his last turn is
completed. “The score going into the final round is forty-eight for me and Niall, forty-two for
Louis, Harry, and Zayn. Louis, you need seven in sixty seconds to win.”

“Ha!” Niall taunts with a cackle. “There’s no way. You’ve been losing the whole game.”

“Shut the fuck up, Neil,” Louis says coolly, taking the phone from Liam, resetting the timer. “This
will be a piece of cake. We’ve got this, haven’t we boys?”

“Definitely,” Zayn says, having gotten into the game in spite of himself. “We saved the best for
last.”

“You’ve got this, Lou,” Harry assures him. “We’ve got this.”

“We’ve got this,” Louis echoes, jumping up and down to get the blood flowing, focusing on
Harry’s determined face. “Ready?”

Harry and Zayn nod. Louis takes a deep breath, pressing the start button, the stress-inducing theme
music kicking in as he holds the phone to his forehead.

“Um, she has a famous talk show,” Zayn starts.

“Oprah!” Louis shouts.

“No,” Zayn says quickly, shaking his head. “She hosted the Oscars once!”

“Oprah did that too!” Louis groans, hopping around impatiently.

“No, she didn’t,” Niall interjects.

“She didn’t?” Louis asks, looking over at Niall, confused. “I could have sworn she–”

“Louis! Focus!” Zayn reprimands. “He’s doing that on purpose.”

“Niall when he was blond!” Harry blurts out suddenly.

“Ellen DeGeneres!” Louis exclaims, flicking the phone up and down to change the name as Harry
nods furiously.

“Fuck off,” Niall huffs.

“You were blond?” Zayn asks.

“Quiet, Zayn!” Louis cries. “What’s next?”

“You have an irrational hatred of him,” Harry suggests.

“Justin Bieber!” Louis yelps, flipping the phone.

“That’s pretty rational, if you ask me,” Liam comments.

“If you were into women,” Harry says excitedly, getting up on his knees on the couch.
“Cate Blanchett!”

“Not fair, he’s playing dirty!” Niall protests. “Using personal knowledge!”

Louis does his best to block out all the noise in the room, his pulse pounding in his ears, the music
from the phone starting to speed up. He takes a deep breath, focusing on Harry and Harry only, the
rest of the room fading away as their eyes lock.

“I have a weird crush on him,” Harry supplies.

“Jack Black!” Louis yells, adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Not weird, The Holiday, hello!”

“Your favorite Friend,” Harry grins, moving to sit on the arm of the couch.

“Matthew Perry!”

“That’s five,” Zayn encourages from the sidelines, having fully ceded the round to Harry. “C’mon,
you two have this!”

“Harry, let’s go!” Louis urges, his hands starting to shake as he flips the phone down, the music
blaring from it getting faster and faster.

“We saw her show in Jersey!” Harry cries. “In 2011!”

“Lady Gaga!” Louis answers, victory so close he can taste it.

“And we’re tied!” Liam announces. “Fifteen seconds left!”

“Shit. Um. You...you...you,” Harry sputters, raking his fingers through his curls as he tries to think
of a clue, his eyes frantic. “You waited on her!”

“More specific, Haz,” Louis scolds, stomping his foot. “I waited on a lot of people!”

The phone starts to vibrate in Louis’ hands as it counts down from ten.

“She was one of your regulars for a while,” Harry says quickly. “She left you a three-hundred
dollar tip when her play closed! C’mon, Lou!”

“Five...four...three…” Niall counts gleefully.

“Marisa Tomei!” Louis shouts.

The buzzer goes off. Louis startles, squawking as he tosses the phone to the couch like a hot
potato.

“Oh my God,” Louis gasps as the phone bounces on the cushion. Harry’s jaw drops, his eyes going
wide. “Did we just win?”

“Son of a bitch,” Niall groans dramatically. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We won, Lou!” Harry cheers, leaping to his feet and lunging towards Louis. “We won!”

“Holy shit!” Louis whoops triumphantly. “Dream Team!”

Later, Louis will blame it on the alcohol, but it’s pure instinct that propels him to launch himself
into Harry’s arms because he knows Harry will catch him.

And Harry does. Of course he does.

It feels like time stops as Louis locks his arms around Harry’s shoulders, squeezing him tightly and
burying his face in the crook of his neck and giggling, holding on for dear life as Harry spins them
around the room laughing, one hand anchored at Louis’ lower back and the other hitching under his
right knee so he can get a better grip on him. As Louis hooks his ankles behind Harry’s knees, he
belatedly realizes that this is the first time they’ve touched, really touched, in more than five years
and suddenly it’s sensory overload, like doing a cannonball into the deep end of a swimming pool,
being completely surrounded by Harry. He’s solid and sturdy and warm beneath Louis, and he can
feel muscles that Harry definitely didn’t have before through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, muscles
that are bulging as he carries him around the room with ease. But Jesus, he smells exactly the same,
like citrus body wash and sandalwood cologne mixed with a hint of sugary vanilla and the lingering
scent of turpentine that perpetually clings to him after all those hours spent painting. Harry smells
like home and it makes Louis a little dizzy, getting to smell him again after all this time. He can feel
Harry’s chest rumbling with laughter, the vibrations making him feel all warm inside as he laughs
along with him.

It’s a lot. It’s too much and not enough all at once and Louis can’t decide if he wants to shove Harry
away or never let go of him again. So he does the only thing he can do. He holds on tighter, hoping
that Harry doesn’t drop him.

Someone throws one of the end pillows at them. The little bubble surrounding them pops, time
speeding back up to its normal pace.

“Okay, you two,” Liam chides, clicking his tongue. “It’s Celebrity, not the Olympics. No one likes
a sore winner.”

It’s like Harry comes back to himself the exact same moment Louis does, his grip loosening as
Louis reluctantly slides back down his body. His big hands don’t leave Louis’ hips until it’s clear
that Louis is steady on his feet and then they both take a step back, putting some much needed
space between them. Harry looks as shaken as Louis feels, his cheeks rosy and his eyes roving
Louis’ face, his lips slightly parted as he catches his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis can
see the other three boys watching them curiously, Niall particularly, and he feels panic starting to
rise in his throat.

“You’re right,” Louis clips, trying to claw back some of his self-control as he gives Harry’s
shoulder what he hopes comes off as a totally platonic bro-pat. He makes his way around the room,
offering Zayn, Liam, and finally Niall a fistbump, steadfastly ignoring the look Niall is giving him.
“Good game, boys. That was a close one.”

“What do we play next?” Harry asks brightly. “Who’s up for Cards Against Humanity?”

“Oh, nice,” Liam says, sliding the black box on the coffee table towards him. “You have the Bigger,
Blacker Box.”

“I need another beer,” Louis announces. “Does anyone else need a refill?”

“Me,” Niall and Zayn say simultaneously, raising their empties.

“Coming right up,” Louis nods, turning on his heel.

“Lou?” Harry asks. Louis turns back to him, his heart in his throat. “Grab me another one of the
grapefruit beers? And one of the cupcakes?”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis answers, his gaze lingering a fraction too long. Harry smiles at him softly
before turning back to the box, shimmying the lid off.

“I haven’t played this in forever,” Harry says to Liam as Louis heads back to the kitchen.

Louis pulls open the fridge, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as the cool air hits his
overheated face.

Rein it in, asshole.

********

Harry whistles as he clambers down the steps to Marlowe’s, grabbing the door handle and pulling it
open. It’s not quite the golden hour that Louis is always waxing poetic about, but it is the very
beginning of happy hour, almost to the minute, and it’s a Wednesday in August, so the crowd is still
relatively thin. He grabs one of the high-backed stools in the middle of the bar, slinging his
backpack on the empty stool to his right, hoping he’ll be able to save it for a while. Niall is at the
end of the bar, martini glasses lined up in front of him. He chats with a pair of pretty girls,
definitely showing off and adding some flair as he mixes their drinks, flipping the bottle in the air,
much to their delight. Harry watches in amusement as Niall puts on his little show, the girls
giggling and clapping when he finally pours their pink cocktails in their glasses, adding wedges of
lime. He can’t help but join in when Niall bows, because it is impressive after all. He hoots and
whistles, finally catching his friend’s attention.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Niall says graciously as one of them slides a bill on the bar, waving him off
when he takes it and turns to the register to get change. “Enjoy your drinks.”

“I’m hurt,” Harry pouts as Niall saunters over to him. “You never do tricks when you make drinks
for me.”

“Do you leave me a ten dollar tip for two happy hour cosmos?” Niall asks, flipping a dish towel
over his shoulder.

“No,” Harry answers.

“Well, when you do, you’ll get tricks,” Niall grins cockily. “What are you having, buddy?”
“Raspberry vodka and soda,” Harry answers. “With a lime.”

“Stupid question,” Niall laughs. “In nine years of friendship, I’ve rarely known you to order
anything else.”

“I’m nothing if not consistent,” Harry grins.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Niall replies, winking at Harry as he twirls the vodka bottle in his hand,
flipping it over and giving him a generous pour. He grabs the soda gun, filling up the rest of the
glass with seltzer and then grabs a lime wedge from the caddy on the bar, fixing it on the rim of the
glass. “Still, I wasn’t expecting to see you today, H. What brings you here?”

“I got to a good stopping place on the piece I was working on at the studio,” Harry says, accepting
the drink from Niall when he slides it across the bar, “and I just thought, hey, I should take Liam’s
advice and pack it up at a normal hour for once, you know? Plus, you know, Hump Day.”

“Mhhhhmmm,” Niall hums, leveling Harry with a piercing gaze. “So it has absolutely nothing to
do with the fact that Louis said on WhatsApp this morning that he was gonna drop by after work
for Whiskey Wednesday?”

“Did he say that?” Harry asks casually, knowing he’s been had.

“You’re not slick, Harry. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry questions, taking a sip of his drink. “What exactly am I doing, Niall?”

“You tell me,” Niall fires back. “You can start with whatever the hell that was on Saturday night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry says archly, sitting up high on his stool.

“Oh no?” Niall pushes. “So that whole victory celebration with Louis leaping into your arms was
just a totally normal happenstance then?”

“It was a very intense competition,” Harry flounders defensively. “Of course we were excited when
we won.”

“You know, it’s more than just that,” Niall continues, grabbing a rack of freshly cleaned glasses
from under the bar and a clean towel to wipe them off with before putting them away. “Though
really, Harry, let’s talk about that for a second because what the fuck? It felt like I had time traveled
to 2011 in that moment, truly, it was like an out of body experience.”

“I–” Harry starts to explain.

“No, but like I said, it’s more than that,” Niall barrels on. “It’s how you get all googly-eyed around
him, like he’s the greatest thing you’ve ever seen. And how every single thing Louis says or does is
the funniest thing you’ve ever seen or heard in your life. Seriously, H, I was worried for you during
that Cards Against Humanity game, like I was actually wondering if you could hurt yourself from
laughing too hard. And Louis feeds off of it, that’s another thing. Like he gets bigger and bigger
cause he’s showing off for you, because he wants your attention and then when you aren’t looking
at him, he goes all soft and fond because he’s just ass over tits crazy about you and you’ve got to be
kidding me if you say you don’t see what’s happening. Again.”
“We’re friends, Niall,” Harry insists. “You wanted us to be friends and look! We are! What’s the
problem?”

“You’re not friends,” Niall asserts. “I don’t know if you two could actually ever be friends, Harry.
That whole display on Saturday? The googly eyes and the showing off and the fond faces and the
jumping into each other’s arms like you’re in a goddamn Hallmark movie isn’t friends. It’s
foreplay. You forget I’ve seen this all before, you know. I was there the first time it happened, I
know what it all looks like and it looks exactly like this.”

“Would it really be so bad if Louis and I got back together?” Harry challenges. “I’m not saying
that’s going to happen, but Jesus, Niall, you’re acting like it would be a disaster if we did. It wasn’t
all bad when we were together! Far from it, really.”

“Listen, Harry,” Niall sighs, massaging his temples. “I fucking love Louis. I always have. He’s like
a brother to me and I’m so fucking happy he’s back. And I fucking loved you two together, you
know I did. You and Louis were that couple, you know? That couple that everyone wants to hate
‘cause they’re that disgustingly in love but at the same time it’s impossible to hate them because
they’re so fucking perfect for each other and we all secretly want what they have.”

“So what’s the problem then?” Harry protests. “If you like us together so much, shouldn’t you be
happy? Why are you reading me the riot act?”

“Have you even talked about why you broke up in the first place?” Niall asks. “I’m guessing you
haven’t given that whole discussion surrounding your show.”

Harry really doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he just takes a long sip of his drink.

“See, I also remember what broke you guys up because I was there for that too. And it wasn’t just
one thing that did it,” Niall continues, his face serious. “I mean sure, there was that last fight, but
that was after this like...slow and painful deterioration that was really terrible to watch, Harry. And
if you don’t talk about those issues and why they happened the first time around, it’s just gonna
happen again, you know. And I don’t know if I have it in me to pick up the pieces this time.”

“Okay, I hear you, we should talk,” Harry says cautiously, swirling his straw in his drink. “But at
the same time, we’re not the same people we were five years ago, Niall. I know I’m not. I have a
much healthier perspective on my career, I’m not gonna...well, what happened before isn’t going to
happen again. And Louis is different too. You see that right? He’s more...he carries himself
differently now, doesn’t he? Like he’s more secure, more settled in who he is now–”

“And there you go with the eyes again, Harry,” Niall declares, pointing at him. “It’s like you’re not
even listening to a single word I’m saying.”

“I am! I’m listening.”

“You’re not,” Niall says, placing the last glass on its shelf and sliding the rack back under the bar.
“But at least I’ve said my piece now. It’s all I can do. You’re gonna do what you want no matter
what I say.”

“I’m a big boy, Niall,” Harry assures him. “I know what I’m doing.”

“If you say so,” Niall shrugs. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.”

They fall silent, Harry slurping noisily on his cocktail, draining the glass.

“For what it’s worth, I was planning on giving Louis the same lecture,” Niall says, taking the empty
glass and dumping the ice in the sink, placing it in the dirty bin. He grabs a new glass and starts
making Harry a second drink.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall nods. “You just got here first.”

“I’m honored.”

“Louis plays his cards a little closer to his chest, you know,” Niall explains. “Or at least he likes to
think he does. That whole announcing to the group chat that you happen to be a part of that he was
gonna come by for drinks tonight? That’s not slick either. And you did exactly what he wanted you
to.”

“Do you really think he wanted to see me?” Harry asks, fluffing up his hair.

“Please,” Niall replies, rolling his eyes. “Otherwise, why didn’t he just text me that he was coming
to my bar? He put it in the group chat for a reason. You don’t see Zayn or Liam here, do you?”

“I don’t.”

“I rest my case,” Niall says, sliding Harry’s cocktail over to him. “I’ve made my points and now…”
He trails off, his eyebrows raising as he looks at Harry’s shirt. “Wait a minute are you actually
wearing a shirt that has two guys jerking each other off on it?”

“Yup,” Harry smirks, straightening the hem around his hips. “Too much?

Niall rolls his eyes as he puts the bottle of vodka back on the shelf.

“You know, it…” Niall trails off, smirking over Harry’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Right on
time.”

Harry looks over his shoulder, following Niall’s gaze. His heart skips a beat as Louis strolls into the
bar, looking stunning as always in slim-fitting charcoal gray slacks with a striped belt and a beige
polo, his chest piece peeking out ever so slightly from the vee of the collar. His sneakers perfectly
match the beige of his polo and Harry can’t help but smile at Louis’ attention to detail. Louis grins
when he sees Harry, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Niall calls out. “It must be Whiskey Wednesday.”

“Thank God,” Louis replies as he reaches the bar. “I need a fucking drink.”

“Coming right up,” Niall says, reaching for the bottle of Jameson.

“Hi,” Louis says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and pressing his lips together.

“Hi,” Harry grins back, scrunching his nose, even though he knows Louis knows all of his tells.
“Good lord,” Niall mutters under his breath.

“Is this seat taken?” Louis asks, gesturing to the empty stool currently holding Harry’s backpack.

“It is now.”

October 2013

“...and Bill just told me ‘Either you like Picasso or you don’t like Picasso!’”

Harry laughs, feeling a bit dirty that he’s encouraging this guy given that he found his joke
unoriginal, not at all funny, and more than a little bit misogynistic. But Xander had impressed upon
him just how important it was to make nice with Ben Winston tonight, that forming a connection
with one of the most prominent critics in New York City could be a pivotal move for him, so Harry
shoves those feelings aside. After all, Winston has the capability to make or break careers,
according to Xander, and with Harry’s first solo show officially on the books for January, getting on
his radar now is crucial. Harry doesn’t know if Winston has even glanced at the work he’s showing
tonight, but he does know that they’ve been talking to him for two glasses’ worth of champagne
now, and that’s gotta stand for something, right? So Harry keeps his game face on and he laughs at
his jokes, hoping he’s walking the tightrope of aggressively promoting himself without coming off
too desperate because that’s what needs to be done.

He steadfastly ignores the little voice in the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like Louis
telling him he’s sacrificing his integrity to get ahead.

Next to him, Xander guffaws, clapping Winston on the shoulder and launching into a story about
the elite boarding school they both attended. Harry stops a passing waiter, smiling at them as he
exchanges his empty champagne flute for a fresh one. The fizzing bubbles tickle his nose as he sips
his drink, half listening as Xander and Winston shit-talk another alum, being sure to laugh or nod
every once in a while as his eyes subtly rove the room, checking out the rest of the pieces in the
show. He feels a smug satisfaction at the prominent placement of his work in the gallery, ensuring
the maximum amount of exposure and foot traffic. Even now, as the party slowly starts to dwindle,
people moving on to their next Friday night destinations, there is still a fairly large cluster of people
studying his paintings.

Harry’s particularly proud of what he’s showing tonight, a capsule collection called “These Deep
City Lights” that consists of five pieces. He’d read an article in the Visual Arts Journal over the
summer about the particular beauty of a person in an unguarded moment of sadness that had really
struck him. To Harry, the concept of beauty in melancholy felt like New York in a nutshell, how the
loneliness of the city can be oppressive even on the best days and how passing glances and fleeting
connections with strangers can also remind that you’re not alone. The theme also felt like a way
that he could have his cake and eat it too, showing his range by integrating both the abstract,
conceptual styles that had gone over so well at the show in August and his portraiture, which he’ll
always consider to be his greatest strength.

“...I’ll be sure to tell him you said so, Ben,” Xander chuckles. “We’re seeing him next week, aren’t
we, Harry?”

“Tommy Bruce?” Harry asks, clicking back into the conversation, grateful he always listens for and
remembers names, even when his mind starts to drift. “Yes, we’re having dinner with him at
Carbone on Thursday. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“Carbone?” Winston asks, his eyebrows raising as he turns to Xander. “How the hell did you swing
that?”

“My Dad knows the maitre d,’” Xander boasts. “He made some calls.”

“Must be nice having friends in high places,” Winston says, impressed. “I’ve been trying to get a
reservation for months.”

“I can make another call,” Xander says smoothly, “if you and Meredith want to join us, that is. I’m
sure I can get the reservation adjusted up, no problem.”

Harry’s heart rate picks up at the thought of having dinner with one of New York’s biggest critics.

“That’ll be great, thanks a million,” Winston grins. He polishes off his glass of champagne and
claps Xander on the shoulder. “I should get going. I’ll text you tomorrow to confirm?”

“Perfect,” Xander grins.

“Nice meeting you, Harry,” Winston says, turning to Harry and extending his hand. Harry takes it,
shaking it firmly. “Your work shows a lot of promise.”

“R-really? You think so?” Harry stammers in surprise, his cool demeanor slipping at the
compliment. “Wow, thank you so much, I–”

“The collection could use a little more cohesion and the portraits are a bit too sentimental for my
taste,” Winston observes, turning to look at Harry’s display. “That kind of sentiment can be tough
to sell these days. But the skill is there for sure. I’ll definitely be interested to see what you have in
store for us in January.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, trying not to let the sting of the backhanded compliment show. “I’ll keep
your feedback in mind as I put things together. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Winston replies not unkindly, pulling out his phone and unlocking it, tapping out a
text. “I really do need to get going. Late dinner at Balthazar. See you guys on Thursday.”

They wave goodbye as Winston dodges around a cluster of women chattering over their wine
glasses.

“I was so sure the portraits would work in this context,” Harry sighs, turning to Xander once
Winston is out of earshot. “Fuck. I should have listened to you about them.”

“You should have,” Xander agrees, squeezing Harry’s shoulder comfortingly. “But it’s not a
disaster, H. Far from it.”

“Really?” Harry asks hopefully. “You think so?”

“I do,” Xander nods. “He said you have skill and that you showed promise. That’s what matters.
And now we have dinner plans with him next week, so we can keep laying the groundwork for
later.”

“I can’t believe you did that,” Harry marvels. “Are you really going to be able to change the
reservation, just like that? Jumping from four to six is kind of a big ask if the wait list is as long as
he said it is.”
“Please,” Xander smirks. “The reservation was always for six people. Ben’s got a weak spot for
getting into the A-list restaurants, so I took a shot. And, as you can see, I was right.”

“God forbid I ever end up on your bad side,” Harry laughs. “You’re like some sort of evil genius,
aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Xander snickers, polishing off his champagne. “I’m gonna switch to beer, you
good?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, taking a sip of his drink. “I should take this one slow anyway. Haven’t eaten
enough for this much champagne.”

“We should find Glenne and tell her about Ben,” Xander says. “She’s gonna love this.”

“Actually, I should probably go find Louis,” Harry says. “I’ve left him on his own for too long and
you know how he can get a little lost at these things.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Xander quips.

“He does his best,” Harry defends. “You know this really isn’t his thing. Anyway, I’m gonna go
find him, and then we’ll come find you, okay? And then we can figure out where we’re going
next?”

“Sounds good,” Xander nods. “Maybe we’ll hit that new tapas place in the Meatpacking District?”

“As long as it has food, I don’t care,” Harry grins. “I’m starving.”

Xander laughs, turning on his heel and heading towards the bar set-up in the back corner. Harry
turns around, scanning the gallery for his boyfriend, frowning when he doesn’t see him right away.
Louis isn’t lurking on the outer edges of the crowd like he usually tends to do at openings, never
comfortable enough to just go up to people and start talking, no matter how many times Harry tells
him it could be a networking opportunity for him too. He’s not lingering by Harry’s display either,
nor is he by the bar. Finally, Harry realizes where he must be, looking out the gallery’s floor to
ceiling glass windows and spotting Louis leaning against a lamp post, one hand stuffed into the
pocket of his brown suede bomber jacket, his phone in the other, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Harry knocks back the rest of his glass of champagne (so much for taking that one slow) and sighs
heavily, feeling like an absolute shit. He places the empty glass on an empty table, making his way
towards the door.

“Lou?” Harry asks, a chill shooting up his spine as he steps outside, the early October evening
having suddenly turned a bit crisp. “Baby, I was looking for you–”

“Oh, you remembered that I was actually here?” Louis asks, exhaling a plume of smoke, not
looking up from his phone. “It’s been two hours since we got here, Haz, I was wondering if you’d
forgotten.”

“Lou, I’m–”

“You know, I thought about just leaving a couple of times,” Louis continues, ashing his cigarette,
“but then it kind of became a game, wondering when you’d notice me. I was so sure it was going to
be at least another half hour. Or whenever the champagne ran out, whatever came first.” Louis
finally looks up at him, his normally bright blue eyes dulled to gray. “So, good job. You won, I
guess.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Harry apologizes. “There was someone I really needed to talk to–”

“There’s always someone for you to talk to, Harry,” Louis sighs, pocketing his phone. “Multiple
someones.”

“This is part of my job, you know,” Harry points out, suddenly defensive. “Probably the most
important part.”

“Funny, I thought the actual paintings would be the most important part of your job.”

“Those paintings have to get seen,” Harry says testily. “People have to put them in galleries, they
have to write about my work, and they won’t do that if I don’t put myself out there. That’s how all
this works, Louis. I’m sorry I was ignoring you but you could have come up and joined us, you
know. Nobody’s saying you need to stand in a corner all night waiting for me.”

“And end up just looking like an idiot or a hanger-on when I don’t have anything to contribute to
the conversation? Thanks but no thanks.”

They fall silent as Louis takes a long drag off his cigarette. Harry sighs heavily, pinching the bridge
of his nose in an attempt to stave off the beginnings of a tension headache, that last glass of
champagne suddenly feeling like a very bad idea. Louis has a point, Harry knows he does; this isn’t
the first time they’ve had this argument, after all, and he doubts it will be the last. But still, it feels
like there’s something more behind it tonight, and Harry wishes Louis would just stop being so
passive-aggressive and simply just say what he’s feeling for once. Harry watches as Louis smokes
his cigarette all the way down to the filter, flicking the butt into the street. He immediately pulls out
his pack and extracts another, putting it to his lips and lighting it.

Harry wonders just how many he’s smoked in a row.

“How long have you been out here?” he asks carefully.

“Dunno,” Louis replies, the smoke curling around him as he exhales. “Long enough for me to
finally beat that level of Candy Crush I’ve been stuck on for the past few days.”

Harry really doesn’t know what to say to that. So he says nothing.

“I couldn’t really stand being in there anymore, you see,” Louis continues after a moment, flicking
ash from his cigarette and taking another puff, blowing the smoke out slowly after a few seconds.
“Not with the way that everyone kept looking at me. Y’know, I’d much prefer it if people just
outright came up to me and asked if I was the guy in that painting over there rather than like,
whispering about it when I’m standing right fucking there. Do you have any idea what that feels
like, Harry?”

“I mean, yes, of course I do,” Harry states, a little taken aback. “That’s my art up there, Louis,
everyone inside is talking about it, and not always to me–”

“But it’s not your fucking face is it?” Louis snaps. “It’s not your face plastered up on the wall, laid
out bare for everyone to see.”
“You’ve never had a problem with it before,” Harry points out, his hackles raising. “Y’know, I
can’t win with you, Lou. What exactly do you want from me? You hated the pieces I did for the last
show–”

“I never said that, Harry, don’t put words in my mouth–”

“Please, I know you did,” Harry scoffs. “You didn’t have to say it, it was written all over your
face–”

“I said they weren’t you, there’s a difference between that and hating them,” Louis protests.

“So now, I try to bring back the things that are more ‘me’ for this show, at great risk to my career,
by the way,” Harry continues. “That ‘someone’ I was talking to all night? That was a major critic,
and he wasn’t a fan of the portraits, but that’s beside the point. The point is you hating what I’m
doing–”

“No, the point is you’ve never painted me like that before, Harry!” Louis exclaims, gesturing
towards the painting, which is visible from the street. “Jesus, how am I supposed to feel about this?
Tell me what you were thinking with this one, cause I would love to know.”

Harry’s heart sinks as he turns to look at the painting, trying to see what Louis sees rather than what
he does. Because he has every single brush stroke of this painting memorized, it’s the centerpiece
for the entire collection. In the painting, Louis stands in profile, his hair falling softly across his
forehead, his lips pressed together in a tight line. His eyes are downcast, his eyelashes casting
shadows on his cheeks and his shoulders are hunched in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
Harry sees the photo that inspired him as clear as day in his mind’s eye; he’d come across it sifting
through official photos for the show back in August, looking for anything that he could put up on
his own website. The thing that had struck him the most about this particular photo was that Louis
hadn’t even been the focus of it, two men Harry doesn’t even know in the foreground, while Louis
stands in the background, completely unaware his photo was being taken, a naked moment of
vulnerability captured forever.

Harry had thought it was beautiful. He still does. He knows that Louis has been having a shitty
year, constantly climbing uphill, never getting anywhere with his writing. But still, Louis refuses to
give up, never throwing in the towel when far lesser men would have. Louis has a strength that
Harry could only dare to dream of having, he just wishes Louis knew that. Harry had thought this
painting could show Louis that even when he’s at his lowest, he’s the first person Harry sees. He’ll
always be the first person Harry sees.

“I thought you looked beautiful,” Harry explains. “I just...there was something so beautiful in the
way you looked–”

“Miserable?” Louis finishes. “Because that’s what it is, Harry, I look fucking miserable. I look lost
and I look pathetic! It’s like somehow you managed to take every single one of my insecurities,
every single thing I’ve dealt with in the past year and put them right there on that canvas for
everyone else to see. How fucking dare you, honestly. I can hardly look at that painting because it
makes me feel so fucking worthless.”

“That wasn’t my intent, Lou,” Harry insists. “Why do you think I would intentionally hurt you? Or
make you feel worthless?”
“I don’t know why you would, but you did,” Louis says, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the
ground, stubbing it out underneath his bright green sneaker. “You do. It’s the same thing as you
never sharing your work with me anymore, Harry. How is this my first time seeing this painting? I
used to be the first person you showed things to, you know. It’s like my opinion doesn’t matter to
you anymore ’cause I’m not like ‘in your world’ and I don’t get it or whatever kind of shit Xander
is spewing today.”

“Don’t bring him into this, Louis,” Harry warns, even though Xander has said that very thing to
him on multiple occasions. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Whatever you say, baby,” Louis sneers. “All I know is, you’ve spent the entire night and many
other nights like this glued to his side. And the thing is you look happy to be there! I’ve never felt
so fucking worthless in my whole life. You really want to know why I never come up and join your
conversations at these parties?”

“Why?” Harry asks, trying to keep his voice at an even keel, painfully aware that they’re causing a
scene and people can see them through the gallery windows.

“Because whenever I do try and join in, I feel like I’m stupid,” Louis admits, his voice suddenly
thick with tears. “I feel like you’re out of my league and any minute now you’re gonna realize that
you’re tired of having a loser for a boyfriend. That I’m holding you back. That I’m just a waiter
with an unpublished novel that’s never gonna go anywhere while you–”

“You know I don’t care about any of that,” Harry implores him, closing the space between them,
grasping Louis’ shoulders and crouching to get in his eyeline. “I’ve never cared about that, baby,
you know that. You could never be published and it wouldn’t change how–”

“But I want you to care though!” Louis exclaims, wriggling out of his grip, two tears spilling down
his cheeks. “Jesus, Harry, I want you to care! Because when you say you don’t care, it just sounds
like you’re fine with the way things are right now. It sounds like you think we can continue on like
this and it won’t make a difference to you either way. But I’m telling you right now that it does
make a difference to me. Because I look at that painting in there and I see a man who’s miserable.
And the more you tell me that you find that misery beautiful, the angrier I get at you, Harry.
Because how can this be beautiful when I feel so...ugly? Being angry at you is exhausting, baby.
I’m so tired of being angry at you.”

“So what do we do?” Harry asks helplessly.

“I don’t know,” Louis replies, his shoulders slumping as he looks down at his hands. “I really don’t
know.”

Harry doesn’t know either. The realization is sobering, and Harry half wishes he’d brought a glass
of champagne with him to dull the sharp pain of not having a fucking clue what to do to fix this.
Fix them. A heavy silence settles over them, underscored by the wail of a siren a few blocks away.
He aches to comfort Louis but can’t find any words of reassurance that they’ll be okay.

For the first time, he’s not sure if they actually will be.

“Lou,” Harry starts, reaching for him as the siren fades. “Baby, I–”

Louis flinches away from him, clearly not wanting to be touched. It knocks the wind out of Harry,
like a punch in the stomach.
“Go back inside, Harry,” Louis says flatly, not looking at him as he lights another cigarette.

Harry stands there for a long moment, quietly willing Louis to look at him. That maybe, if he just
looks at him, he’ll know that they’ll be okay.

Louis doesn’t look at him.

With a defeated sigh, Harry goes back inside.

 Chapter 9

Harry blows his nose so hard that his ears pop, the room ringing as he tries and fails to inhale
through his nose. The effort makes him slightly light-headed; he braces himself against the kitchen
counter, tossing the tissue aside, the effort of opening the cabinet under the sink to throw it away
feeling like too monumental of a task.

Summer colds are the fucking worst.

He closes his eyes, taking steady breaths in and out of his mouth until the room stops spinning and
then swallows hard several times, his ears popping back to normal on the third try. He flutters his
eyes open slowly, his brain slightly fuzzy as he tries to remember why the fuck he ventured into the
kitchen in the first place.

Right. Water.

Harry opens the cabinet and grabs his plastic souvenir cup from when he won the Hamilton lottery
in 2016 and bought himself a twenty-five dollar cocktail at the show to celebrate. He places it on
the counter and opens the fridge, grabbing his Brita pitcher and filling his glass. His nose starts
tickling, so he quickly puts down the pitcher, plucking another tissue from the box on the counter
and sneezing into it noisily.

His ears pop again.

Goddammit.

Harry sighs dramatically as he wipes his nose, adding the used tissue to the small pile accumulating
on the counter. Swallowing again to un-pop his ears, he feels a sense of victory when he realizes
that the last sneeze cleared his left nostril, for the time being anyway. He refills his pitcher from the
tap and replaces it in the fridge, washing and drying his hands once that task is done. Finally, he
takes a long, slow drink from his glass, the cold water soothing his raw, dry throat.

He grabs his phone off the counter, unlocking it and opening WhatsApp. Taking another sip of
water, he types out a message as he slowly shuffles back into the living room.

If I ever book a portrait session with kids again, someone please stop me.

Harry’s phone buzzes almost immediately; he shakes his head fondly, knowing right away who it
is, because he’s never not glued to his phone, even on a summer Friday.

Leeyum: But you love working with kids!

The youngest one sneezed right in my face . Like I actually felt it hit me. And now I’m dying.
Actually dying. No more kids.

Leeyum: You’re not dying, Harry.

Harry places his glass on the coffee table, bypassing the nest of blankets he’s created on the couch,
going for his shelves of DVDs instead.
Feels like it. I haven’t been able to breathe through my nose for TWO DAYS and I’m fucking
miserableeeeeeeee, Li.

Liiiiiii, comfort me!!!

Harry pouts at the single sad face emoji Liam sends in response, his well of sympathy clearly
running dry. Harry knows he’s whining, but he’s sick. He’s allowed to whine. He’s about to type
out those very words when he sees that Niall is typing.

Niall will indulge him. Niall will let him whine.

Nialler: buck up little camper

Okay, so maybe Niall won’t let him whine.

Nialler: do a shot of whiskey

You KNOW I hate whiskey.

Nialler: then order the spiciest food you can handle you big baby. you’ll be fine!

Zee: I know a great Indian place on 84th and Columbus, they probably deliver to you . Their
lamb vindaloo will clear your sinuses AND put hair on your chest.

Nialler: Harry does need that!

Harry scowls at the long line of laughing emojis that Niall sends, rubbing between his pecs, the
threadbare cotton of his old Rolling Stones tee soft under his fingertips.

He has chest hair. Not Niall level chest hair, but he has chest hair, goddammit.

Not everyone can be you, Niall!

Nialler: it’s true.

Harry groans as a shirtless selfie of Niall lounging in bed comes through, showing his chest in all
its hairy glory. And Niall accuses him of being an exhibitionist?

Louis: Jesus Christ, Harry’s already sick, Neil, don’t make it worse.

Harry bites back a smile, which is ridiculous because he’s alone, so he can smile as goofily over
Louis as he wants to and no one will judge him.

Louis: PS some of us are actually working here!

Harry chuckles, slipping his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants; it keeps buzzing as Niall and
Louis no doubt continue to bicker. He turns his attention to the shelves, scouring his collection for
his next movie. He knows he has pretty much anything he could want to watch thanks to his Netflix
and Hulu accounts, plus Niall’s HBO Go log-in, but there’s still something about picking a movie
off the shelves that he’s organized alphabetically by genre. Plus, Netflix doesn’t have special
features or commentary tracks, so when it comes right down to it, DVDs always win for him.
Having already made a significant dent in his rom-com collection over the past thirty-six hours,
Harry turns his attention to the dramas, pulling out multiple movies he knows he may want to
watch later, but that he’s not in the mood for right this instant. He’s nearing the end of the alphabet
when his fingers brush a well-loved blue case and it’s like a light bulb goes off in his brain. Really,
he can’t believe he didn’t think of it earlier (it must be the cold meds) because Titanic has always
been one of his go-to sick day movies.

Harry wiggles the case off of the overstuffed shelf, eager to curl back up on his couch now that he’s
finally selected a movie. He slides the inner book of discs out of the special collector’s edition case
and places it on the coffee table, along with the other stack of DVDs he pulled out. Then he unfolds
the booklet, revealing portraits of Kate and Leo, and finally opens up the portraits to reveal the
discs.

His heart plummets into his stomach.

Disc two is missing.

The second half of the movie is missing.

Harry sets the DVD book on his coffee table and plops onto the couch in defeat.

When did he last watch Titanic? What could have happened to disc two? Harry tugs on his bottom
lip, wracking his brain for the answer. He vaguely remembers watching it last November. Did he?
Harry closes his eyes, summoning up the memory in his mind’s eye. Yes, it was definitely
November; it had been a cold, rainy weekend, the kind of weekend that demands curling up on the
couch with a bottle of wine and a movie marathon. He’d been doing just that, crying through the
“Nearer My God to Thee” scene when Niall had suddenly shown up with pizza and beer,
demanding–

Harry gasps, digging in his pocket for his phone and unlocking it.

NIALL JAMES HORAN!!!!!

Nialler: Yes, Petal?

Don’t PETAL me, Niall, where is disc 2 of my Titanic DVD.

Nialler: ………

Nialler: I don’t know?

You were the last person who touched it!

Back in November!

WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT.

Nialler: I don’t know?

NIALL!

Nialler: maybe it got put in a different DVD case?

Harry groans, flopping over into his nest of blankets, kicking some of them down to the end of the
couch. He pouts at the pair of shelves, wondering if he could somehow psychically summon disc
two’s location amongst hundreds of DVDs because he certainly doesn’t have the energy right now
to look through all of them right now.

Nialllllllllll do you know how many DVDs I have?? Are you sure you don’t remember where
you put it?

Nialler: We got pretty drunk that night, H.

So what am I supposed to dooooooooo now?? I want to watch Titanic!

Zee: Just watch the first disc? The second half is too depressing.

Louis: Titanic didn’t win Best Picture for the first half of the movie, Z. It’s all about the sinking.

Zee: Says who? We wouldn’t be as invested in the sinking if the love story hadn’t been
established. The first half is better.

Louis: Point taken.

Zee: Thank you.

YOU GUYS AREN’T HELPING.

Leeyum: Just buy it on Amazon? It’s only ten bucks on Prime.

I don’t want to buy something I already own.

Leeyum: Rent it then. I’ll even Venmo you the money, then it’s a gift.

Louis: That’s not the point, Payno.

Nialler: Of course you side with him, Lewis!

Louis: I’m not siding with anyone, it’s a matter of principle.

Harry sits up, grinning at his phone screen.

Louis is totally siding with him.

Yeah, exactly, thank you! The principle that Niall lost my DVD.

Nialler: I didn’t lose your DVD, it’s in your apartment somewhere!

WHERE.

Nialler: I DON’T KNOW.

Harry huffs, putting his phone down and reaching for his glass, taking another long sip of water.
Looking at the clock on his cable box, he realizes he’s due for another dose of DayQuil, so he grabs
the open box on the table and shakes out the sheet of tablets. He starts wrestling with the sheet, his
normally dexterous fingers clumsy as he tries to rip off one of the blister packs. His phone buzzes
again, the couch cushion vibrating.
Nialler: Tell you what. I’ll come over after I get the bar open for brunch on Sunday and I’ll look
through the DVDs myself.

That’s TWO WHOLE DAYS.

Nialler: if you stop whining, I’ll bring that mocha french toast you like so much.

Deal.

Nialler: Deal.

Satisfied, Harry puts his phone aside, going back to the pills, with frustratingly little success, the
perforations on the thick plastic and foil not doing much to help him. He’s a thirty-one year old
man, he doesn’t know why he can’t manage to defeat fucking childproof packaging, but here he is.
Eventually, he manages to rip one of the sections away with his teeth, but then he is foiled
(literally) by the backing, his short nails unable to separate the teeny-tiny pull away tab from the
foil. Finally, he admits defeat, tossing the pills back to the table and flopping on his side.

Who fucking needs DayQuil anyway? Not him.

Harry sits up slightly to fluff his pillows and rearrange his blankets. As he settles back down, his
eyes land on the stack of other DVDs he pulled. None of them feel appealing anymore because
none of them are Titanic. He grabs the remote for his Roku and pulls up Netflix, which he probably
should have just done from the beginning. He clicks through the menu before finally settling on a
season of the Great British Bake Off , knowing that its comforting familiarity will be an easy thing
to zone out to.

Harry sighs, pulling up his blankets and snuggling deep into his cushions, his eyes already drooping
as twelve bakers file into a tent in the English countryside ready to take on their first cake
challenge.

Harry jolts with a start, sitting straight up at the blaring sound of his buzzer. He looks around,
slightly disoriented because he certainly isn’t expecting anyone. Looking at the TV, he wonders if
he mistook an oven timer going off for the front door as he watches one of the bakers pull an
impressive loaf of bread out of the oven.

Wait...he thought it was cake week? He must have fallen asleep.

The sound of the buzzer rips through the apartment again.

Harry hoists himself up, wrapping one of his blankets around his shoulders like a cape and
grabbing his tissue box off the floor. He shuffles the short distance over to his door and presses the
intercom button.

“Hello?” Harry croaks.

“Hey, uh...it’s me.”

The rasp of the voice is unmistakable, even through the tinny intercom, and Harry’s heart skips a
beat.

“Louis?”
“Yeah. Can you let me in?”

“But I’m sick!” Harry protests, plucking at tissue out of the box and blowing his nose.

“I know you are, dummy,” Louis replies, a smile in his voice. “I brought you some stuff to help.”

“You did?”

“No, I came to laugh at your misery, Haz,” Louis deadpans. “Yes, I brought stuff to help. Buzz me
in please?”

Harry presses the key button on the intercom, looking around the messy living room and
bemoaning the fact that he lives on the ground floor and he’s not going to have any time to clean up
before Louis knocks on his door. Not to mention the fact that he hasn’t showered in 2 days; he
probably smells, his hair’s a little greasy, and he’s definitely freeballing in his ratty gray
sweatpants. He’s a complete human disaster and oh, God, Louis is here and he’s–

There’s a knock on the door.

Harry takes a deep breath, raking his fingers through his hair and pinching his cheeks, hoping some
color will help him look a little more like a person. He pulls his blanket around him tighter and
opens the door.

As much as he was worrying about impressing Louis just now, he can’t help but be relieved at the
sight of him, because he’s here. Louis looks all soft and smiley and slightly rumpled, dressed down
in knee-length jean shorts that are frayed at the ends, a graphic “I Heart NY” t-shirt, and a black
baseball cap. He’s clutching the handles of a large Duane Reade plastic shopping bag in one hand
and a smaller brown bag in the other, a Chinese take-out menu stapled to the top of it.

Honestly, Harry might kiss him. Or burst into tears. He’s not sure which quite frankly.

“Lou,” Harry breathes, shaking his head in confusion. “What are you...I thought you said you were
working?”

“Working from home today,” Louis replies, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “And it’s after three, so
I’m off the clock. Summer Friday. You gonna let me in?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, sorry,” Harry says hastily, holding the door open wider for him. “I’m just...I
don’t want to get you sick too, Lou.”

“Just don’t cough or sneeze on me and I’ll be fine, I promise,” Louis dismisses, stepping inside.
“Which way to the kitchen?”

“That way,” Harry says, pointing to the left, closing and locking the door, following behind Louis
as he heads into the kitchen. “Go ahead, make yourself at home.”

Louis looks over at him, his face softening as he places the bags on the counter.

“How are you feeling, Curly?”

“Crappy,” Harry answers with a sniffle. “Like the crappiest.”

“Do you have a temperature or anything?” Louis asks, pulling several bottles of blue Gatorade out
of the Duane Reade bag.

Harry smiles. Blue is his favorite.

“Don’t think so,” Harry replies, leaning against the doorframe. “I mean, you know I run hot
anyway, so I haven’t thought to check.”

Louis’ brows furrow in concern as he crosses over to him, stepping into his space; Harry’s breath
hitches as Louis gently presses the back of his hand to his forehead, then his cheek. Harry can’t
help but lean into his slightly cool touch, sighing softly as his eyes flutter shut. He feels a little
dizzy, and not from being sick.

“No,” Louis murmurs, moving to his other cheek, his touch achingly tender. “Doesn’t feel like you
do have a fever.”

“S’good,” Harry sighs, blinking his eyes open as Louis withdraws his hand, clearing his throat and
putting some space between them. He misses him instantly.

“It is,” Louis affirms, the crinkles by his eyes deepening as he smiles. “Have you eaten anything
lately? Knowing you, I’m guessing you haven’t.”

“Heeeeeeey,” Harry protests weakly. “I made scrambled eggs and toast when I got up this
morning.”

“Haz, it’s after three.”

“I can’t smell anything, Lou,” Harry whines. “It’s hard to eat when you can’t smell anything.”

“Still, you need to anyway, okay?” Louis chides. “I brought several options.”

“Like what?” Harry asks curiously, his stomach suddenly growling from all the food talk.

“Chinese. I went to my usual place, since I know it’s good,” Louis says, ripping the menu off the
top of the bag. “Do you hold on to menus? In case you like it?”

“Last drawer,” Harry smiles, pointing at his counter.

Louis nods, pulling open the drawer and placing the menu on top of his stack of take-out menus,
knocking the drawer shut with his hip as he turns his attention back to the bag of food, pulling out a
quart of soup, the clear container showing a dark broth that’s full of thin, ribbony noodles and
mushrooms.

“I know you usually like egg drop soup,” Louis explains. “But hot and sour soup is better for you
when you’re sick.”

“Did you get extra–”

“Fried wontons?” Louis finishes, pulling out a handful of individual packages and dropping them
on the counter. “Please.”

Harry grins, feeling like his chest is filling with a warm, golden light. It’s the best he’s felt in days.
“Kung Pao chicken,” Louis continues, pulling out a flat plastic container, along with a carton of
rice. “Extra Pao for your sinuses.”

Harry honks a laugh, which quickly turns into a cough.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Harry croaks when Louis looks at him in concern, cracking open one of the
bottles of Gatorade. He pounds his chest and clears his throat, accepting the bottle and taking a
swig. “Promise, I’m fine. Go on, please.”

“And finally some spicy sesame noodles,” Louis finishes. “These are better cold though, I’d wait
on these. I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for, so I just–”

“Lou,” Harry says genuinely. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis says shyly, scuffing his sneaker on the linoleum. “I knew you’d choose
Chinese food over Indian any day, given the choice.”

Louis’ words hang in the air for a bit, his cheeks pinkening as he dumps the rest of the contents of
the bag on the counter, packets of duck sauce and soy sauce scattering, along with several fortune
cookies and a few more bags of wontons. Louis sweeps the condiments, cookies and wontons into a
small pile and then folds up the bag, opening the cabinet under the sink and throwing it away.

“So what are you in the mood for?” Louis asks, looking up at him. “Oh! I got ice cream too! Sick
days always need ice cream.”

Louis retrieves a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked from the Duane Reade bag, holding it up to
show him.

“The soup,” Harry decides after contemplating his options. “Extra wontons.”

“Excellent choice,” Louis nods, popping the ice cream into the freezer. “Why don’t you go settle
back on the couch? You look like you’re about to keel over, Hazza.”

“M’kay,” Harry yawns, tugging up his blanket around his shoulders. “Thanks, Lou.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis says, cracking open the container of soup. “Bowls?”

“Second cabinet,” Harry answers, starting to shuffle back towards the couch.

“Oh!” Louis calls after him. “Do you have any tea?”

Harry turns around, sticking his head back into the kitchen just as Louis pulls a honeybear and a
couple of lemons out of the Duane Reade bag.

“Tea?”

“I mean, I bought some regular breakfast tea just in case you didn’t have any,” Louis continues,
placing a box of Celestial Seasonings on the counter. “But you used to always drink that herbal shit
in the afternoons?”

“Above the coffeemaker,” Harry smiles. “The chamomile will be best with the honey and lemon.
Kettle’s on the stove.”
“Right,” Louis nods. “Okay, back to the couch. Everything will be ready in a little bit.”

Harry makes his way back to the couch, settling back in his nest, turning his attention back to Bake
Off. He turns the sound down a little though, just so he can hear Louis puttering around in the
kitchen, the sound more comforting than anything coming from the television. Don’t get him
wrong, he’s enjoyed living alone and having a space entirely to himself for the past few years, but
he’s always been happier having someone else around, be it a roommate or, well, Louis.

It just makes his house feel a little bit more like a home.

“By the way, I got you this too,” Louis says, popping out of the kitchen and delivering a large,
glittery, neon-green plastic tumbler, complete with a screw top lid and reusable straw. The words
“Mommy Juice” are emblazoned on the side.

“Excuse me,” Harry chuckles. “What the fuck is this?”

“It was all they had at Duane Reade,” Louis smirks. “Now you can hydrate without worrying about
spilling all over yourself.”

“Fuck off,” Harry mutters, taking a sip of Gatorade. “I don’t always spill.”

“Whatever you say,” Louis says drily. He looks down at the coffee table, an eyebrow arching as he
observes the DayQuil carnage. “Having some trouble there?”

“I couldn’t get it open,” Harry pouts.

“God, I forgot how pathetic you can be when you’re sick,” Louis teases, grabbing the blister pack
of pills and easily opening it. “Here you go. Easy peasy.”

Louis drops the two pills into Harry’s outstretched palm.

“It’s only ’cause I got it started for you,” Harry grumbles, popping the pills in his mouth and
washing them down with a swig of Gatorade.

“Uh-huh,” Louis laughs, heading back into the kitchen as the kettle starts to whistle. “Keep telling
yourself that.”

God, Harry’s missed him.

“Okay, here we go,” Louis says, emerging from the kitchen a few minutes later, carefully walking
towards the couch, balancing the bowl of soup and a steaming mug of tea on a tray. “I found this
tray above the fridge, I hope it’s okay I’m using it?”

“It’s what it’s for,” Harry replies, sitting up and taking the tray from Louis once he reaches the
couch. “Thank you so much, Lou, really.”

“Well, we have to get you back in fighting shape for Liam’s birthday next weekend,” Louis says,
brushing his hands together as he sits on the arm of Harry’s oversized armchair. “Especially if
we’re going dancing at Posh. God, I haven’t been there in like...a decade? I can’t believe it’s still
around.”

“It never goes out of style,” Harry says, picking up the mug of tea and blowing on it. “You’ll see.
Would you rather go to one of those trendy clubs down in the Meatpacking district where we’d be
paying out of our asses for bottle service and shitty house music?”

“Definitely not,” Louis agrees.

“I mean, if I’m going dancing, I’d much rather be dancing to things I know,” Harry says, taking a
sip of his tea, the unmistakable taste of whiskey exploding over his palate. He sputters, shaking his
head. “Louis! This is whiskey!”

“It is not,” Louis says, affronted.

Harry narrows his eyes at him.

“Okay, it’s not just whiskey,” Louis amends. “It’s whiskey and tea, mixed with honey and lemon. A
hot toddy. It’s medicinal, look it up. Y’know, Niall may be full of shit about a lot of things, but he
was right about–”

“Louis, I just took DayQuil!” Harry protests. “You gave me DayQuil!”

“One shot of whiskey mixed with some DayQuil isn’t going to kill you, Haz, trust me.”

Harry takes another sip of the cocktail, glaring at Louis over the brim of his cup; Louis presses his
lips together, obviously biting back a laugh, his blue eyes dancing with mirth.

“This is delicious,” Harry admits begrudgingly. “And it does feel good on my throat.”

Louis laughs, the sound high and bright.

“Eat your soup too, don’t let it get cold,” Louis says, patting his shoulder. “I’m gonna go clean up
the kitchen and then I’ll be out of your hair so you can rest, okay?”

Harry tries not to pout at the thought of Louis leaving already, so he turns his attention to the soup
instead. A small stack of wonton strips float on the surface of the soup, another bag of them on the
tray in case he wants to add more. Harry mixes them in, and then brings his spoon to his lips,
blowing on the hot broth first. He burns his tongue a little bit anyway, but it’s worth it, the flavorful
soup the perfect balance of heat and mouth-puckering vinegary sourness.

“Everything alright?” Louis asks when he finally emerges again from the kitchen, the empty Duane
Reade bag in his hands. “Did you like the soup?”

“It’s so good,” Harry enthuses, plucking one of the wonton strips out of the bag and swirling it
through the remnants of the broth, popping it in his mouth. The DayQuil is starting to kick in,
clearing his nostrils somewhat; Harry takes a deep breath in, the pungent aroma of the soup helping
clear them even more. “Really, Lou, you’re a lifesaver. I can’t thank you enough for all this.”

Louis beams, clearly pleased. He looks over to the television, where the bakers have now moved
over to pastries.

“Bake Off, huh?” Louis asks casually. “A good sick day choice.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Couldn’t really think of anything else–”

“I thought you wanted to watch this though?”

Louis pulls out a familiar blue DVD case out of the Duane Reade bag, holding it up for Harry to
see.

“Louis William Tomlinson,” Harry gasps, his hand going to his heart. “You didn’t!”

“Let me be clear,” Louis warns, sliding the inner book out of the case. “This is on loan, Curly. I
better be getting this whole set back in one piece once Niall finds your missing disc, got it?”

“Got it,” Harry says solemnly, unable to stop himself from grinning from ear to ear. He sets his tray
on the coffee table, grabbing the remote and burrowing back into the couch cushions.

“Good,” Louis nods, his smile matching Harry’s as he pops disc one out of the case. “Now power
me up.”

Harry giggles, switching the TV input and then turning on the DVD player with the remote, the
disc tray sliding out. Louis crouches down in front of the entertainment center to place the disc in
the tray; Harry takes the opportunity to shamelessly ogle the curve of Louis’ ass as he does so. It
feels a little cheap, especially in light of everything Louis’ done for him this afternoon, but he’s
only human and Louis’ ass has always been the eighth wonder of the world in his humble opinion.
He quickly averts his eyes when Louis rises to his full height, turning around to face him as the
menu screen appears on the TV, the “Southhampton” theme swelling in the background. Louis
smirks at him, as if he knows exactly what Harry was doing, but really, Harry can’t be bothered to
care if he does know.

“Harry,” Louis says, his sparkling eyes betraying the seriousness in his voice. “Are you ready to go
back to Titanic?”

“It’s been...eighty-four years,” Harry imitates.

Louis laughs, removing his cap and raking his fingers through his hair, sweeping it across his
forehead, carefully smoothing it into place before replacing the cap.

“You’re all set then,” Louis says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking down at the floor. “I
guess I should–”

“Stay,” Harry interrupts.

“What?” Louis asks, looking back up at him.

“Stay,” Harry repeats, turning on his side, bunching up the pillows under his head as he meets
Louis’ eyes. “C’mon, Lou, you love this movie as much as I do. Stay and watch it with me?”

“Haz–”

“Unless you like...have somewhere else to be?” Harry asks, hating himself a little for fishing. “A
hot date or something? I mean, it is Friday–”

“I don’t,” Louis says quickly. “Have anywhere else to be, I mean.”

Thank God. Harry doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle the concept of Louis dating right now.

“Then just stay,” Harry entreats, stopping just short of batting his eyes at him. “Please?”
Louis holds his gaze for a beat.

“Okay,” Louis says, a smile slowly spreading across his beautiful face. “I’ll stay.”

“Yaaaaaaaay,” Harry drawls, clapping softly.

“Do you need a refill or anything before we start?” Louis asks. “I’m gonna get some water.”

“M’good,” Harry answers. “Thank you.”

Louis pops back into the kitchen, returning relatively quickly with a glass of water and the open
bottle of Gatorade. Harry raises an eyebrow as he places it on the coffee table.

“It’s a long movie,” Louis states, crossing over to the armchair and stepping out of his sneakers
before settling down into it. “And I’m not gonna get up until it’s time to change discs, so I’m just
being prepared.”

“Do you want a blanket or anything?” Harry asks, holding one of them up. “I’ve got a ton.”

“And they’re all germy,” Louis replies with a smile, tucking his legs up underneath him. “I’m fine,
Haz, go ahead and start the movie.”

Harry presses play, the menu screen dissolving away and the bright green MPAA Rating screen
appearing.

“Uh-oh, Hazza,” Louis teases. “Disaster related peril and artistic nudity. Some sensuality. You sure
we should be watching this?”

“I think we should risk it,” Harry banters back.

“If you say so,” Louis sing-songs. “Don’t blame me if your delicate sensibilities get offended.”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry grins. “Don’t quote along with the movie the whole time, Lou.”

“I make no promises,” Louis says airily as the screen fades to black, the solo bagpipe starting to
play.

********

Harry’s eyes start drooping not too long after Louis puts in the second disc. He tells himself he’s
just going to rest his eyes for a few minutes right around the time that Rose tells Cal that she’s
rather be Jack’s whore than his wife, but when he blinks his eyes open again, the apartment is quiet.
The television is turned off and his blankets are tucked securely around him.

Louis is gone.

Harry would think the whole afternoon was a cold induced hallucination but the glittery tumbler
full of Gatorade and the two unwrapped tablets of DayQuil sitting on the coffee table remind him
that it was all real. Louis cleaned up a bit before he left; all the dirty dishes that had accumulated
over the past two days have been taken away, and all of the used tissues are gone as well. The tissue
box has been placed within his reach, along with his phone and the remote.
He sits up, smiling when he sees the note on the coffee table, reminding him to eat some dinner and
telling him exactly when he started snoring during the movie if he wants to pick it back up again.
It’s signed with a smiley face with x’s for eyes.

Harry smiles, tracing his finger over the smiley face as he dutifully takes his meds, washing them
down with barely cool Gatorade. He grabs his phone, settling back against the couch cushions as he
pulls up Louis’ contact.

I don’t snore.

A text bubble pops up almost immediately.

Louis: Yes, you do. You always have.

Harry grins, putting his phone down and reaching for the remote, turning the TV on. The DVD
player is still on, so Harry skips through the menu, finding the scene where Jack tells Rose to get on
the lifeboat which is where, according to Louis, he allegedly started snoring. His phone buzzes in
his lap.

Louis: Night, Haz.

Night, Lou.

June 2012

Harry sighs happily, adding a splash of half and half to Louis’ mug and then a more generous pour
to his own, in addition to a heaping spoonful of sugar. He puts the carton back in the fridge and
then grabs the half-full carafe from the coffee maker, refilling both of their mugs. It just about
finishes the pot, so Harry dumps the dregs out in the sink and fills the carafe with water and a squirt
of dish soap. He’ll wash it later. Washing dishes is against the rules on a lazy Sunday morning,
especially this lazy Sunday morning, their very first one after five days in their very first apartment
together.

It hasn’t quite sunk in just yet, that he and Louis actually live together. But they do.

In many ways, it doesn’t feel any different. They’d been practically living together anyway,
especially in the two months since Louis asked him to live with him. Harry’s used to falling asleep
with Louis curled around him and he’s used to waking up to Louis, greeting him with a kiss and
then treading lightly until he’s had half of his first cup of coffee. He already knows that Louis hates
washing silverware and doing laundry, that he squeezes the toothpaste from the middle instead of
the end, and that he leaves half-full coffee mugs everywhere when he’s writing. He also knows that
Louis is the most thoughtful person he’s ever met, that he keeps the fridge stocked with Harry’s
favorite beer, and that he always buys avocados even though he hates them just so Harry can have
avocado toast in the morning. Harry knows that Louis loves getting him flowers “just because” and
the ambiance of twinkle lights and zoning out to Law & Order repeats.

Still, Harry realizes that it’s impossible to know every single thing about a person, that people will
constantly surprise you with their ever evolving quirks and habits. He likes to think he knows Louis
as much as he possibly can know him after sixteen months together but there’s still so much more
for him to learn.
Because as much as it feels like everything is the same, everything is different now. Because now
there’s a two-year lease that has both of their names on it sitting in a file cabinet at a management
office on East 12th Street. (“I love this apartment and I love you,” Louis had said when they were
offered the lease. “I don’t see that changing. Ever. Why wouldn’t we sign the two-year lease,
baby?”) Because now this is their kitchen. He looks out over their breakfast bar into their living
room, where there are still a handful of open boxes scattered around that he swears they’re finally
going to get to later this afternoon, right after they finish assembling their new dining table from
Ikea.

And, most importantly, Louis is in their bedroom in their bed.

“Hazza?”

“Coming,” Harry calls, grabbing the coffee mugs by their handles and making his way around the
breakfast bar.

The sight that greets him in the bedroom knocks the air right out of his chest, which is kind of
ridiculous considering it’s no different than the sight he left 5 minutes ago. Even so, Harry feels so
suddenly overwhelmed that he needs to take a moment to take Louis in, leaning against the
doorframe and just letting all the love and all the lust he feels wash over him.

Louis is naked, lying diagonally on his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows, the
position emphasizing his already prominent collarbones, creating hollows by his throat that Harry
would live in if he could. He’s covered, but barely, which makes the sight of him all the more
erotic. Their pale blue sheet has slipped all the way down his back to reveal the dimples at the
bottom of his spine but not the cleft of his ass and his attention is focused on the Sunday Times
crossword, his thin lips pursed in thought as he taps his pen against the paper. His hair is sticking
up every which way, his jaw is dusted with two days’ worth of stubble, and there's a hickey on his
shoulder that should probably go in the hickey hall of fame, if there is such a thing.

He’s the most beautiful man Harry has ever seen and he gets to wake up next to him every morning
now. Hopefully, he gets to wake up next to him for the rest of his life.

“What won the Tony for Best Musical in 1980?” Louis asks, rolling to his side, the sheet slipping
even lower, draping precariously over his hip as he kicks one leg out. “Starts with an ‘E,’ five
letters?”

“Ummmm,” Harry ponders, crossing over and placing Louis’ coffee mug on the nightstand. He
ducks down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Evita? That was in the eighties, wasn’t it?”

“That sounds right,” Louis nods, carefully inking the letters in the boxes and then smiling up at
him. “You’re so smart, baby. How did I ever used to do the Sunday crossword without you?”

“I thought you just put as many dirty answers in as you could make work?” Harry teases, taking a
sip of coffee.

“That’s not as easy as it looks, you know. That takes real skill,” Louis laughs, reaching for his
coffee.

As Louis stretches for his mug, the sheet slips even lower, the thatch of dark, neatly trimmed hair
that surrounds the base of his cock peeking out from under it. Harry’s mouth waters as his eyes
skim down Louis’ torso, taking in his tattoos, the smattering of coarse hair between his pecs, his
perfect little nipples, and the softly toned tummy that Louis hates but is one of Harry’s favorite
places to kiss, his skin supple and always so warm. Harry’s cock twitches in his sweatpants, already
raring for another go even though they fucked this morning before breakfast. Louis smirks, his eyes
following Harry’s gaze; he adjusts the sheet, pulling it back up to just below his belly button.

“You’re insatiable, baby,” Louis comments, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I mean, can you blame me?” Harry asks, gesturing as he looks Louis up and down. “What else do
you expect from me with you just...lying around looking like...that.”

“I thought we said no clothes were allowed in this apartment before noon on Sundays,” Louis
states, peering at Harry over the brim of his mug, his eyes glittering.

“We did say that,” Harry confirms with a grin.

“So I’m just following the rules then,” Louis says innocently, placing his mug back on the
nightstand, the sheet slipping down his hips again. He looks Harry up and down, clicking his
tongue with disapproval. “You on the other hand…”

“I had to get dressed to go out for bagels,” Harry points out, sauntering towards the bed. “And the
Sunday Times for you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“And I’m grateful for that, baby, really I am,” Louis says. “But you’ve been back for half an hour
and–”

Harry places his coffee mug on the nightstand next to Louis’ and whips off his t-shirt, throwing it
on the floor.

“Mmmmmm,” Louis hums, smiling coquettishly, reaching out and thumbing at one of the laurel
leaves on Harry’s hip, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “Better.”

Harry’s breath hitches as Louis hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats, tugging them
down to mid-thigh.

“Much better,” Louis murmurs, pressing forward and dropping a kiss on the tip of Harry’s half-hard
cock.

“N-now who’s insatiable, baby?” Harry stutters, his cock jerking as Louis delicately skims his
fingers along his length, looking at it with fascination.

“Oh, I don’t want to have sex right now,” Louis says matter of factly, looking up at him as he drags
his fingers across Harry’s hip and traces them down the slope of his ass.

“You don’t?” Harry asks incredulously. “Seriously?”

“I don’t,” Louis smirks, giving Harry’s ass a light smack before turning back to his crossword. “I
want to finish my crossword and have my second cup of coffee. I’d just rather you be naked while I
do it. If you’re good and don’t touch yourself in the meantime, we can have sex when I’m done.”

Louis looks up at him, his expression shifting as their eyes meet, questioning him, checking in.

“Is that okay?”

Harry sucks in a breath, clenching his fist at his side as his cock twitches again, a jolt of pleasure
shooting down his spine. He exhales slowly, trying to get himself under control.

“Y-yeah,” Harry stammers. “More than okay.”

“Okay,” Louis smiles approvingly. “Take those off then.”

Harry shoves his sweatpants all the way down and steps out of them, kicking them aside. Louis
looks him up and down in appreciation. Harry preens under his gaze, crossing around to his side of
the bed.

“I mean, I have stuff I should be doing anyway,” Harry says casually, putting a little extra sway in
his hips when he feels Louis’ eyes following him.

“Do you now?”

“I have that piece for Mitch’s show that I need to be working on,” Harry explains as he grabs his
sketchpad and a pencil from where he had left it on the nightstand the night before, along with his
phone, sashaying back around to Louis’ side of the bed.

“Right, right,” Louis smiles, carefully filling in a line on the crossword. “The show you guys are
putting up in the Village at the end of the month, yeah?”

“Yup,” Harry grins, sticking the sketchpad under his arm and putting the pencil over his ear. “First
big post-graduation show.”

“So proud of you, baby.”

Harry beams, picking up his coffee mug from Louis’ nightstand, taking a sip. He settles down into
the armchair by the window, gingerly placing his mug on the window sill. Flipping through his pad
of paper, he finds the sketch he’d started last night before going to bed. He looks up, meeting
Louis’ eyes; they look at each other for a long time before sharing a private smile, both of them
turning to their respective projects at the same time.

Harry unlocks his phone, thumbing through his photos till he finds the inspiration for this particular
piece, a snapshot he’d taken in Washington Square Park on an unseasonably warm spring
afternoon, kids frolicking in the fountain and adults sunning themselves on the steps around it,
many of them holding cones of Mister Softee or sipping iced coffees. He shifts around in the
armchair, resting the phone on the arm and propping the sketchpad up against his knee, getting to
work, putting pencil to paper. It’s just a planning sketch, Harry knows he won’t be adding detail
until he gets it on canvas, so he tries to focus on perspective and scale for now, getting a feel for
what he wants to do.

The operative word is tries because it’s really hard to focus on drawing buildings when Louis is
right there, lounging in their bed, looking like a goddamn renaissance painting.

How can he not draw him when he looks like that?

Harry takes a sip of coffee and flips to a new page in his book, shifting around in the armchair so he
can see Louis properly. He takes a moment to just appreciate him from the intense look of
concentration on his face to the dip of his waist and the way the sheet is bunched on the rise of his
hip to the way the morning sunlight is bathing him in gold, making his skin almost glow.
He starts sketching him without even realizing it, his hand moving of its own volition. Drawing
Louis is like pure muscle memory at this point, the lines of his body etched permanently in Harry’s
brain, his pencil tracing Louis’ curves as lovingly as his hands do. He smiles as he looks down at
his paper, the outline of Louis’ form already starting to take shape. Really, Harry doesn’t even need
to look at Louis in order to draw him accurately. But at the same time, he’d never deny himself that
pleasure, glancing up at him every few seconds as he sketches. He gets in the zone quickly,
sketching away, his forgotten coffee growing cold on the window sill.

“Hazza?”

“Yes?” Harry answers, not looking up from his drawing, shadowing in Louis’ collarbones.

“You’re drawing me, aren’t you?”

Harry looks up at that. Louis looks back at him, a coy smile tugging at his lips, his blue eyes
sparkling as he sets the crossword aside.

“I am,” he admits, sitting up higher in the armchair, unashamed. “I always want to be drawing
you.”

“I thought you said you were working on the piece for Mitch’s show?”

“Well, maybe this should be my piece for Mitch’s show instead,” Harry counters, turning the pad
out to show Louis his sketch so far. “Look at you. You should always be hung up high in a gallery,
Lou, you’re so beautiful, baby.”

Louis presses his lips together, his eyes crinkling and his cheeks flushing pink.

“Pose for me?” Harry asks.

“Always,” Louis replies. “It’s about time I got my Titanic fantasy after almost a year and half
together.”

Harry grins as Louis grabs one of their pillows, placing it under his arm to prop himself up more
comfortably, the change in position just exaggerating the curve of his waist.

“No, leave the sheet,” Harry orders as Louis moves to pull it aside. “I like it.”

Louis arches his eyebrow, smiling coyly and bunching the sheet in his free hand. The pale blue
fabric slides off his legs as he crosses them, the sheet barely covering his crotch at this point.
Harry’s neglected dick twitches against his thigh as it hardens; he shifts his hips, pressing his
sketchpad down, trying to find some sort of relief without touching himself.

“You’re really gonna hate yourself if you get a paper cut on your dick, baby,” Louis chides.

“I hate you,” Harry mutters, moving the pad off his crotch.

“You love me,” Louis smirks. “Now go on. Draw me like one of your French girls, Harry. The last
thing I need is another picture of me looking like a porcelain doll.”

“If we were really doing Titanic, you would have paid me a dime first.” Harry teases, flipping to a
new sheet of paper and getting to work, wanting to capture Louis’ new pose properly.
“If we were really doing Titanic, I’d be naked,” Louis counters, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Why aren’t I naked, Haz?”

“Because I like the way the sheet is draping over you,” Harry states. “It’s pretty, and it will translate
well to an oil painting.”

Louis hums, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.

“What’s the real reason I’m not naked, Haz? Cause I’ll do it, I really don’t mind. In fact, I want to
be naked.”

“I’m not painting your dick, Lou.”

“Why not?” Louis presses. “I have a beautiful dick, don’t I?”

“You do,” Harry agrees, sketching the slope of Louis’ calf, tapering down to his delicate ankle,
doing his best to ignore the way his own dick is starting to throb with all the cock talk. “The most
beautiful dick I’ve ever seen.”

“Then doesn’t my dick deserve to be hung up high in a gallery too?”

“For all our friends to see?” Harry asks, a hot stab of jealousy shooting through him, his face
scrunching up in distaste at the very thought of people ogling Louis’ cock. “For strangers to see? I
don’t think so, baby, no way.”

“Oh my God, Harry,” Louis laughs, throwing his head back. “Are you jealous? At the very idea of
people seeing a painting of my dick? Seriously?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Harry pouts, looking up at him. “Lou, it’s hard enough sometimes
knowing that other people have seen your dick, you know? I don’t…”

Harry trails off, suddenly feeling a bit silly. It is just a painting, after all. It’s not like Louis will be
strutting around the gallery whipping out the real thing or anything like that. And they live together,
they have a lease. They’re committed to each other, it’s not like Louis is going anywhere or
anything.

“You don’t what, baby?” Louis asks, his face softening, all semblance of teasing falling away as he
looks at Harry’s face. “Tell me.”

“I just don’t want anyone else seeing your dick ever again,” Harry explains, his cheeks warm. “I
want to be the only one who sees your dick for the rest of your life. No one else. Just me. And well,
your doctor. Your doctor can see your dick, but no one else. Is that okay with you?”

“More than okay,” Louis says, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I don’t want anyone else
other than your doctor seeing your dick ever again for the rest of your life either, just so you know.
We’re on the same page here, Haz.”

“Good,” Harry nods. “Glad we’re agreed.”

“Y’know, that may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” Louis grins. “Like, ever.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, turning back to his drawing, shading in the folds of the sheet.
“Now hurry up and get this sketch done,” Louis orders. “My arm is falling asleep and you’ve been
very good and I–”

“I’ve been good?” Harry asks, looking back up at him, every nerve ending in his body suddenly at
attention.

“Yes, baby,” Louis purrs, his gaze scorching as he drops the sheet. He takes his hard cock in his
hand, keeping his eyes locked on Harry’s as he starts to slowly stroke himself, his breath hitching
as he does so. “You’ve been very good.”

It really is the most beautiful cock Harry’s ever seen.

Harry tosses the sketchpad aside, launching himself towards the bed and swallowing Louis’
laughter as he captures his lips in a searing kiss.

They can do Titanic another day.

 Chapter 10

Not that Harry’s keeping score or anything, but if he were, he’d like the record to show that for as
much shit as he gets for being late all the time, Liam’s birthday party marks the second time in a
month that he’s gotten somewhere before Louis has.

Harry stands next to Niall in the steadily moving line outside of Posh, scanning the sidewalk,
looking for any sign of Louis as he half-listens to Liam and Zayn chattering on about the Fire
Island getaway they’re planning for Labor Day.

Who is he kidding? He’s totally keeping score. And he’s definitely going to update Louis on the
standings.

As soon as he gets here.

“Has anyone heard from Louis?” Harry asks, looking around and belatedly realizing that he
interrupted Liam’s spiel about the very gay sounding B&B they’ve booked for the weekend. “Sorry,
it’s just that it’s not like him to be late like this. And we’re getting close to the head of the line, I
don’t want to go in without him.”

“It’s only ten past nine,” Liam says, looking at his watch and then looking at Harry like he’s grown
a second head or something.

“We have a booth reservation for five people anyway,” Zayn shrugs, unbothered as they all shift
forward with the line. “It’s not like he won’t be able to get in if we beat him inside, it’s fine.”

“He’ll get here, H, stop worrying,” Liam adds, sliding his arm around Zayn’s waist, pulling him
closer to his side. “He messaged the group chat saying he’d hit some traffic but was finally moving
again.”

“He did?” Harry asks, taking another step forward, the thumping music spilling out of the club
getting louder. “When?”

“Like ten minutes ago,” Niall chimes in, pulling Harry’s phone out of the pocket of his lilac pants
and waving it at him. “You’d know that if you had your phone on you.”

“Let me see,” Harry demands, taking the phone from Niall. He looks down at the screen and sure
enough, there’s a WhatsApp notification from Louis, complete with head exploding emojis.
Smiling, Harry clears the notification and holds the phone back out for Niall to take back.

“Nuh-uh, H,” Niall declines, holding his hands up. “Hold your own phone.”

“But you said you’d hold it for me,” Harry protests.

“Changed my mind,” Niall says simply. “I don’t want to deal with you bugging me all night about
it. Because you will.”

“Does it look like a phone goes with this outfit, Niall?” Harry asks, taking a step back and
gesturing up and down the glittery, midnight-blue jumpsuit that he’s poured himself into for the
evening, the open front plunging down almost to his belly button, showing off his butterfly tattoo.
For good measure, he does a little twirl to show how little the jumpsuit leaves to the imagination,
the shimmering denim hugging his hips, ass, and thighs before flaring out ever so slightly past his
knees. “Honestly, it’s bad enough with how my wallet and keys ruin the line in the back. I don’t
have room for my phone!”

“Should have worn something else then,” Niall shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“It’s Liam’s birthday,” Harry points out. “I think Liam’s birthday deserves some sparkles, don’t
you?”

“Aw, thanks, H,” Liam grins.

“You’re welcome.”

“So why not leave your phone at home then?” Niall challenges, his eyes twinkling, clearly enjoying
winding Harry up. “Unplug for the night or go off grid or whatever it is the kids say now.”

“What do the kids say now?” Zayn asks wryly. “And when did we stop being ‘the kids,’ how did
that happen?”

“Was it when we turned thirty?” Liam muses. “That has to be it, right?”

“Definitely when we turned thirty,” Niall agrees.

“Does anyone actually ever unplug though?” Harry asks. “Seriously, who goes anywhere without
their phone? On purpose?”

There’s no response, the three of them all looking back at Harry with various levels of
bemusement.

“That’s right, no one does,” Harry continues, triumphant. “We all need our phones. I need my
phone. How else will I get home at the end of the night when I’m drunk and all danced out? I’ll
need my phone to order a Lyft.”

“Or you could hail a yellow cab like any red-blooded New Yorker would do,” Niall suggests.

“Or take the subway,” Liam adds.

“Or share a car with Louis since you’re neighbors,” Zayn proposes.

“I hate all of you,” Harry grumbles. “I need new friends.”

“Awwww, H,” Niall teases affectionately, reaching inside the jumpsuit and tweaking his nipple.
Harry yelps at the unexpected jolt of pain; Niall cackles as Harry twists away from him, batting his
hands away. “Please don’t ever change, pet.”

“Do I look ridiculous?” Harry asks, suddenly a little insecure as he fiddles with the jade cross
dangling around his neck, moving the chain’s clasp back into place and turning the charm so it lays
flat against his chest. “I know this outfit is a lot, but at the same time it’s like what else would I
wear for clubbing–”

“Shut up, you look gorgeous,” Niall says seriously.

“Yeah?” Harry smiles, standing up taller. “I do, don’t I?”

“Please,” Niall grins, ruffling his hair as the line shuffles forward again, the door in sight now. “You
look like the glittery love child of Mick Jagger and David Bowie. The boys will be falling all over
themselves to dance with you tonight. Really, I look forward to seeing it.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, you know,” Harry offers instead, fixing the collar of Niall’s black
polo. “Those pants are something else.”

“I know,” Niall replies, popping his hip. “Come and get me, boys and girls, I’m ready and willing.”

“And you really won’t hold my phone for me?” Harry asks, clinging to his arm and batting his
eyes.

“Nope,” Niall chortles, elbowing his side. “And you can stop with the eyes, Harry. You know those
only work on Louis.”

“What only works on me?”

Harry turns his head at the sound of Louis’ voice followed by the slamming of a car door. His
response dies on his lips as Louis approaches, the other boys cheering his arrival. Harry swallows
hard, his mouth dry at the sight of him, the familiar pull of attraction tugging low in his belly.

Louis’ style has never been ostentatious or risk-taking, aside from this one pair of obscenely tight
red pants and sets of suspenders that he used to bust out for Pride. No, Louis prefers the classics,
the pieces that never go out of style, the tried and true looks that work on his body and he knows it.
Tonight’s outfit is a look that Harry’s probably seen hundreds of times over the course of knowing
him but that doesn’t make it any less devastatingly sexy. Louis’ tissue-thin black t-shirt clings to his
slim but curvy frame, the slight scoop of the neck showing a hint of collarbone and the fabric sheer
enough that Harry can see the ink of his tattoos, the small, dark circles of his nipples, and the dip of
his belly button. His black jeans look painted on, the denim hugging his hips and thighs like a
second skin. He’s exchanged his usual Vans for shiny black brogues, foregoing socks, and his jeans
are cuffed, showing off his dainty ankles. Louis’ hair looks effortlessly mussed but Harry knows he
probably spent at least half an hour getting it looking that way and his cheeks are dusted with the
faintest hint of stubble.

Harry wonders if there will ever be a time where Louis doesn’t take his breath away.

He doubts it.

“Happy birthday, Payno!” Louis exclaims. “Sorry I’m late, Broadway was a fucking nightmare.”

“It’s all good, you’re here now,” Liam replies as he embraces Louis tightly, clapping him on the
back. “Glad you made it!”

Harry’s heart lurches as he watches Liam and Louis together, their eyes trying to out-crinkle each
other as they smile widely, laughing about the perils of New York traffic. He could have never
imagined this happening, not in his wildest dreams, his best friend and his...his Louis becoming fast
friends. Louis has slotted right back into his life as if he’d never left, the missing piece of his heart
finally found again after so many years.

Fuck, he never should have let Louis go in the first place.

The epiphany hits Harry like a ton of bricks, his pulse pounding as he watches Louis greet the
others, even though it’s been inevitable since the moment Louis walked into that gallery. Niall and
Liam were right, he’s been kidding himself thinking that he and Louis could ever be just friends; he
was always going to end up right back here, desperately wanting Louis, because the pull between
them is too strong. It can’t be denied and quite frankly, Harry’s tired of pretending it can be.

Harry thinks back over the past month, cataloguing every little thing Louis has done for him, from
buying him a fucking black and white cookie at lunch to stocking his fridge with fruity beer for
game night, even taking care of him when he was sick last week, as if he didn’t think Harry would
notice him knowing that blue Gatorade is his favorite and that he’d always prefer Chinese over
Indian. To Harry, all the evidence points to one inescapable conclusion.

There’s no way Louis isn’t feeling this way too.

He hasn’t had time to process that realization before the next one hits him: Now that Louis is back
in his life, Harry doesn’t want to let him go ever again.

Louis turns to him and Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes bug out for a second or how his Adam’s
apple bobs as he takes him in.

“Well somebody’s certainly feeling better,” Louis comments after a moment, not so subtly looking
him up and down.

“Yeah, well, the extra Pao in that Kung Pao chicken made the difference,” Harry jokes, preening
under Louis’ appreciative gaze. “Really, it should be renamed Black Eyed Peas chicken ’cause it
was Boom Boom Pao.”

Louis throws his head back with laughter, his eyes crinkling shut as he presses a hand to his
stomach. Harry beams, butterflies fluttering up a storm in his stomach. It’s one of his favorite
things, making Louis laugh like this, especially because he knows his stupid joke wasn’t even all
that funny. Louis has always been the one to humor his love of dad jokes and terrible puns though,
never failing to make him feel like he’s some sort of comic genius.

“Boom Boom Pao chicken, good one, Curly,” Louis wheezes through his giggles, wiping under his
eyes. “You know I’m never going to be able to call it anything else ever again, right?”

“God, I need a drink,” Niall mutters.

“Get your IDs ready, fellas,” Zayn says, looking back at them over his shoulder. Harry looks ahead
and sees that they’re next in line for the bouncer.

“Fucking finally,” Niall says, grabbing his wallet. “I forgot how packed this place can get on
Saturday nights. And it’s still early.”

“Well, what do you expect from a place that literally advertises ‘Never a cover, always a
cock...tail,’” Louis grins, pulling his license out of a sleeve attached to the back of his phone.

“Niall, I’ll buy you your first drink if you hang onto my phone,” Harry says, sticking his phone in
his armpit, struggling to wedge his wallet out of the not very functional back pocket of his
jumpsuit.

“Nope,” Niall answers, showing the bouncer his ID.

“Niallllllllll,” Harry whines, finally extracting his wallet. “Come on. Please? How am I supposed to
dance if I have to hold on to–”

Louis reaches over into his space and slides Harry’s phone out from under his arm, sticking it in
one of his front pockets without another word.

“O-oh,” Harry stammers, his face suddenly hot. “Thank you, Lou.”

Louis just winks at him as he holds his ID out for the bouncer.

“Unbelievable,” Niall huffs, a smile creeping across his face as he shakes his head. “And you didn’t
even have to use the eyes!”

“Leave Harry be, Neil,” Louis orders, sliding his phone into his other pocket. “Now he can dance
like he wants to and at least I’m balanced out with two phone thighs.”

Harry honks a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth as he hands the bouncer his driver’s license.
He looks down at Louis’ thighs (Louis basically just told him to do it, it’s fine), the outline of a
phone very visible on both of them through the tight denim.

“Have a good evening, gentlemen,” the bouncer says, handing back Harry’s ID.

“Thanks!” Harry says brightly, following Louis and Niall into the foyer, where Zayn and Liam wait
for them at the host stand.

“Malik, party of five,” a very beefy host in a tight white tank and booty shorts says, looking down
at his clipboard. “Right this way.”

“I forgot this was basically the gay version of Hooters,” Louis mutters in his ear, leaning in close so
Harry can hear him over the pounding beats of JLo telling everyone to dance the night away.

“Louis,” Harry giggles, elbowing his ribs. “Oh my God.”

“I mean, seriously, Haz,” Louis continues, pointing over to the rainbow festooned bar, where
shirtless, muscled bartenders are slinging drinks for the crowd. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I
appreciate the eye candy, but how is that even sanitary?”
Like many other spaces in Hell’s Kitchen, the front bar is long and narrow, like a railroad car, with
the bar taking up the entirety of one wall and a few high cocktail tables spaced out along the
opposite wall without any stools around them to encourage mingling. Harry feels like every nerve
ending in his body comes alive as Louis brings his hand to rest lightly on his lower back, gently
guiding him through crowded space with the faintest pressure. They pass through a lounge area
with leather couches and low tables, the exposed brick walls decorated with portraits of iconic
divas from Cher to Gaga. Harry feels like his back is on fire as they turn the corner, the space
opening up into a dance floor with multiple disco balls glittering overhead and a DJ booth in the
corner and a smaller bar directly across from it. Recessed circular booths that offer a mild
semblance of privacy surround the dance floor; Louis doesn’t drop his hand from Harry’s back until
the host drops them off at the corner booth Zayn reserved for them. As Louis graciously thanks the
host, Harry glances at him out of the corner of his eye, astonished at how he can look so completely
unaffected when he feels like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces.

He needs a fucking drink.

Luckily, there’s a bottle of tequila on their table, along with several carafes of mixers, a bowl of
limes, a couple of salt shakers, a bucket of ice, and a small tower of shot glasses and tumblers.

“I thought we’d decided against bottle service,” Niall comments as he slides into the booth. “Not
that I’m arguing with not having to go to the bar or anything.”

“You had to buy a bottle in order to reserve a booth,” Zayn explains, gesturing for Liam to slide in
before him. “I thought it was worth the cost.”

“Babe,” Liam blushes, scooting over next to Niall. “You didn’t have to do this, I would have been
fine with just like, general admission.”

“Nonsense,” Zayn scoffs, sitting next to him and kissing him softly. “It’s your birthday, you deserve
it.”

“How much do I owe you, Zayn?” Niall asks. “I run a bar, I know how much they can upcharge for
bottles.”

“Guys, I can help pay for–”

“Absolutely not, Payno,” Louis shushes him. “No one pays for drinks on their birthday. I can
Venmo you right now, Zee.”

“Me too,” Harry adds.

“No, it’s my treat, honestly,” Zayn declines. “We’re too fucking old to not have a guaranteed place
to sit. It’s just this one bottle though, everything else you’ll have to get at the bar.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Louis says, scooting over towards Niall so Harry can sit.

“My pleasure,” Zayn says as everyone else choruses their thank yous. “I hope tequila’s okay with
everyone? Liam’s not the biggest fan of vodka and I know Harry doesn’t like whiskey–”

“Tequila’s great,” Niall proclaims, lining up five shot glasses in a neat row. “Now, lads, I may not
be one of those shirtless hunks behind the bar, but I am a bartender, so let’s do a round of shots for
the birthday boy, shall we?”

“Shots!” Harry declares, pounding on the table with his fists, much to Liam’s obvious delight, his
eyes crinkling shut. “Shots! Shots!”

Louis and Zayn join in the chant as Niall starts pouring the shots, filling their glasses to the brim.
Louis grabs a stack of napkins and passes them out, while Zayn passes the bowl of lime slices
around.

“Go on, Curly,” Louis says, offering him a salt shaker. “Salt up.”

Harry’s not quite sure what possesses him in that moment, other than the fact that he still feels the
ghost of Louis’ hand on his back, burning him like some sort of brand, but instead of accepting the
salt shaker, Harry just keeps his eyes locked on Louis’ as he lifts his hand to his mouth, licking the
top of it, getting his skin damp. Harry extends his hand towards Louis, arching his eyebrow
challengingly as he looks down at his hand; Louis swallows hard, his hand shaking slightly as he
sprinkles a generous amount of salt on Harry’s skin.
“Thank you,” Harry smirks.

“No sweat,” Louis replies with a strangled voice. “Niall, are those shots ready yet?”

“Coming right up,” Niall replies, sliding two shots towards Louis and two to Liam.

Louis slides Harry’s shot over without looking at him. Harry can see him clenching a fist under the
table and feels smug knowing that he’s definitely got Louis flustered.

“A toast,” Niall says grandly, holding his shot glass in the air, the others following suit. “To Liam,
who we love. Just as he is.”

“Come the fuck on, Bridget,” Louis quips.

“Can it, Tommo,” Niall fires back. “Happy birthday, Big Payno. Bottoms up, boys, let’s get
fucked.”

“To Liam,” they all chorus, tapping their glasses on the table.

Harry grasps his slice of lime in his fingers and licks the salt from his hand, throwing his head back
as he takes the shot, the tequila burning his throat on the way down. He shudders, placing the lime
between his teeth and sucking hard, his mouth puckering as he flips his glass and slams it to the
table upside down, seconds behind Louis.

“Goddammit,” Harry groans with another shudder, placing the used lime slice on a napkin, the
tequila warming his belly. “I haven’t done tequila shots in ages.”

“Let’s do another!” Liam says, bopping around to the beat of the music.

“You heard what the birthday boy said,” Niall cheers, already lining up a second set of glasses.
“Another round!”

They repeat the whole process, the second shot going down much easier than the first. The song
shifts right as they slam their glasses to the table, Harry beating Louis this time, and Harry’s ears
perk up at the familiar beat.

“Oh my God, Lou, it’s the chicken song,” Harry says, the alcohol already lowering his inhibitions
as he grabs Louis’ arm before scrambling out of the booth. “We have to go dance.”

“I thought this was the Black Eyed Peas?” Liam questions.

“It is,” Zayn says drily.

“Louis!” Harry exclaims again, bouncing up and down for emphasis, throwing his arms in the air.
“I got that boom boom pow! C’mon, let’s go!”

Louis throws his head back with laughter and nods, sliding around the booth and standing.

“Lead the way, Curly.”

Harry cheers, bounding onto the dance floor happily, joining the gyrating throng of strangers. God,
he fucking loves to dance. He always has. He knows he’s not the best dancer, that while he has
rhythm, his style of dancing mainly consists of flailing around with complete abandon rather than
any recognizable moves. However, what he may lack in skill he makes up for in enthusiasm and
total lack of self-consciousness. He always just lets the music lead him where it wants him to go, be
it shaking his ass or doing the white man’s overbite. Or both. At the same time. He spins around,
delighted to see that the other boys have followed Louis, all of them bopping around, even Zayn,
who initially struck Harry as a way too cool for school type who would smolder in the corner at
every dance rather than joining everyone else. Harry shimmies his shoulders as Louis approaches,
ratcheting up his moves and shaking his hips with exaggeration when he laughs.

“Still an absolute nightmare on the dance floor, I see,” Louis grins.

“You know it,” Harry replies breathlessly, spinning around again as he pumps his arms in the air.

“You wanna twirl, Haz?” Louis asks.

Harry stops, his chest heaving a little. That used to be their thing when they went dancing, Louis
twirling him. Harry always loved the feeling of spinning around, that sense of almost losing control
but never actually doing so because Louis was always there to pull him back in, the rope to his
anchor.

Harry turns to look at him, his hands on his hips. The disco ball overhead bathes Louis in glitter,
the flashing lights dancing in his eyes as he looks at him expectantly.

He wants him so much it hurts.

“Is ‘Boom Boom Pow’ really a twirling song, Lou?” Harry asks coyly, his heart pounding.

“Does it really matter?” Louis asks back, extending his hand.

“Absolutely not,” Harry replies, a thrill zipping down his spine as he takes Louis’ hand, his skin
soft and warm and his palm a little sweaty. “Now twirl me, please.”

Louis does.

*********

There’s always a moment when you go clubbing where you turn around and suddenly you’ve lost
all your friends.

For Harry, that happens around twelve-thirty.

It’s not like he literally turned around and everyone was gone, but to his tequila-soaked brain, it
definitely feels that way. They had all been (ironically) dancing along with Robyn’s “Dancing on
My Own” when Harry needed to go pee again, having regrettably broken the seal less than an hour
ago. As the music transitioned into “Crazy in Love,” the boys had sworn they would stay right
where they were because, as Louis had so succinctly put it, why the fuck would they go anywhere
when Beyoncé was playing? But then the bathroom had been a bit of a clusterfuck and before
Harry knew it, more than twenty minutes had passed and by the time he got back to the corner of
the dance floor they had been holding down for the past couple of hours, everyone had dispersed.

Those bastards.

Figuring he’ll find everyone eventually, Harry heads for the bar, the bottle that Zayn had bought for
them having been tapped ages ago. (It’s truly alarming how quickly five people can go through a
bottle of booze.) He gets the attention of the shirtless bartender that served him last time and orders
another tequila sunrise. While he waits for his drink, Harry grabs a paper cup for the water cooler at
the end of the bar and fills it to the brim, chugging it all down in an effort to stay properly hydrated
and (hopefully) avoid a hangover in the morning. He’s at the perfect level of drunk right now, not
sloppy, just feeling really, really good, and he’d like to stay that way. He dutifully drinks a second
cup before crumpling it up and throwing it away, digging for his wallet as the bartender approaches
with his drink, placing it in front of him. Harry drops three five dollar bills on the bar, saluting the
bartender and waving off the change, earning a wink from him in return before he turns to the next
waiting customer.

Harry turns around and leans against the bar, searching the room for his friends as he slowly sips
his cocktail, the sweetness of the orange juice and grenadine cutting the sharpness of the tequila.
It’s pretty easy to find Liam and Zayn; they’re back at the booth making out, Zayn straddling
Liam’s lap, cupping Liam’s face in his hands as they kiss filthily. Harry watches for a moment,
completely fascinated by them before he shakes himself out of it, realizing that it’s creepy to watch
his friends make out, no matter how pretty they are or how public they’re being about it. He spots
Niall a couple booths over, doing shots with the group that they had recreated the “Everybody”
choreography with. He’s got a pink sparkly cowboy hat on his head, a cute boy hanging on his arm
and a girl making eyes at him from across the table. Harry sips his drink, watching with interest as
Niall masterfully flirts with both of them while seemingly never pitting them against each other. He
wonders which one Niall will end up going home with (from this vantage point, it looks too close
to call), grateful that Niall isn’t the one holding his phone after all, because there is no way he’s
gonna go get in the middle of that.

Finally, Harry turns his attention to the dance floor, scanning the crowd for Louis because there is
no way he isn’t out there shaking his ass when the DJ is blasting “Buttons” by The Pussycat Dolls.
The crowd shifts slightly to the left and sure enough, there Louis is, dancing away, his eyes closed
as he moves with fluidity, completely lost in the music. His hair falls messily across his forehead
and his skin is glistening with sweat, making him glow like a rainbow under the myriad of colorful
flashing lights. That fucking obscene t-shirt clings to his torso, transparent enough now that Harry
can see his abs contracting with every roll of his hips. Just the sight of him has Harry chubbing up
in his jumpsuit, lust coiling tight in his belly.

He’s so transfixed by him that it takes several moments for Harry to realize that Louis is not
dancing alone.

Oh, fuck no.

Harry narrows his eyes, white-hot jealousy surging through his veins and boiling his blood. That
burly, blond, wannabe Chris Hemsworth guy has been circling Louis all night, just lying in wait,
looking for the opportunity to pounce and make a move. He’s not grinding on Louis, not just yet,
but he’s definitely dancing close. What really makes Harry nuts is that Louis is letting him dance
close, Thor Lite’s hands resting on his shoulder and waist, guiding their movements. Harry takes
two big gulps of his drink, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths, desperately attempting
to tamp down every single primal instinct roaring in his brain, screaming the same word over and
over and over again.

MINE.

But Louis is not his.

Even if he should be.

He should be.

When Harry opens his eyes, Louis is looking right back at him, his blue eyes flashing in the colored
lights. The intensity in his gaze is scorching, knocking the breath right out of Harry’s chest. Harry’s
cock twitches as he takes a long, slow sip of his drink, watching Louis over the brim of his glass.
He has no idea how long they stare at each other, but it’s long enough for the DJ to transition into
the next song, Britney giggling and panting over the beat, singing about boys and how sometimes a
girl just needs one. Louis puts on a show for him, keeping his eyes locked on Harry’s even as he
encourages Faux Thor to dance closer, rolling his hips back into his. A taunting smirk curls on his
lips as he watches Harry watch him.

Tommo the Tease. Louis used to say that should be his stripper name because he’d always leave the
boys wanting more. Well, Harry definitely wants more. He feels like he’s going to explode, his
heart racing and his palms sweating. He tries to subtly adjust himself, wiping his palm on his thigh
and pressing the heel of his hand over the growing bulge in his pants, but Louis catches him,
arching his eyebrow in mock judgment.

After what feels like an eternity, Louis tilts his chin up in wordless invitation and Harry doesn’t
need to be asked twice. He downs the rest of his drink, slamming the empty glass down on the bar.
He makes his way onto the dance floor, his eyes never leaving Louis’ as he slinks towards him.
Weaving his way through the crowd, Harry psyches himself up for some kind of confrontation, but
it ends up not even being necessary, Louis spinning out of Hemsworthless’ hold as the downbeat
drops for the chorus, pressing his back to Harry’s front without even missing a step. Harry’s hands
find his favorite spot on the dip of Louis’ waist almost immediately, moving his hips in tandem
with his. He hooks his chin over Louis’ shoulder, glowering at the imposter until he slithers away in
defeat.

He be not worthy.

“Always such a caveman, Haz,” Louis murmurs, his voice barely discernible over thumping music
and the pounding of Harry’s heart. “If looks could kill.”

“He’s been drooling over you all night,” Harry growls, gripping Louis’ hips possessively, their
bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces.

“Has he?” Louis asks innocently, grinding his ass back into Harry’s hips. “I didn’t notice.”

Harry groans softly, his grasp on Louis’ hips tightening. Frissons of pleasure shoot down his spine
as Louis pushes back into him again, their bodies finding a new rhythm together as the song shifts
into a sensuous, steel drum driven slow jam, Nick Jonas’ soulful tenor urging them to get close.
He’s getting hard now, actually hard, his cock throbbing with every pulse of Louis’ hips. There’s no
way Louis doesn’t know he’s getting hard either, not with the way he keeps grinding against his
crotch. Harry breathes Louis in, the sharp, manly smell of his sweat mixing with the clean, woodsy
scent of his cologne, the combination making him feel drunker than any cocktail possibly could.

“Lou,” Harry gulps, trying to maintain some semblance of control, feeling like he’s teetering right
on the edge of the point of no return. “Are you–? Do we need to–? Ah, fuck,” he gasps, bunching
Louis’ shirt in his fist after a particularly hard grind, electricity shooting though his body. “Should
we talk about this? I mean, we should, right? We need to–”
“Harry, shut up,” Louis pleads as he reaches his hand up, his fingers delicately skimming the
sensitive skin of Harry’s neck. “Just shut up and dance with me. Please.”

It’s the “please” that sends Harry over the edge, the desperation in Louis’ voice cutting the final
thread of his reservations. Harry’s too weak to deny Louis anything he wants, too weak to deny
himself the pleasure of taking what he so desperately wants as well. He slides his hand from Louis’
hip to his lower stomach, resting it right above the waistband of his jeans as he presses them
impossibly closer together, not an inch of space left between them. Harry doesn’t miss the way
Louis’ breath hitches as he rubs his hard-on against his ass, practically dry-humping him on the
dance floor; his head lolls back on Harry’s shoulder and he tangles his fingers in his hair.

“Yeah?” Harry murmurs into his neck, his lips hovering just millimeters above his skin. “Feel
good?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies breathlessly, tugging Harry’s curls just hard enough to cause a pleasured gasp
to escape from his lips. “God, Hazza.”

Harry can’t stop himself from pressing his lips to Louis’ skin, tasting the salt of his sweat as they
swivel their hips in time with the music. He tastes better than Harry remembers, if that’s even
possible. Louis sighs softly, gripping Harry’s forearm as he kisses, licks, and sucks his way up the
column of his throat, nipping the skin of his jaw.

“Baby,” Harry whispers in his ear, kissing the sensitive spot right under it.

Louis whimpers low in the back of his throat, his blunt nails digging into Harry’s arm. He looks at
Harry over his shoulder, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes completely lust-blown.
Harry leans in, nuzzling Louis’ nose but stopping just short of kissing him, hovering so close that
they’re practically sharing the same breath, Harry inhaling the hot air that Louis exhales. He feels
like his heart is about to beat right out of his chest, savoring and hating the anticipation at the same
time.

“Baby,” Harry whispers again, licking his lips.

Louis is the one who closes the last bit of distance between them, sealing their lips together. It’s
like Harry gets hit with a bolt of lightning, every hair on his body standing on end as their lips
move together, the feeling new and exciting yet achingly familiar all at once. The kiss turns hot and
desperate almost immediately, both of them opening their mouths at the same time, their tongues
sliding together in a well-practiced and intimate dance, like they had never stopped kissing in the
first place.

God, why did they ever stop kissing?

Harry kisses Louis with the desperation of a man deprived, like he’s spent the last five years
wandering the desert without water and Louis is suddenly offering it to him. He kisses him like he’s
making up for lost time, like he’s trying to repay him for all the moments where he should have
kissed him and didn’t. He kisses him like he’s trying to convince himself that this isn’t a dream,
that it’s actually happening.

Louis breaks the kiss and Harry whines, chasing his lips even as he tries to catch his breath, his
head spinning a little from lack of oxygen. Louis turns in Harry’s arms so they’re face to face and
reconnects their lips, his arms sliding up around Harry’s neck as he rocks up on his tiptoes. Their
bodies press together as they kiss fervently and Harry realizes that Louis is just as hard as he is. His
hands skim down Louis’ ribcage, coming around to rest on the small of his back. Louis hums
approvingly, as Harry’s hands drift lower, caressing the shape of his ass. He gasps, breaking the
kiss and throwing his head back as Harry squeezes, rocking his hips forward at the same time, their
erections pressing against each other.

God, he feels so fucking good.

“Haz,” Louis pants between kisses. “Do you wanna...fuck–”

Louis bites his lip, his eyes fluttering shut as Harry presses their hips together again.

“Yes,” Harry murmurs, kissing along Louis’ jaw, thrusting against him for emphasis as he sucks
Louis’ earlobe between his teeth. “Yes, I do. Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Louis decides quickly. “You’re closer.”

“Good point,” Harry agrees, taking his hand as he leads him towards the exit. “Mine it is.”

********

Louis can’t remember the last time he and Harry had sex.

Or, to put it more accurately, he can’t remember the last time they fucked. Like an aching, wanting,
can’t live without you, absolutely need to have you right now or I might die kind of fuck.

Their sex life, once fiery hot and endlessly fulfilling, had dwindled into non-existence in those last
few months, steamy make-up sex after a fight gradually losing its appeal. By the end, they were
just going through the motions with perfunctory morning handjobs and the occasional routine fuck
that left neither of them satisfied. Louis vaguely recalls Harry fucking him after they celebrated his
twenty-eighth birthday, but he can’t remember any details other than it being very vanilla, and not
in the sweet, familiar, comforting, good vanilla sex kind of way, but in the doing the bare minimum
to get each other off, no heat, no passion, no tenderness kind of way.

So to have Harry like this again is more than a little overwhelming. Louis feels like he’s about to
come in his pants and they haven’t even really gotten started yet.

They’re groping each other in the back of a cab, unable to keep their hands to themselves as they
kiss desperately. Louis is almost sitting in Harry’s lap, his legs slung sideways over Harry’s knees
and his arms wrapped around his neck. He gasps as Harry presses him back into the squeaky seat,
his big hand stroking a path from his waist to his thigh and back up again. His seatbelt is digging
painfully into his hip at this point and Harry’s has to be too. One of the springs in the seat cushion
is poking at his ass in the wrong way but he doesn’t care in the slightest. It feels too good to stop
doing what they’re doing. Louis slides his hand down the exposed plane of Harry’s chest, finally
feeling the muscles he’s been dying to get his hands on ever since the day Harry waltzed into
Marlowe's two months ago, trying to claim their bar as his own in his too-tight t-shirt. He sneaks
his hand inside the jumpsuit and finds Harry’s nipple, teasingly tracing its shape with his index
finger, the sensitive bud pebbling under his delicate touch.

“Goddammit, Lou,” Harry hisses, jolting forward as Louis pinches, rolling the hardened nub
between his fingers. “Fuck, baby.”
“Had to have your tits out, didn’t you?” Louis asks breathily, tugging Harry’s nipple again and then
cupping the swell of his pec in his hand, squeezing it. “Been wanting to get my mouth on them all
night, baby. You look fucking obscene, you know that, right?”

“You’re one to talk,” Harry responds, kissing along his jaw. “Honestly. I’ve been half-hard all
night, just from looking at you.”

Harry’s lips skim down his neck, finding his most sensitive spot and sucking hard, undoubtedly
leaving a mark. Louis moans quietly, trying to maintain some semblance of decency in front of
their cabbie, even though he’s sure the guy’s probably seen much worse. He sighs, baring his neck
to give Harry more access, carding his fingers through his soft curls as Harry nips his skin, his
tongue soothing the slight sting.

“Left or right side?” the cabbie asks in a bored voice, the car suddenly slowing.

Harry detaches his lips from Louis’ neck with a pop. He admires his work with a smug smile,
dropping a gentle kiss on Louis’ throbbing skin before sitting back in his seat.

Fuck, he’s gonna have to wear a turtleneck to the office on Monday. In August.

“Left side,” Harry answers, unbuckling his seatbelt and fishing his wallet out of his back pocket,
opening it. “Thank you.”

“Do you need cash?” Louis asks, unclicking as well, digging his phone out of his pocket as the car
comes to a stop. “I’ve got cash.”

“I’m good,” Harry says, glancing at the meter and pulling a twenty out of his wallet. “I’ve got it,
Lou.”

“Take this,” Louis insists, pulling a folded five dollar bill out of the case on the back of his phone
and passing it over to him. “For an extra big tip. He deserves it.”

Harry pecks his lips quickly and rolls up the two bills, sliding them into the slot in the partition.

“Keep the change,” Harry grins, opening the door, reaching back for Louis’ hand once he gets to
his feet.

Louis takes Harry’s hand, scooting across the seat and stepping out of the car, slamming the door
behind him. The taxi pulls away, leaving them alone in front of Harry’s building. New York may be
the city that never sleeps, but Harry’s block is pretty residential, so it’s as quiet as it possibly can
be. The sidewalk is empty, streetlights casting circular pools of light on the pavement and most of
the building’s windows are dark, all the occupants sleeping.

They just look at each other for a long moment, neither of them saying anything, the moment
fragile, the sizzling tension between them pulled taut once again. They both know what’s going to
happen if they go inside. It’s not too late for them to change their minds. Louis lives eight blocks
and two avenues from here; he could be home in less than fifteen minutes, depending on how fast
he walked. They could just chalk everything that’s happened up until this moment up to a drunken
mistake, never speaking of it again. They could do that.

But then, Harry closes the space between them, squeezing his hand. His thumb gently traces
patterns on his skin, setting off little sparks that shoot all through his body, goosebumps prickling
on his arms.

Louis could go home.

But the thing is, he doesn’t want to.

He supposes that this has been inevitable, that he and Harry have had this date from the instant they
laid eyes on each other in that art gallery back in June. Deep down, Louis knows this is probably a
bad idea, that they’re likely putting the friendship they’ve managed to form in jeopardy. But in this
moment, with Harry looking at him the way he is, hunger and yearning and desire simmering in his
green eyes, Louis can’t find any reason why he shouldn’t do this. Just this once. Harry wants him;
he’s made that abundantly clear. And God, Louis wants him too. He’s tired of pretending that he
doesn’t, this thing between them is just not going away, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

Maybe a quick, hot fuck is the exact thing they need to get each other out of their systems.

“Haz,” Louis breathes.

Harry surges forward, taking Louis’ face in his hands and kissing him hard, his tongue immediately
pressing against his lips, demanding entrance. Louis opens for him easily, groaning when Harry
licks into his mouth, their tongues stroking against each other, warm and wet, and so fucking good.

Just a quick, hot fuck, Louis reminds himself as Harry grips his hips, walking him backwards and
guiding him towards the front door. Just this once.

“Lou,” Harry pants against his lips, kissing him over and over with increasing urgency. “My keys.
Right back pocket. Please.”

Louis huffs a laugh against Harry’s lips, endeared at how he refuses to stop kissing him, even to get
his own goddamn keys out of his own goddamn pocket. He snakes his hand around Harry’s hip,
sliding his hand into Harry’s pocket. He can’t stop himself from squeezing Harry’s firm, round ass
as he works on blindly extracting the set of keys from his pocket.

“You didn’t used to have this,” Louis comments, squeezing again appreciatively. “Where did this
come from?”

“Squats,” Harry replies between kisses. “Lots and lots and lots of fucking squats.”

“Aha!” Louis cries triumphantly once he hooks his finger through the keyring, finally managing to
pull them out of Harry’s pocket. “Keys!”

He dangles them in the air, winking as he drops them in Harry’s open palm. Harry grins, kissing
him one more time and then inserting one of the keys into the lock and turning, pushing the door
open and practically dragging Louis through the lobby; they’re at Harry’s front door in a matter of
seconds. Harry switches keys, moving to unlock the door, but he suddenly stops and turns back to
Louis, his face serious.

“How drunk are you, Lou?” Harry asks, his eyes roving Louis’ face, giving him a once-over,
looking for signs of obvious intoxication. “Seriously. Be honest.”

“I’m a little drunk,” Louis admits, stepping closer, his heart pounding as he tucks a curl behind
Harry’s ear. “Not nearly as drunk as I was like an hour ago. Definitely not too drunk to not know
exactly what I’m doing. What about you?”

“Same,” Harry answers, his deep voice resolute. “A little drunk. Definitely not too drunk to not
know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” Louis nods, looking up at Harry through his eyelashes as he trails a finger down Harry’s
bare chest, tracing a line all the way down past the butterfly on his stomach. “Take me inside
then.”

Louis yelps, the floor suddenly going out underneath his feet as Harry pounces on him, hefting him
up in his arms with ease.

“Harry, oh my God!” Louis giggles, his hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as his legs
automatically wrap around him, acting out of instinct. “Put me down!”

“Not a fucking chance,” Harry grunts, twisting the keys in the lock and kicking the door open,
stepping inside the dark apartment. He holds him securely with one arm as he retrieves his keys,
kicking the door shut and clicking the lock. “You said take you inside, I’m taking you inside.”

“I can walk, you fucking caveman,” Louis laughs, burying his face in Harry’s neck, dotting kisses
on his warm, pleasantly sweaty skin.

“But you don’t know where the bedroom is,” Harry replies, not even bothering to turn the lights on,
the dim light spilling in from the streetlamps outside providing just enough illumination as he
walks them through the living room.

“That’s fair,” Louis says, wiggling his heels together till one of his shoes slides off, falling to the
floor with a thunk, the second following soon after.

Harry kicks his bedroom door all the way open, tapping Louis’ hip as he steps inside.

“Let me get the light,” Harry murmurs, loosening his grip, allowing Louis to find his feet before
letting go of him completely. “Wanna see you, Lou.”

Louis swallows hard and nods, taking quick stock of the bedroom. It’s a nicely sized room,
especially for this neighborhood. Harry’s set up an easel in one corner, a collage of snapshots
overtaking the wall. The sketch on the canvas tweaks something familiar in Louis’ brain that he
can’t quite place. Other than the workspace, the room is neat in a very Harry way, filled with
trinkets and mementos, but everything obviously in its place, making the room feel full but not
cluttered. His big bed sits between two windows, an air conditioner humming in one of them. The
purpley-gray bedding looks crisp and inviting. He watches as Harry walks over to the standing
lamp in the corner, grabbing a pretty pink silk scarf on the way. He drapes the diaphanous fabric
over the lampshade and flicks the lamp on, adjusting the dimmer so that the room is bathed in a soft
rosy light.

Nodding in satisfaction, Harry pulls off his white boots, lining them up against the wall.

“Taking your sweet time aren’t you?” Louis sasses before he can stop himself. “You planning on
fucking me anytime soon?”

Harry looks up at him, molten fire in his eyes as he removes one of his thin little ankle socks, then
the other, balling them up and tossing them in the hamper.
“Just making sure everything is in order,” Harry says, his voice low and gravelly as he skulks
towards Louis, a predatory look in his eyes. “Because once we get started, I don’t want a stupid
thing like shoes or socks getting in our way, do you?”

“N-no,” Louis stammers, looking up at him, licking his lips in anticipation. “Good plan, Haz.”

“I thought so,” Harry mutters, sliding their lips together, his hands flying to Louis’ hips as he
presses their bodies together fully.

Louis moans as the kiss goes from zero to absolutely filthy in the span of a nanosecond. His hands
stroke up and down Harry’s chest as he grinds into him, seeking friction, trying to find some sort of
relief for his aching cock. He feels like he’s been hard for ages, he needs something from Harry and
fast or he might shatter into a million tiny pieces.

“Harry,” Louis gasps, pawing at him desperately. “I need you to touch me, I’m dying for you to
touch me, please just–”

“I’ve got you, baby,” Harry whispers soothingly, his breath hot in Louis’ ear. “I’m going to take
care of you, I promise.”

Louis lifts his arms as Harry bunches the hem of his t-shirt in his hands, tugging it up and over his
head, dropping it on the floor. The cool air of the room feels amazing on his feverish skin, his
nipples tightening up at the sudden change in temperature.

“So fucking gorgeous, Lou,” Harry praises, kissing and sucking along his collarbones as he strokes
his hands up and down his bare chest and back several times, before resting them on the waistband
of his jeans. “Can I suck you? I wanna taste you so bad, baby, can I?”

“God, yes,” Louis groans, squeezing Harry’s waist. “Please, Harry, please.”

Harry drops to his knees right then, kneeling before him in that gloriously sparkly jumpsuit. Louis
is surprised he doesn’t come on the spot at the sight of him. He tangles his fingers in his hair to
ground himself as Harry kisses along the soft curve of his stomach.

“God, your belly,” Harry sighs in appreciation, nuzzling his nose against his skin and breathing
deeply. “Fuck.”

Louis almost sobs in relief as Harry noses along the hard line of his cock, popping the button of his
jeans open and sliding the zipper down. He hooks his thumbs in his waistband, pulling his briefs
and jeans down at the same time. His cock springs free, smearing precome on his belly.

“So wet for me already, Lou,” Harry observes as he continues to shimmy the tight denim down his
legs. “You’re gonna taste so fucking good, I know it.”

Louis whimpers, tugging on Harry’s curls; he forgot how mouthy Harry can get during sex.

“Patience, baby,” Harry chides gently. “Just wanna get you out of these, okay?”

Harry taps his ankle; Louis braces himself so Harry can help him step out of his jeans, one foot,
then the other. Harry balls them up and tosses them aside, leaving Louis completely naked. Even
though Harry is still fully clothed, Louis doesn’t feel self-conscious; instead, he feels powerful as
Harry gazes at him reverently, his hands stroking up and down the back of his thighs.
“Fuck,” Harry breathes, scooting forward and diving right in, sucking Louis’ cock into his mouth,
swirling his tongue around the head, lapping up all the precome that’s gathered there.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis keens, his knees buckling as he grasps at one of Harry’s forearms. “Harry,
Hazza, I need to sit down or I’m gonna pass out.”

Harry pops off him, his tongue darting out to wipe a droplet of precome from the corner of his
mouth.

“Yep,” Harry smiles smugly as he smacks his lips together. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Louis chuckles, walking backwards to the bed, sitting on the edge of it.
“There is no way my dick is the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

“It is though,” Harry replies, scooting forward on his knees, resting his hands on Louis’ thighs,
spreading them apart so he can kneel comfortably between them. “You are the best thing I’ve ever
tasted, Lou.”

With that, Harry gets back to work, holding the base of Louis’ cock steady in one hand as he seals
his lips around the head, sucking him all the way down almost immediately.

“Oh my God,” Louis sighs, scratching at Harry’s scalp as he throws his head back in ecstasy,
Harry’s mouth warm and wet and so fucking tight around him. Harry finds a rhythm he likes
quickly, bobbing his head up and down over and over again, dragging his tongue along the
underside of his cock. Louis feels like he’s on fire, fighting the urge to fuck into Harry’s mouth. He
pulses his hips ever so slightly and Harry hums in approval, the vibrations sending shocks of
pleasure through Louis’ body. Harry pops off him with a slurp.

“You can fuck my mouth if you want to,” Harry says, his voice already well on its way to being
shredded. “You know I love that.”

“I’m afraid I’ll come if I do that, baby,” Louis admits.

“So?” Harry shrugs, taking him in hand, jerking him slowly. “We’ve got all night, Lou. You can
come as many times as you want. I want you to.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Louis groans, falling back on the bed. “Are you trying to kill me? You are,
aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Harry answers blithely, pushing himself to his feet and crawling up over him, kissing his
way up Louis’ chest, until he’s hovering over him on all fours. “I just want to know how you want
to come, Lou. Tell me what you want.”

“First of all, I want you naked,” Louis answers, hooking his finger in Harry’s necklace and tugging
him down so he can kiss him. “How are you still wearing clothes, Harry, honestly?”

“I don’t know,” Harry chuckles, pecking his lips. “Is that all you want, baby, me naked?”

“I want you naked and I want that big cock of yours inside me,” Louis answers, cutting to the
chase. “Think you can handle that?”

“Oh, I can handle it,” Harry winks cockily, pushing himself up and off the bed. He yanks the top
drawer of his bedside table open, quickly finding a bottle of lube and a condom, tossing them on
the mattress.

Louis feels a momentary pang of sadness over the fact that they need to use a condom, but he
shoves it aside.

This is just going to be a quick, hot fuck. It’s fine.

“Now I just have one question for you,” Louis starts, getting his head back in the game, scooting to
the edge of the bed and standing. He saunters towards him, swaying his hips.

“What’s that?” Harry asks, his eyes drifting down, hungrily watching the way Louis’ hard cock
bobs between his legs.

“How the fuck do we get you out of that thing, Hazza, because honestly, I have no idea.”

Harry throws his head back and laughs, the sound of it sending flutters through Louis’ chest,
familiar warmth spreading through him as he remembers how much they used to laugh during sex.
God, he’s missed it so fucking much.

“C’mere,” Harry murmurs once his laughter fades, reaching for him. “I’ll show you.”

Louis takes his hand and Harry pulls him close, kissing him softly. His tongue traces the seam of
Louis’ lips before sliding inside his mouth. The heat between them starts building again as they
keep kissing, their tongues stroking each other teasingly. Wordlessly, Harry takes Louis’ hand,
sliding it in the open neck of the jumpsuit and guiding it down, Louis’ fingertips brushing the
ridges of Harry’s abs. Louis feels like he’s going to combust as Harry pushes his hand down even
farther, getting closer and closer to the promised land.

“Feel that?” Harry asks, manipulating Louis’ fingers against the fabric of the jumpsuit. “There’s a
button there. And another one an inch or so below it.”

“Holy shit, there is,” Louis gasps, feeling the shape of it. “Can I?”

“Fuck, please,” Harry breathes, his voice suddenly desperate. “Please, Lou.”

Louis fumbles a little as he tries to undo the button, the construction of the jumpsuit making it
difficult. He eventually manages to pop it open, his fingers walking down Harry’s skin to find the
second one, undoing that one with more ease now that he knows how it works. Suddenly, the
jumpsuit is loose enough for Louis to push the sparkling denim off Harry’s shoulders.

“God,” Louis says with awe as he pulls the sleeves away, Harry now naked from the waist up, the
jumpsuit barely hanging on his hips. He runs his hands all over Harry’s toned chest, dipping down
and teasing at one of his nipples with his tongue, Harry whimpering in response. “Just look at you,
Haz. So gorgeous, baby, so fit.”

Harry unzips his fly and the jumpsuit slips off his hips, his cock springing free as the fabric lands
on the floor in a puddle of sparkly blue. He steps out of the jumpsuit, kicking it aside.

“I cannot believe you were going commando in that fucking jumpsuit,” Louis huffs, caressing the
curve of Harry’s bare ass, giving it a little smack. “I mean, I can believe it, but fuck, Harry. You
dirty, dirty boy.”
“There would have been a line showing,” Harry smirks, pecking his lips. “And we can’t have that
now, can we?”

“No, we can’t,” Louis says, taking Harry’s cock in hand, the weight of it familiar as he strokes it,
smearing precome down his shaft.

“God, Louis, fuck,” Harry pants, pressing their naked bodies together, the skin to skin contact
overwhelming. “Just like that, baby, that’s so good.”

Louis captures Harry’s lips again, sucking on his tongue as he keeps jerking him, just reveling in
the feel of Harry in his hand, his cock hot and velvety and so fucking hard.

“Get on the bed,” Harry growls, pushing him gently. “Hands and knees, baby, I need to be inside
you.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Louis begs, scrambling to the bed and getting into position, arching his back, his
ass in the air. “Please, please, please, yes, get in me, fuck yes.”

“Goddamn, Lou,” Harry says, squeezing a dollop of lube on his fingers, rubbing them together to
warm the gel. “Do you have any idea how good you look? So fucking desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am, fuck,” Louis admits unabashedly, gasping as Harry pets around his rim, wasting no
time in pressing a finger inside him, going to the first knuckle. “Get on with it, Hazza, don’t mess
around. Give me another, I can take it. Want you to fuck me, baby, please.”

“I know you can take it,” Harry says, pushing his finger back and forth. “But I’m not going to hurt
you, Louis.”

Louis bites his lip and grits his teeth, barely stopping himself from saying he wants it to hurt.
Because if this is going to be the only time he gets to be with Harry this way, he wants to feel it for
days afterwards.

“Lou, relax,” Harry murmurs after a moment, stroking his hand up and down Louis’ spine gently,
still only the one finger inside of him. “You gotta let me in, baby.”

Louis lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, dropping down on his forearms, the feel of
Harry’s hand against his skin soothing away any lingering tension.

“There you go,” Harry praises, sliding a second finger in on his next thrust. “So good, Lou, you’re
doing so good.”

“Haz,” Louis pants, his voice breaking as Harry’s fingers brush his prostate, the sensation lighting
him up from the inside. “Haz, please.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Harry soothes, scissoring his fingers, working quickly and efficiently to
open him up. “Almost there, just hang on.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready,” Louis babbles after a few more thrusts. “Please, just fuck me.”

Louis whimpers as Harry withdraws his fingers, seemingly satisfied with his work. Louis watches
over his shoulder as Harry grabs the foil packet, ripping it open and rolling the condom over his
cock. Harry grabs the bottle of lube, opening it with a snick, and drizzling a generous amount on
his cock. He tosses the bottle aside with one hand, as he strokes himself a few times, making sure
he’s nice and slick. He knees up on the bed behind Louis, spreading the excess lube around his
hole, ensuring that he’s wet enough for him.

“You ready?” Harry asks, snubbing his cock against Louis’ rim, gripping his hip with his free hand.

“God, yes,” Louis sighs. “Please.”

Harry presses his hips forward and they both gasp as the head of Harry’s cock pushes past the tight
ring of muscle, popping inside. Louis' mouth drops open, his breath punched out of his chest,
already feeling like Harry’s splitting him wide open, filling him up like only he can.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry groans as he holds still, his other hand coming to grip Louis’ hip as well. “Fuck,
Lou, you’re so fucking tight, are you okay, baby?”

Louis closes his eyes, letting all the sensations wash over him. Because he hasn’t been this okay in
almost six years. He’s had sex since breaking up with Harry, of course he has. Some of it has been
immensely unsatisfying, some of it has been good sex, hot sex even. But nothing has ever
compared to this, no one has ever fucked him the way Harry does, fucking him with his entire
mind, body, and soul, like he was put in this universe just for Louis.

“Lou,” Harry says, tapping his hip urgently, his voice concerned. “Talk to me, are you okay? Do
you need more lube? More prep? Do I need to stop?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Louis grits out, finally finding his words. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He can feel Harry relax behind him; he dips down, kissing along his spine as he sinks into him
slowly.

“You feel so good,” Harry whispers, pressing the words into his skin with his lips. “God, Louis. So
good, so hot, so perfectly tight around me. You take me so well, baby, no one has ever taken me the
way you do, Lou, no one ever will.”

Louis lets out an audible sob of pleasure, Harry’s words of adoration healing parts of him he didn’t
realize were still broken.

This was supposed to be just a quick, hot fuck.

Harry bottoms out, holding himself still as Louis adjusts, continuing to murmur words of praise
into his skin.

“You can move,” Louis says finally. “Oh, God, Harry, please move.”

Harry kisses his shoulder as he pulls his hips almost all the way back out, thrusting back in roughly,
Louis moaning loudly.

“You want it like that?” Harry asks, snapping his hips again, earning the same response from him.
“Want me to just fuck you into the mattress so hard that the only thing you can do is lie there and
take it?”

“God, please,” Louis groans. “Yes, please, just fuck me. Take whatever you want from me, Harry,
please, I want you to.”
Harry grips Louis’ hips so hard he’s sure there will be bruises tomorrow. He welcomes them, he
wants to be covered in reminders of this night, wants to hold onto the feeling for as long as
possible. Harry fucks into him hard and fast, just the way Louis wants–no, needs him to fuck him,
his balls smacking into Louis’ ass as he pounds him over and over again, using his body for his
own pleasure. Louis’ neglected cock throbs; he reaches down to touch himself, trying to relieve
some of the delicious pressure, but Harry bats his hand away.

“That’s mine,” Harry pants. “Don’t touch.”

Louis wails, tears pricking at his eyes as Harry rams into his prostate, fireworks exploding all over
his body, precome bubbling at the tip of his cock.

“There, yeah?” Harry asks, hitting his spot again.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis gasps, trying to catch his breath. “Oh my God, yes, right there.”

Harry keeps slamming into him over and over again, driving Louis closer and closer to the edge
until suddenly he stops, pulling out of him.

“What the fuck?” Louis demands breathlessly, looking at him over his shoulder. “Baby, I was so
getting so close.”

“On your back,” Harry orders, tapping his hip, gripping the base of his cock with his other hand,
holding the condom in place. “Wanna see you, baby. Wanna kiss you.”

Louis flops over onto his back without saying a single word, his legs falling open. Harry smiles,
grabbing a pillow; Louis lifts his hips automatically, before Harry even asks, giving him the space
to slide the pillow under him.

“Comfy?” Harry asks, hovering over him, smiling down at him softly as he wiggles around, getting
adjusted.

“Yeah,” Louis replies after a moment. “Now, where were we?”

“Right about here, I think,” Harry answers, hooking his arm under one of Louis’ knees, lifting his
leg as he enters him again, sliding into him in one smooth thrust.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis breathes, the new position making things a hell of a lot more intimate.
“Definitely right there, baby.”

Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist as he thrusts slowly, steadily, almost lazily. Louis feels
every single inch of him as he moves, rocking his hips up to meet him, quickly catching onto his
rhythm, moving with Harry in tandem. Harry presses in deep, as deep as he possibly can, and Louis
gasps, throwing his head back, feeling so unbelievably full he almost can’t stand it. Harry kisses
down the column of his throat, his tongue lapping at the sweat that’s gathered at the juncture of his
collarbones. Louis sighs, his hands skimming down Harry’s sides, feeling the way his muscles are
working as he fucks into him nice and slow.

“Baby,” Louis sighs softly as Harry kisses back up the other side of his throat. “So good, baby.”

Harry pulls back slightly, brushing Louis’ hair off his forehead, an awed expression on his face.

“Golden,” he murmurs, dipping down to kiss him tenderly. “You’re so golden.”

Louis smiles, twisting one of Harry’s sweat-damp curls around his fingers, tugging it gently.

“You miss the long hair, don’t you?” Harry asks, swiveling his hips. “I can tell.”

“I really fucking do,” Louis admits ruefully. “But this is pretty too. It’s just taken some getting used
to. You’re so pretty, Harry. Always so pretty.”

Harry doesn’t say anything in return, kissing him instead. They kiss and kiss and kiss, their tongues
mimicking the slow, sensual rhythm of their hips, caressing each other, making love to each other.

Because that’s what they’re actually doing, Louis finally admits to himself.

Making love.

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry gasps, breaking the kiss and resting their foreheads together as he starts to
pick up the pace. “You feel so amazing, I don’t know how much longer I can–fuck, are you getting
close? I’m getting so close.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, I’m close,” Louis replies, grappling for his hand, lacing their fingers together
and squeezing tightly. Harry’s eyes go wide as he sucks in a sharp breath, his rhythm stuttering;
Louis turns his head, trying to see whatever it is that got him flustered, gasping when he realizes
that he instinctively grabbed Harry’s left hand, their rope and anchor tattoos aligning perfectly, just
as they were meant to.

This was never going to be just a quick, hot fuck.

“Haz,” he whimpers.

“C’mon, baby, I’ve got you,” Harry urges as he reaches for his cock, tugging with the exact
pressure and speed that Louis fucking needs to get there right now. “You can let go, Lou. I’ll catch
you, I’ll always catch you.”

“Oh, fuck, Harry,” Louis cries suddenly, spurting over Harry’s fist and all over his own belly as his
orgasm slams into him like a freight train. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my God.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Harry praises, pulling out when Louis whimpers, kneeing up and whipping the
condom off. He tosses it to the floor, stripping his own cock even as he keeps stroking Louis
through the aftershocks of the most powerful orgasm he thinks he’s ever had in his whole life.
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful, Louis, fuck.”

“You,” Louis slurs slightly, his orgasm leaving him a little floaty as he strokes his hand up Harry’s
thigh. “Come on me.”

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” Harry gasps, his fist flying over his cock.

“So hot, Haz,” Louis murmurs. “Love watching you, s’my favorite thing.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry exclaims, coming pearly white all over Louis’ stomach, adding to the
mess already pooled there.

Harry collapses down next to him, gathering Louis up in his arms and holding him close, gently
stroking his hair and pressing kisses to the crown of his head as they both come back down to earth.
Louis snuggles into him, pressing his ear to Harry’s chest listening to his heartbeat slowing back
down to normal.

“You need anything?” Harry asks eventually.

“M’thirsty,” Louis says, stretching out like a cat, his lower back twinging pleasantly.

“I’ll go get some water,” Harry says, dropping a quick kiss on his lips. “And a washcloth, we’re
disgusting.”

“’Kay,” Louis yawns.

“Be right back,” Harry says, climbing out of bed, bending down and grabbing the used condom off
the floor, throwing it away as he waltzes into the living room naked.

Louis rolls over, admiring the view as he goes.

It’s when he’s left alone in Harry’s bedroom that doubt starts to creep in, the enormity of what they
just did starting to weigh on his mind.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He hears Harry turning on the sink in the bathroom, humming to himself as he cleans himself up.

Should he get dressed? Will Harry want him to leave? Or will he want him to stay the night? What
exactly is the protocol for sleeping with your ex who you’ve never really gotten over, as much as
you’ve told yourself that you have?

He has no fucking idea.

Louis swallows hard, covering himself with the sheet as Harry strolls back into the room, water
droplets glistening on his abs, a glass of water in one hand and a fresh washcloth in the other.

“You okay?” Harry asks, his brow wrinkling as he hands Louis the glass of water, Louis chugging
it all down almost immediately.

“Fine,” Louis chirps brightly, handing Harry back the glass. “Can I have the washcloth please?”

“I was gonna get that for you, you know,” Harry points out, a confused smile quirking his lips as he
passes the washcloth over to him. “Since I helped make the mess and all.”

“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” Louis says, giving his stomach a cursory wipe, the fabric cool on his skin.
“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies, a furrow forming between his eyebrows as he takes the
washcloth back, slinging it over his desk chair. He hovers back cautiously, clearly picking up on
Louis’ jitters. “Are you sure–”

“Do you want me to go?” Louis blurts out.

“What?”
“Should I go?” Louis asks timidly, pulling the sheet higher.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, aghast. “Louis, it’s like three in the morning.”

“Yeah, and I live fifteen minutes from here.”

“And you’ll still live fifteen minutes from here when the sun comes up,” Harry counters. “Just stay,
Lou, it’s fine, it’s not a big deal.”

“Are you–”

“Do you want to go?” Harry asks, hurt flashing in his eyes.

“No,” Louis says quickly. “I just didn’t know if you–”

“Honestly, Louis, I was just inside you,” Harry says, exasperated. “Do you really think I would
kick you out on the street just like that, not even ten minutes after we came? Seriously?”

“No,” Louis admits helplessly, looking down at his hands. “Sorry, I just–”

“Stay,” Harry says, opening one of his dresser drawers and pulling out a pair of ratty gray cut off
sweats. “Please stay, Lou.”

“Okay,” Louis says, catching the sweats when Harry tosses them to him. He wiggles them on under
the sheet, feeling much better now that he’s clothed. “I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Harry nods. “I, ah, I usually sleep naked, I can put something on if–”

“Harry, it’s your bed,” Louis says, snuggling down into the covers, fluffing up his pillow. “Sleep
how you want.”

Harry turns off the lamp, plunging the bedroom into darkness. Louis holds his breath as Harry
climbs in next to him, still naked.

“Night, Lou.”

“Night, Haz.”

Louis closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes, trying to turn his overactive brain
off. After a few moments, Harry turns on his side, shuffling back towards him.

“This okay?” Harry whispers, pressing his back against Louis’ front, reaching back and pulling
Louis’ arm across his waist. “Big spoon?”

“Yeah,” Louis says after a moment. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

It doesn’t take long for Harry to drift off, his breaths becoming deep and even. Louis stays awake
much longer, staring at the unfinished canvas in the corner of the room until he’s eventually lulled
to sleep by the soft sounds of Harry’s snores.
 Chapter 11

January 2014

The shower is running when Louis gets home from work.

He sighs heavily, unwinding his scarf and shrugging out of his coat, hanging them up on one of the
hooks by the door. This can really only mean one thing: Harry’s going out tonight and he’s on his
own for the evening.

Again.

Louis steps out of his sneakers, kicking them against the wall, and heads into the kitchen, his
stomach grumbling. He yanks the fridge door with more force than necessary, the half-full bottles
of condiments in the inside shelves clinking together as it swings open. The contents of the fridge
are pretty pathetic; it’s mostly full of half-empty take-out containers and simple sandwich
ingredients since he’s hopeless in the kitchen and Harry’s hardly ever home to cook anymore. He
grabs the chicken tikka masala he ordered several days ago and pops the lid off the container,
giving it a quick sniff to make sure it’s still good. Satisfied that he’s not going to give himself food
poisoning, Louis pops it into the microwave, setting the timer for four minutes and punching the
start button.

While his dinner heats up, Louis heads back to the bedroom, peeling off his smelly work shirt as he
goes. Any hopes he might have had that Harry’s just washing off the grime from being in the studio
all day are dashed when he sees the suit laid out on their bed, the fabric’s resplendent brown,
yellow, black, and olive geometric pattern a work of art in itself. Louis scowls, dropping his shirt
on the floor, right next to the hamper rather than in it, and then peels his jeans off, doing the exact
same thing.

He’s not sure if he’s doing it because he knows it will annoy Harry, or if he’s just trying to get his
attention. These days, it could easily be one or the other. Or both.

Really, it’s both.

Louis knew the lead-up to Harry’s solo show was going to be intense, but he had no idea it was
going to be like this; it feels more like they’re roommates than partners, often passing each other
like ships in the night. Harry’s under a lot of pressure right now with this show, Louis knows that.
He’s been practically living at the studio all month, working all day long, really only coming home
to shower and change his clothes before heading back out to yet another fancy networking dinner
or night out on the town with Xander and his minions, finally stumbling home in the wee hours of
the morning to sleep and then turning around and doing it all again the next day.

He knows that Harry thinks all the going out and partying is part of his job, but it’s getting harder
and harder for him to pretend that Harry isn’t avoiding him.

The invitations for Louis to join him on these nights out have fallen by the wayside since that fight
they had back in November when he made his true feelings about Xander known. It feels like
Harry’s been doubling down on that friendship ever since in some sort of effort to prove Louis
wrong, and it’s getting to the point where Louis barely recognizes the man he fell in love with.
Harry can be petty and stubborn, yes, but he’s never cruel and this feels cruel. Ultimately, he knows
that the less time he spends around Xander the better, but that doesn’t take away the sting of getting
what can only be construed as courtesy texts from Harry, saying he’s going to be out late and not to
wait up for him. It’s really fucking hard going to bed alone when he’s so used to having Harry by
his side. Most nights he can’t sleep, no matter how hard he tries, tossing and turning in their bed
until he hears the door creaking open, not able to rest until he feels the mattress shifting under
Harry’s weight as he carefully slides in bed next to him.

He’s so tired.

Louis does his best to act like everything is fine. He still meets up with Nick and Niall for their
weekly happy hour at Marlowe’s, brushing off their questions about Harry’s absence like it’s no big
deal and saying he’s just busy with work and he’s sorry he can’t be there. Nick knows what’s going
on, he’s been Louis’ sounding board for months now, and Niall knows something’s up, Louis can
tell that he does, but neither of them press the issue and they don’t talk about it. He loves them for
giving him space and not forcing him to talk about it. It’s so much easier to just keep pretending
that everything is normal and that he and Harry aren’t falling apart.

Because they are. Falling apart.

And he doesn’t know how much longer they can keep doing this. He doesn’t know how much more
he’s got in him to fight for this relationship, not if Harry doesn’t start fighting for them too.

Louis supposes that’s why he keeps picking stupid fights. Because as long as Harry keeps fighting
back, he feels like they’ve got a chance to survive this. That they can get through this rough patch
and come out stronger on the other side. When one of them stops fighting altogether, that’s when
they’ll really be in trouble.

Louis grabs a pair of Adidas track pants from the bottom drawer of their dresser and pulls them on
before rifling through one of Harry’s drawers in search of something comfortable and cozy to wear,
ultimately deciding on Harry’s favorite sweater. He pulls the oversized lavender sweater over his
head, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as Harry’s scent surrounds him like a warm hug, the
lingering aroma of sandalwood and citrus and paint coming through under the fresh smell of their
laundry detergent.

Despite everything, it’s still his favorite smell and it comforts him instantly.

The microwave beeps in the kitchen.

They just have to get through the rest of this week, Louis reminds himself, tugging the sweater
down around his hips as he heads back into the living area. They just have to get through the next
few days really; it’s Thursday and the show opens on Sunday night. Then maybe they can get away
for a few days and work on reconnecting and figuring out what the fuck is going on with them.

They can do this.

Louis grabs a plate from the cabinet, opening the microwave and gingerly removing the plastic
container with his fingertips, plopping it down on the plate unceremoniously. He grabs a beer from
the fridge, twisting the lid off and tossing it away as he takes a long pull from the bottle. Finally, he
grabs a fork, clutching it next to the beer bottle in one hand and balancing his plate in the other as
he heads into the living room. He carefully places his plate on the coffee table as he settles down on
the couch. Taking another swig of beer, Louis grabs the remote, turning the TV on. It’s too early for
primetime, so Louis pulls up their DVR queue, scrolling down the list. He’s already watched
everything they’ve got recorded, save for one glaring exception that’s been taunting him since
Sunday night because he’s been waiting to watch it with Harry.

Well, fuck it. Harry’s never home.

He knows he’s being petty, but Louis hits play anyway, setting the remote aside and wedging his
beer bottle between the couch cushions. He grabs his plate, resting it on his lap, and stirs the
chicken and rice together as Alan Cumming’s face fills the screen, welcoming him to Masterpiece:
Mystery and the long-awaited premiere of the third series of Sherlock.

The episode doesn’t waste any time, zooming in on Sherlock’s grave, a familiar silhouette
illuminated in the black marble. Louis is immediately engrossed as the show flashes back to the
final moments of “The Reichenbach Fall,” telling it all from Sherlock’s perspective rather than
Watson’s so the audience can see how Sherlock managed to fake his own death. Louis barely stops
himself from cheering as Benedict Cumberbatch crashes through a window, popping his collar and
ruffling those glorious curls before planting a scorching hot kiss on Molly’s lips. He can’t help but
have a soft spot for those two, despite the obvious homoerotic tension between Sherlock and
Watson, and he feels like in this moment, the show is giving him everything he’s always wanted.

“Is that Sherlock?”

Louis startles at the sound of Harry’s voice behind him, grabbing the remote and hitting pause,
Benedict’s face freezing on the screen. He sets his dinner aside and twists around to see Harry
standing there, a towel slung low around his hips, his skin dewy and his arms crossed over his
chest. His hair is tied up in a bun, baby hairs curling at the base of his neck; his brow furrows and
his bottom lip pouts as he studies the television screen.

“It is,” Louis says calmly.

“I thought we were gonna watch it together,” Harry states, the crinkle between his eyebrows
deepening.

“Well, we were,” Louis replies testily. “But you’re never around, Haz, and this is the first new
episode of Sherlock in two fucking years–”

“Can’t you wait, though?” Harry asks.

“Honestly, I think I deserve a medal for holding out this long,” Louis points out, stubbornly digging
his heels in. “It’s been sitting on our DVR for four days now, and by some miracle, it hasn’t been
spoiled for me. Yet. And I’ve been home every night, Harry, I have time to watch it, it’s not my
fault that you don’t.”

“Louis, you know this week is nuts for me–” Harry starts.

“Yeah, I know,” Louis huffs, taking a swig of beer, getting actually irritated now. “I know this week
is nuts, Haz. For you. But it’s not for me, and quite frankly, I’m tired of scheduling my life around
what’s convenient for you, Harry. Especially when you never take me into consideration. Not
ever.”

Louis sees the actual moment that Harry chooses not to fight him, the fire going out in his eyes and
his shoulders slumping as he exhales.
“Just...just don’t erase it,” Harry says, resigned. “Please?”

“I won’t,” Louis says evenly, turning back to the TV, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork.

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis watches Harry retreat back to the bedroom, pulling his bun
down as he goes, shaking out his long curls and closing the door behind him. Louis rolls his eyes as
he unpauses the recording because he shouldn’t have to feel bad about wanting to watch a fucking
TV show.

Except he does now.

He makes it all the way to the opening credits before he realizes that he hasn’t absorbed a single
thing from the past ten minutes, other than that Sherlock and Molly kiss. As the familiar theme
music starts, Louis sighs heavily, stopping the recording and turning off the television.

“Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Louis may have won the battle, but at what cost? He knows he’s not going to enjoy the episode
now, not without Harry.

He takes another swig of his beer and then sets his bottle and his dinner on the coffee table, hauling
himself to his feet and heading over to their bedroom

“Hazza,” Louis calls, rapping on the door before turning the handle and opening it. “I’m being a
dick, I’m sorry. I can wait to watch it with you, I–”

Louis falls silent as he sees Harry sitting on his side of their bed, dressed in his suit pants and a
black silk shirt, the cuffs hanging open. Harry’s looking down at his hands, completely despondent,
his chin trembling.

“Baby?” Louis asks tentatively. “What’s–”

“I can’t,” Harry gulps, looking up at Louis, panic shimmering in his green eyes. He squeezes his
right hand in a fist and then shakes it out, grasping his left cuff in his fingers and clumsily fumbling
with the tiny buttons. “I can’t get these buttoned? I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, I’m
an adult, I can fasten fucking buttons–”

“Here,” Louis says quickly, his irritation evaporating as he closes the distance between them in two
strides, kneeling in front of Harry and pulling his hands apart, squeezing gently. “Let me.”

“Thank you, Lou,” Harry whispers as Louis deftly buttons one cuff, then the other.

“Tricky little fuckers,” Louis murmurs, fastening the last button and smiling up at him. His smile
fades to a frown when he sees the crinkle between Harry’s brows, and he reaches up to smooth it
away. “What’s going on, Haz? Like I said, I’m sorry for being a dick–”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Harry assures him, taking a deep breath and scrubbing a hand down his face.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you were definitely being a dick and it wasn’t helping–”

“So what is it, then?”

“We loaded everything into the gallery today,” Harry explains, flexing his hand and then cracking
his knuckles. “Like it’s all in there and hung up and my fucking name is out in front and just...the
show’s ready to go, you know?”

Louis nods.

“And now I have to head all the way back out to Red Hook for this, like, big unveiling of the whole
collection for Jeff and Glenne and a bunch of their investors and a handful of their best patrons, it’s
like this pre-opening kind of opening thing? Like, believe me, I’d much rather be here watching
Sherlock with you, but I have to be there. I can’t just not be there.”

“That sounds stressful,” Louis comments, running his hands up and down Harry’s thighs
soothingly.

“I just feel like I’m going to vomit,” Harry continues, his breathing becoming more and more
labored. “Like, they’ve seen some of the pieces, of course they have, but they haven’t seen
everything all together, like that’s happening for the first time tonight, in like, an hour or so. Oh
God, Lou, what if they fucking hate everything I’ve created? It’s too late to change anything, and
they’ve just...they’ve invested all this time and money in me and what if I let them down? What if I
fail? I’m a twenty-five year old kid, I don’t deserve this, there’s no way I’m ready for my own
show...oh, fuck, I can’t do this, I can’t breathe–”

“Harry, you need to calm down,” Louis urges, scooting over to Harry’s bedside table on his knees
and yanking the drawer open, fumbling around for his inhaler. It’s been a good while since Harry’s
needed to use it, so it must have rolled all the way to the back.

“You know that’s like the worst thing to say to someone who’s panicking right?” Harry chokes out
between wheezes.

“Sorry, sorry, I know,” Louis apologizes, finally closing his hand around the plastic and metal tube.
He grabs the inhaler and slides back over to Harry, pressing it into his hand. “Can you try and
breathe for me, sweetheart?”

Harry nods, shaking the inhaler and closing his lips around the mouthpiece; he presses down on the
top of it with his thumb and breathes in, the device hissing as it releases medicine into his lungs. He
holds his breath for several seconds, exhaling slowly, tears swimming in his eyes as he looks back
at Louis.

“That’s good, baby,” Louis encourages, reaching up and wiping a tear away. “Do you need one
more?”

Harry nods, shaking the inhaler again and repeating the process, his breathing slowly returning to
normal.

“Harry, you’ve worked so hard for this,” Louis says softly, his index fingers tracing along the
interlocking diamond pattern of his pants. “You’ve always worked so hard, don’t question whether
you’ve earned this show or not. You have.”

Harry smiles weakly, putting the inhaler down and taking Louis’ hand, gripping it tightly.

“I haven’t seen the whole show yet, so I’m not gonna pretend I know what Glenne and Jeff are
gonna say,” Louis continues, tucking a curl behind Harry’s ear. “But I do know that you’re talented,
Haz. You’re so fucking talented, baby. I’m so proud of you and I love you so much. You’re gonna
knock ’em dead tonight, I promise.”
“Come with me,” Harry croaks, his voice gravelly. He pauses to clear his throat, inhaling deeply
now that he can breathe normally again. “Please?”

Louis hesitates, looking down at the floor. He’s already going to the opening on Sunday, and he has
time to mentally prepare for that party but he doesn’t know if he has the bandwidth for something
tonight.

“Lou, I know things have been really shitty with us lately,” Harry implores, picking up on his
reluctance. “I’m asking a lot of you right now, I know that. But please come with me tonight? I
need you there by my side, baby. More than that, I want you there. I can’t imagine doing all this
without you, please come. I promise I won’t let go of your hand all night.”

“You really promise?” Louis asks.

“I do,” Harry vows, kissing the top of his hand. “Please come with me.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees, pressing down on Harry’s thighs as he pushes himself to his feet. He dips in,
pecking Harry’s lips quickly. “I’ll go with you.”

“Thank you,” Harry says gratefully. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Louis parrots, walking over to their closet, clicking his tongue as he sorts through
the hangers on his side. He glances over his shoulder at Harry’s suit and then back at his clothes,
finally pulling out the black cashmere turtleneck Harry gave him for Valentine’s last year, along
with his basic black suit.

“This okay?” Louis asks, holding the combo up for Harry. “I was planning on my blue suit for
Sunday.”

“It’s perfect,” Harry nods, smiling brilliantly.

“Excellent,” Louis says, laying the clothes on the mattress next to Harry and then peeling off the
lavender sweater, tossing it at him. “We aren’t taking the train, are we?”

“No way,” Harry says, standing and turning toward the mirror, flipping his hair forward and
fluffing up his curls, flipping them back and scrunching up the ends. “That’ll take too long. I’ll get
us an Uber.”

“Perfect,” Louis says, stepping out of his track pants, kicking them aside as he reaches for the
turtleneck. “Give me like fifteen minutes and then I’ll be ready to go.”

********

The Uber out to the gallery in Red Hook takes about forty minutes and Harry holds his hand the
entire time, talking excitedly about his show and how he had expanded upon the theme he’d landed
on last fall, centering on processing different emotions through the lens of New York City. Louis
listens attentively, even when some of the vernacular goes over his head, a warm feeling settling in
his chest because this is the most Harry’s talked to him about his work in months and he’s missed
it.

Missed him.

“We can actually get out here, if that’s okay,” Harry tells the driver when they stop at a red light.
“Sure thing,” the driver answers as Harry opens the door. “Have a nice night.”

“The gallery is actually just around this corner, but it’s on a one way street,” Harry explains to
Louis, still clutching his right hand as they slide out of the car, Harry shutting the door behind him.
“So he’d have to go around the block, and we’re running a little late, so I figured–”

“Baby, it’s fine,” Louis assures him, shivering in the cold, the bitter January air blowing in off the
waterfront cutting right through his heavy coat. “Let’s go though, before I freeze my balls off.”

“Can’t have that, I’m rather partial to those,” Harry winks, leading him down the sidewalk, turning
the corner.

The gallery comes into view, the industrial style marquee lit up and bright lights spilling out of the
floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the sidewalk.

“Oh, wow, holy shit,” Louis breathes as they pass one of the window boxes advertising the
gallery’s current exhibition. “Baby, that really is your name in there!”

“I know,” Harry beams. “Fucking nuts, right?”

Harry opens the door, ushering him inside. It does appear that they are fashionably late; Louis can
hear the rumbling din of chatter just around the corner of the entryway. Harry only drops his hand
so they can shrug out of their coats.

“Hi, Shannon,” Harry says kindly, taking Louis’ coat and handing them both over to the girl in the
coat check booth. “How’s it looking in there?”

“Pretty good,” she replies, handing Harry two red plastic tabs. “Everyone seems really excited to
see everything.”

“Whew!” Harry grins, wiping his brow and sliding the tabs in his wallet. He turns to Louis,
extending his left hand and wiggling his fingers. “Shall we?”

Louis takes his hand, smiling at the way their rope and anchor tattoos align.

“Harry, wait,” Louis says, pulling him back, right as they are about to turn the corner. Harry looks
at him questioningly. “I just...I just wanted to say that no matter what happens in there, I’m really
proud of you.”

Harry’s smile is blinding, his dimples denting his cheeks.

“Thank you, baby,” Harry says, kissing him quickly and then taking a deep breath, shaking his
shoulders out. “Let’s do this.”

They turn the corner, the anterior room opening up into a big airy room with a high ceiling,
exposed brick walls, and gleaming concrete floors. Freestanding, blindingly white walls traverse
the space, dividing the open room into smaller quadrants, directing the foot traffic in a very specific
path. A group of at least twenty people are crowded around the first piece, a large, abstract
cityscape rendered in shades of blue, many of them clutching glasses of wine in their hands as they
chatter away.

Oh, sure, just a little pre-opening opening indeed. No big deal. No wonder Harry was freaking out.
“Harry! The man of the hour! You’re finally here.”

Ice rushes through Louis’ veins as Xander fucking Ritz emerges from the crowd, a smarmy grin on
his face. Harry sucks in a sharp breath, squeezing his hand tightly as the room quiets, everyone
turning to look at them. Jeff and Glenne flank Xander, the pair of them looking at Harry
appraisingly, their faces giving nothing away.

Jesus fucking Christ, Louis thinks. Just get it over with.

Finally, Jeff cracks a smile and starts clapping, the rest of the room quickly joining him, the
acoustics of the room making the applause sound thunderous. Louis feels Harry relax next to him
as he sighs with relief, a massive smile breaking out on his face.

“Outstanding work, Harry,” Jeff says as he approaches them, Xander close behind. “Absolutely
outstanding.”

Louis sees it coming, his eyes drifting down to Jeff’s outstretched hand as the distance between
them closes, but somehow it still blindsides him when it happens, the metaphorical sucker punch
leaving him winded.

Harry drops his hand.

It feels like all the air goes out of the room as Harry laughs, and not his real laugh, it’s that fake
fucking laugh that Louis fucking hates. He meets Jeff halfway, shaking his hand vigorously and
clapping him on the back as Jeff pulls him in for a hug.

Something in Louis snaps and everything goes numb. He stands there in complete and utter shock
as Harry is suddenly swallowed up by the crowd, Xander’s fucking arm around his shoulders as he
jabbers away, Louis hearing the words he’s saying but not comprehending them. Honestly, he
would not be surprised to look down and see the rope tattooed on his wrist magically unraveling
because that’s what feels like just happened.

Harry never looks back.

Louis stands there dumbly, his body feeling the loss but his brain still trying to process it. He looks
down at his empty hand, wiggling his fingers and then squeezing them into a fist, his blunt nails
digging white crescent moons into the meat of his palm.

Harry said he wouldn’t let go. Harry promised he wouldn’t let go.

Suddenly, it’s like Louis can see the rest of his life, always trotting along behind Harry, nipping at
his heels, begging for his attention like a neglected, needy puppy. Never next to him, never his
equal. Always left behind. Always the plus one, never the one. A lifetime of standing in the corner.
Forgotten. Unimportant. And not just to people like Xander and Jeff and Glenne and their various
hangers on. To Harry. His Harry.

He can’t do this anymore.

Louis’ heart starts pounding, sweat beading on his forehead.

He can’t do this anymore.

Louis stands there, rooted in the spot where Harry left him, waiting for him to come back to get
him. He said he needed him there, by his side. Harry said that he couldn’t do this without him, that
he wanted him to be a part of this. He’ll come back.

He will.

Once he gets past the initial rush of excitement, once he greets all the people he needs to greet,
Harry will come back for him.

He has to.

Louis has no idea how long he stands there waiting, but it’s long enough for the crowd to migrate
into another section of the gallery, Harry clearly walking them through the progression of the
show.

Harry doesn’t come back for him.

Suddenly, Louis is the one who can’t breathe, his chest tightening painfully.

He can’t do this anymore.

Louis finally remembers how his legs work. He retreats, going back around the corner and
returning to the coat check.

“I need my coat,” Louis blurts out to the dark-haired girl in the booth. “Please.”

“Of course, sir,” she replies politely. “Do you have your placard number?”

Shit.

In his mind’s eye, Louis sees Harry sliding those little plastic thingies in his wallet.

Shit, shit, shit.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eye sockets in a desperate attempt to stave off tears.

“My boyfriend has them,” Louis replies quietly, helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

“Sir, I really need–”

“It’s right there,” Louis points out, his voice wavering. “The puffy one with the fur-lined hood?
That’s mine.”

The girl looks at him doubtfully.

“Look, Shannon, was it?” Louis asks, quickly wiping a tear away. “I get that you’re just doing your
job, but I promise that one’s mine. If you want proof, there’s a pack of Marlboro Lights in the right
pocket and a blue Bic lighter in the left one.”

The girl goes over to the coat rack, sticking her hand in one of the pockets. She nods, sliding the
coat off its hanger.
“Thank you,” Louis says gratefully, pulling out his wallet and dropping a five dollar bill in her tip
jar. “I appreciate it.”

“Are you okay, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Louis lies, tears spilling down his cheeks as he accepts the coat. “Just, ah, really need a
smoke. Have a good night.”

Louis shrugs on his coat, zipping it closed as he pushes the gallery door open with his hip, the cold
air blasting him in the face. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes, extracting one with shaking fingers
and putting it to his lips, lighting it and inhaling deeply. After he holds his breath for a few seconds,
Louis exhales slowly, the rush of nicotine soothing his frayed nerves.

Right. He has to get out of here.

Louis pulls out his phone, unlocking it and opening the Uber app. He looks up at the gallery’s
marquee to confirm the address and punches it in, calling for a car. An audible sob escapes his lips
when the app says the nearest car is ten minutes away.

Fucking Red Hook.

He can’t go back inside, not after that embarrassing display with Shannon, so Louis just pulls his
coat around him tightly, shivering as he smokes his cigarette down to the filter, immediately
lighting another one.

Still, he waits for some sort of reprieve, hoping that at any moment Harry will come bursting out of
the doors, apologizing profusely, saying he’s been looking for him everywhere.

He doesn’t come.

After an eternity plus three more cigarettes, a blue sedan pulls up to the curb, the passenger window
rolling down.

“Lewis?” the driver asks.

“Yep, that’s me,” Louis replies, not bothering to correct her pronunciation. He opens the back door
and slides inside, slamming the door behind him and fastening his seatbelt. “Thanks.”

As the car pulls away, Louis pulls up his contacts, thumbing over to his list of favorites, pressing
the third entry. He puts the phone to his ear as it starts ringing.

“Please pick up,” Louis murmurs. “Please, please pick up–”

“Lou-Lou? What’s up?”

Relief courses through his veins at the warm sound of Nick’s voice; a fat tear rolls down his cheek
as he slumps back into the seat.

“Are you...are you busy?” Louis asks, his voice breaking pitifully.

“Not anymore,” Nick instantly replies, concern coloring his tone. “Louis, what’s wrong?”
Louis looks at the clock display on the car’s radio, then looks out the window, mentally judging the
flow of traffic.

“Can you meet me at my place in like...half an hour?” Louis asks. “I need your help.”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Nick says seriously. “Twenty-five max.”

“Thank you,” Louis says gratefully. “I promise I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

“No explanation needed,” Nick assures him, his voice grim. “Just tell me...is this what I think it
is?”

Louis bites his lip so hard that he tastes blood.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, his voice quiet. “Yeah, it is.”

********

The toe of Harry’s boot clips the uneven lip of the second to last step and he giggles as he clumsily
stumbles forward, catching the railing and barely stopping himself from falling face first on the
landing.

Fuck, he’s a little drunk.

Maybe a lot drunk?

Harry takes a deep breath as he rights himself, brushing imaginary dust from the lapels of his
jacket.

He should have said no to that last martini. He really should have, but at the same time, how was he
supposed to say no when Xander had slapped down his black American Express card, declaring
that drinks were on him tonight because they were celebrating the imminent arrival of the New
York art world’s Next Big Thing.

That’s him. He’s the New York art world’s Next Big Thing.

Harry whistles as he heads down the hall, still riding high on the evening’s adrenaline as he digs his
keys out of his pocket, twirling them on his index finger. Tonight has exceeded his wildest
expectations; he doesn’t know the last time he felt this happy, this energized. He can’t imagine that
the whole evening could have gone any better, even with Louis pulling a disappearing act. Now he
just has to pray that Ben Winston and the rest of the critics like the show as much as Jeff and
Glenne seem to. If that happens, there will be no stopping him.

The New York art world’s Next Big Thing.

The apartment is eerily quiet when Harry steps inside, as though no one has been there for hours,
but all of the lights are already on. He unwinds his cashmere scarf and shrugs off his heavy black
coat, hanging them both up next Louis’ puffy coat, glad to know that Louis is home at least,
considering he didn’t bother to text him when he left. Harry goes straight to the kitchen, grabbing a
glass from the cabinet and pulling the fridge door open, sighing heavily when he sees that there’s
barely an inch of water left in their Brita pitcher. It’s one of Louis’ most annoying habits, and
honestly, Harry doesn’t know why it’s so fucking hard for him to remember to refill the pitcher
every time he uses it, the sink’s right there. He pours the remnants of the pitcher in his glass, filling
it up almost halfway, and then tops it off with water directly from the tap, refilling the pitcher as
well and replacing it in the fridge. Harry heads out of the kitchen, taking a long, slow drink of
water as he goes, the cool liquid a balm on his tired, achy vocal cords.

“Oh good, you’re home. Finally.”

“Jesus fuck,” Harry startles, the water sloshing in his glass as he turns to see Louis sitting cross
legged on the couch, staring at the dark television. “Have you been sitting there this whole time?”

“I’ve been sitting here for hours,” Louis replies flatly, still not looking at him. “At least it feels like
hours. I don’t really know anymore. Anyway, I’m surprised you noticed. I mean, why would you
see me in our own home when you don’t see me anywhere else?”

“Lou,” Harry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s had way too much to drink for this. “Can
we not right now? I’m exhausted and I’ve had too much to drink–”

“You left me,” Louis accuses, finally looking over at him, his blue eyes red-rimmed from crying.
“You fucking begged me to come with you tonight, and you just...you just left me there, Harry.
How could you do that?”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“You never mean to and yet you always do,” Louis says, his voice cracking. “You always leave
me.”

“You know how these events work, Louis!” Harry insists, putting his glass down on the breakfast
bar, raking his hand through his hair in frustration. “I can’t keep having this argument with you, I’m
so fucking tired of it. You know how important it is for me to network. Especially on nights like
tonight, how do you not get that?”

“You know how hard the parties can be for me, Harry,” Louis says quietly, looking down at his
right hand. “I thought that’s why we agreed that I would cut back on them. But then you said you
wouldn’t let go of my hand the entire night. You promised, Harry.”

“Did you really think I would be able to hold your hand the entire night? Seriously?”

“I don’t know,” Louis replies, looking back up at him, bewildered. “I think I did? You said you
would. You looked me in the eye and said you would. You held my hand the entire time we were in
the car. You held it when we walked to the gallery. You let go when we took our coats off, but you
took it again as soon as you checked them. You were holding my hand up until the moment you
knew that things were gonna go your way and then you just...you let go. You didn’t need me
anymore, so you left me. You left me there all alone.”

“I could say the same thing about you, you know,” Harry points out, undoing the top two buttons of
his shirt, the black silk starting to feel like it’s strangling him. “You just vanished into thin air, Lou.
It’s like you weren’t even there tonight.”

“I may as well not have been!” Louis protests. “When did you even notice I was gone?”

“I’m just saying the least you could have done before you fucked off was send a text,” Harry
deflects, not wanting to admit out loud that he didn’t realize Louis was gone until he had finished
walking Jeff and Glenne through the exhibit. “I had no idea where you were.”
“Oh, right, because I got so many texts from you asking where I was, let me see,” Louis snarls,
getting to his feet and digging out his phone. “Oh, wait, that’s right, I didn’t get any.”

“I’m not the one who bailed on the party, Louis,” Harry fires back. “You were.”

“You bailed on me, Harry,” Louis snaps, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “How do you not
see that? And for what? So Xander and his friends could blow more smoke up your ass while you
got wasted?”

“They wanted to take me out for celebratory drinks!” Harry roars, throwing his hands up in the air.
“What was I supposed to do? Say no? Say ‘Sorry, guys, I know you’re basically my bosses, but my
boyfriend is upset, I gotta pass’? No. I had to go with them. And more than that, Louis, I wanted to
go with them. It was my big night and you–”

“No,” Louis interrupts, his voice firm. “No, it wasn’t. Your ‘big night’ is on Sunday , Harry. You
don’t just get to claim all the nights. That’s not how this works.”

“Oh, is there some sort of schedule I’m not aware of?” Harry asks witheringly, shrugging out of his
suit jacket and hanging it on the back of one of their barstools. “Just so I can know from here on
out which night is mine and which one is yours, I wouldn’t want to get things mixed up, gotta keep
those nights in front of the TV on my schedule–”

“Fuck you, Harry,” Louis spits, angry tears spilling down his cheeks. “You selfish, arrogant son of a
bitch. The world doesn’t revolve around you, as much as you like to think it does. I don’t know
why you keep trying to just...I don’t know...prove that you didn’t do anything wrong tonight. Just
say you’re sorry! How hard is it to say you’re sorry? Jesus!”

“You know what? I am sorry, Louis,” Harry says furiously, his anger and frustration pouring out of
him like hot lava. “Not for letting go of your fucking hand, but for asking you to come with me in
the first place. I’m sorry that when I realized that you had left, I wasn’t upset. I was relieved. I’m
sorry that I had a better time tonight knowing that you weren’t there glowering in the corner,
sucking all the air out of the room like you always do. I’m sorry, Louis.”

Louis looks at him, completely stunned, his face white as a sheet. Harry waits, his heart pounding,
for Louis to give back just as good as he got. That’s what they always do, before they calm down
and fix it. But Louis just looks back at him, speechless for the first time since Harry’s known him.
Harry’s words start to replay in his head, and it hits him just how vicious they were. But this thing
between them, this dark, ugly thing, has been festering for too long, he’s too angry. He can’t take
them back. He just can’t. After what feels like an eternity, Louis nods, his shoulders slumping in
defeat.

“I suck all the air out of the room,” Louis says flatly. “Well. Pot meet kettle.”

“Louis–”

“No,” Louis halts him, holding a hand up as he crosses back over to the couch and sits, bending
over and reaching for his sneakers, putting them on. “No more, Harry. I’m not doing this anymore,
I can’t. I don’t have anything left to give you; you’ve taken it all already.”

“What do you mean…” Harry trails off, his pulse starting to race as he looks around the living
room for the first time since he got home.
Fuck.

He knew things were bad, but he didn’t know that they were this bad. That they were here. He
didn’t think he would ever be here, not with Louis.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The bookcase in the corner is mostly empty, all of Louis’ prized book collection is gone, from the
pristine first edition hardbacks to the raggedy, dog-eared paperbacks. Their DVD collection has
been ransacked too, many of Harry’s DVDs have fallen over on their sides due to the gaping holes
on the shelves. The fluffy blanket that Louis loves to cuddle under is missing, and there are several
frames missing from the wall as well.

Harry turns around, his blood running cold at the sight of the big blue suitcase in the entryway.

Jesus Christ, he must have walked right by it when he came in, completely oblivious, not even
seeing it there, right next to where their coats are hanging side by side.

“Louis, what the fuck is going on?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Louis asks, propping one foot up on the coffee table, tying his
shoelace.

“Say it,” Harry commands, his teeth clenching. “You have to actually say it.”

Louis stands, sweeping his hair to the side, smoothing it into place as he levels Harry with a placid
gaze.

“I’m leaving you, Harry,” Louis states, looking him right in the eye. “I love you, but I can’t do this
anymore. I’m sorry.”

Harry feels like the room is spinning, blood rushing in his ears, making them ring. He squeezes his
eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands over them, little pops of color exploding behind his
eyelids as he inhales sharply.

“B-but you can’t just leave,” Harry stammers, panic rising in his chest. “This is our apartment. Our
stuff. What about your–”

“I’ve taken everything I care to take,” Louis says, his voice bone-chillingly even. “You can have
the rest, I don’t want it.”

Harry stands there, rooted in his spot watching in shock as Louis crosses over to the coat rack,
removing his big, dumb, puffy coat from its hook, shrugging it on. Tears sting his eyes as he
realizes that Louis means it. He’s actually leaving. Leaving him.

“I, ah...I left...” Louis starts, trailing off and falling silent as he looks down at his feet, shuffling
back and forth awkwardly. He takes a deep breath and sniffles, looking back up at Harry, tears
streaming down his face.

Harry can’t believe this is actually happening.

“I left you a check for my half of the February rent,” Louis says, his voice wobbling. “It’s on your
bedside table.”
“Okay,” Harry nods, his throat constricting. “Thank you.”

“I’ll change the power bill over to your name. The cable’s–”

“Already in my name, I know,” Harry finishes. “Jesus, you thought of everything, didn’t you?

Louis doesn’t say anything. He just nods miserably, wiping the tears from his cheeks and zipping
up his coat, pulling up the handlebar of the suitcase, the clicking plastic echoing like gunfire in the
quiet apartment.

“Shit,” Louis mutters, digging into his pocket. “Keys.”

He pulls out his keyring, sliding the little loop holding the two keys for the building and their little
gold mailbox key off it, clenching them in his fist as he pockets the rest. He takes a deep breath and
crosses over to Harry, holding them out. Harry opens his palm; Louis drops the keys in them gently,
his fingertips barely grazing Harry’s skin.

“We can’t keep doing this to each other,” Louis says softly, looking up at him. “I can’t, anyway. I’m
done. I’ve run out of rope.”

Harry bites his lip and nods. He takes a shuddery breath, looking up at the ceiling as Louis turns
from him, walking away. He feels Louis’ gaze on him as he stands there at the door, but Harry can’t
look back, because if he does, his heart will shatter even more than it already has. The sound of the
door knob turning cuts through him like a knife.

“Goodbye, Harry,” Louis murmurs.

The door slips shut.

Harry lets him go.

 Chapter 12

He should have known this would happen.

Louis takes a ragged breath, steam filling his lungs as he presses his hands against the shower wall.
He bows his head as he exhales slowly, the hot water sluicing down his neck and back. His
apartment has always had excellent water pressure, but right now it’s doing little to ease the tension
in his shoulders.

No, fuck should have known. He always knew this was going to happen and he didn’t do anything
to stop it. Because he is a stupid, weak, selfish man with little regard for his own sense of self-
preservation. He’s well aware that he’s been playing with fire in regards to Harry over these past
few weeks, indulging himself with little touches and private glances and fucking inside jokes. He
knowingly kept feeding the flames, the fire burning brighter and hotter until it threatened to
consume him.

And then last night.

Last night he’d completely thrown caution to the wind, adding even more fuel to the fire. Is it any
wonder that he got burned? And the worst part is, Louis doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself.
He’s the one that started it last night; he’d known exactly what he was doing from the moment he
saw Harry go all murderous at the sight of another man’s hands on him. And really, if he’s being
honest with himself, he knew what he was doing well before that, from twirling Harry on the dance
floor to holding his fucking phone for him. His mind was made up the second he saw that sinful
sparkly jumpsuit.

He did this.

Louis sniffles, scrubbing his hands down his cheeks as he lifts his face into the spray, the water
mixing with his tears. He grabs his loofah, wetting it before squeezing out a large dollop of body
wash on it. The fresh scent of juniper and jasmine fills the shower as Louis lathers up, scrubbing
away the final vestiges of the night before until his skin is pink and he no longer smells like sex and
Harry.

He’d awoken that morning to the familiar combination of sandalwood and citrus, his face burrowed
against Harry’s neck, clinging to him like a koala with one leg slung over him and their fingers
entwined tightly, pressing against Harry’s chest. After blinking his eyes open, Louis’ first instinct
had been to gently brush his lips against Harry’s sleep-sweaty skin. Harry’s always been a deep
sleeper and peppering soft, delicate kisses along his neck and shoulders used to be Louis’ favorite
way of rousing him from slumber; he started doing it before he even realized what he was doing.
He’d frozen the moment his lips had skimmed Harry’s neck, panic jolting through his body as
Harry snuggled back against him instinctively, his grip on Louis’ hand tightening.

That had been it for Louis. He’d carefully extracted himself from Harry’s grasp, holding his breath
every time Harry stirred, desperately wanting to just get out of there without waking him. He had
crept around Harry’s bedroom gathering his clothes, not bothering to change out of the shorts Harry
had given him to sleep in. His jeans were heavy with the weight of Harry’s phone in one of his
front pockets; he’d pulled it out and tiptoed over to Harry’s bedside table, holding his breath as he
placed it there, his heart lurching as he looked at him sleeping peacefully, having flopped over onto
his stomach in Louis’ absence, clutching a pillow to his chest.

Surely he’d understand why Louis had to get the fuck out of there.

He’d snuck out of the apartment, his face flushing with embarrassment as he clutched his jeans to
his chest. Not wanting to prolong his walk of shame any longer, Louis had hailed the first yellow
cab he’d seen; he was at his front door in less than 5 minutes and in the shower in even less time
than that.

Louis washes the last of the lather away, the foam still circling the drain as he shuts off the shower,
pulling the curtain aside and grabbing a plush maroon towel. He towels off his hair and face before
moving on to the rest of his body, drying himself off thoroughly before hanging the used towel up
on the hook behind the door. Raking his fingers through his damp hair with one hand, Louis
reaches up and wipes the condensation from the mirror with the other, grimacing at his reflection.
He looks rough, his skin sallow from all the tequila and dark smudges under his eyes, bloodshot
from the lack of sleep. But what stands out the most are the marks that Harry left behind: his torso
is littered with them, from the line of hickeys along his left collarbone to the five faint bruises on
each hip mirroring the span of Harry’s big hands to the impressively deep purple mark at the
juncture of his neck and shoulder that’s definitely not going to fade by tomorrow.

Louis grabs his tube of moisturizer, uncapping it and squeezing a dollop onto his fingers, replacing
it back on the shelf. He slathers the lotion onto his face and neck, hissing when he presses down on
the big bruise on his neck, images of Harry sucking the mark there in the back of the cab flashing in
his mind’s eye.

Well. He did want to feel Harry for days.

Looks like he got his wish.

Satisfied that he’s done just about everything he can to make himself feel more human, Louis
leaves the bathroom, walking naked across the hall to his bedroom. His comfy bed beckons him;
Louis looks at it longingly, pondering just saying fuck all with his sleep schedule and crawling
under the covers for the rest of the day. It’ll take him days to get back to normal if he does that
though, so Louis resolves to just push through. He grabs a pair of sweats from his dresser, telling
himself he’ll just put on some mindless television and snooze on the couch for a little while. That’s
definitely not the same as–

The sharp peal of the doorbell startles Louis and he clutches the sweatpants to his chest, adrenaline
rushing through his veins at his nakedness.

“Louis?” Harry’s voice calls urgently, followed by another chime of his doorbell. “Lou, are you
there?”

Oh my fucking God.

“Ah,” Louis squawks, clearing his throat and hastily yanking on the sweatpants, tripping himself
one of the pant legs as he tries to shove his foot through the opening. “Shit.”

“Louis, open the door,” Harry pleads, pounding on the door. “Please!”

Oh, God, he’s gonna wake up all his neighbors.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters, fumbling around in his drawer for a shirt, grabbing the first thing he can
find, bunching soft, white cotton in his fist. He pulls the loose white tank over his head, the
material doing the bare minimum as far as covering him but he supposes it’s better than nothing.
“Fuck, just a minute!”

“Lou, please, I’m serious–”

“Hold on, I’m coming!” Louis shouts frantically, his heart pounding as he hustles down the hall. He
swipes one hand through his damp hair, unlocking the door with the other, swinging the door open.

Harry stands in his hallway, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, his green eyes a little
wild. Much like Louis, it appears he threw on the first clothes he could find, down to his paint-
splattered Chucks being two different colors. His curls are frizzing from the humidity and his
cheeks are red from exertion, beads of sweat rolling down his neck and pooling at the base of his
throat.

He’s never looked more beautiful.

“What the actual fuck, Lou?” Harry pants, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You left? Just like
that? Not even a like ‘thanks for the sex, now fuck off’ text? Seriously?”

“Did you–” Louis starts, shaking his head in confusion. “Did you run here?”

“I did,” Harry affirms, wiping his hand off on his faded, loose-fitting jeans. “Sprinted is more like
it. As soon as I realized you were gone.”

“Why?” Louis asks softly, his heart in his throat. “Why are you here, Haz?”

“I let you walk away from me without a fight once, Louis,” Harry states plainly, looking him right
in the eye. “And I’ll be goddamned if I let history repeat itself. Not today.”

Louis sucks in a sharp breath, biting his bottom lip and fighting back tears as he looks down at his
bare feet, his toes curling against the hardwood floor.

“Can I come in so we can talk?” Harry asks after a long moment, his voice gentle. “I mean, I’m
happy to do this out here, if that’s what you want, but your neighbors–”

“No, no,” Louis says, looking up at him. “Come in. Please.”

He steps back, holding the door open wider; Harry steps inside, giving Louis a wide berth as he
closes the door behind him.

“Do you want some water?” Louis asks, locking the door.

“That would be great, thanks,” Harry answers. “Um, where should I–”

“Dining table?” Louis suggests, still wanting to keep a little bit of a distance between them. “That
okay?”

Harry nods, walking past the kitchen island and taking a seat at the small table, carefully sliding a
stack of unread manuscripts and a pile of multicolored Post-Its aside, along with a handful of
different colored pens.
“Shit, sorry about the mess,” Louis says ruefully, grabbing two glasses from the cabinet, filling
them with the Brita pitcher from the fridge. He quickly refills it from the sink before putting it
back. “I usually work there, it has more space to–”

“Lou, it’s fine,” Harry assures him. “You’re fine.”

Louis doesn’t feel fine, he feels like he’s about to come out of his skin, nervousness jittering
through him like he’s had a triple espresso shot. His eyes land on the bottle of Jameson that Liam
gave him for game night; he grabs a couple of leftover plastic cups, placing them over the neck of
the bottle and then sticking it in the crook of his arm, grabbing the water glasses and heading over
to the table.

Here goes nothing.

“Lou, it’s barely eight in the morning,” Harry observes with a wry smile as Louis hands him his
water.

“Who the fuck cares,” Louis shrugs, settling down across from him, placing the bottle of whiskey
on the table. “A little hair of the dog never hurt anyone.”

Harry takes a big gulp of water, watching as Louis pours two fingers of whiskey in his plastic cup.

“Pour me some.”

Louis arches an eyebrow at him.

“You sure?” he asks, even as he reaches for another cup, pouring Harry two fingers of whiskey as
well. “You hate whiskey.”

“I’m capable of change, you know,” Harry replies, taking the cup when Louis passes it to him.

“Apparently,” Louis says carefully, dancing around that very loaded statement. He clinks their cups
together. “Sip, don’t shoot, okay?”

Harry nods. Louis sips, the whiskey immediately warming his belly, settling his nerves a bit; he
watches Harry as he presses his lips together, wrinkling his nose at the smell before sipping the
amber liquid delicately.

“Tastes great,” Harry says, smacking his lips together. “Refreshing.”

God, Louis loves him.

Fuck.

He loves Harry.

On some level, he already knew that; otherwise he wouldn’t have panicked and ran this morning.
Still, it scares the everloving shit out of him. He barely survived loving and losing Harry the first
time, there’s no way he can do it all again, he wouldn’t make it.

Louis takes another big sip of whiskey, swallowing hard, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest. He’s
painfully aware of Harry’s eyes on him, his sharp, observant eyes surely cataloguing every single
micro expression, making him feel like he’s completely on display.
“Lou,” Harry murmurs, his eyes roving over Louis’ face, his gaze drifting downward. “Fuck,
your…” Harry trails off, his brow furrowing as he touches his neck, his fingers mirroring the
placement of the big mark on Louis’ own. “Shit, I’m sorry, I really did a number on you and you
have to–”

“Don’t be sorry,” Louis says quickly, covering the mark almost protectively, as if Harry might want
to take it back. “I’m not. I’m not at all. I wanted you to–”

“Fuck,” Harry groans, scrubbing his hands down his face. “You can’t just say shit like that, Lou.”

“What do you–”

“You can’t run out on me like the way you did this morning, like I was some anonymous one night
stand you couldn’t wait to get away from, and then turn around and say that to me,” Harry clarifies,
the hurt in his eyes making Louis feel about an inch tall. “It’s confusing.”

“Well, I’m…” Louis trails off, looking down at his hands. He takes a deep breath to center himself,
looking back up at Harry, determined to speak truthfully. “I am confused, Haz, I’m not gonna lie to
you and say that I’m not.”

“That’s okay,” Harry says seriously. “You can be confused.”

“Are you not confused?” Louis asks.

“Not in the slightest,” Harry replies, his gaze crystal clear. “I just...I just want to know what last
night was to you, Lou. Can we start there?”

“I don’t–” Louis starts, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“If it was just sex to you, please, just say so,” Harry entreats. “It’s fine if it was, Lou. I mean, it’s
not fine, but I can deal with it. But I need you to know that last night wasn’t just sex for me. I
wouldn’t be here if it was just sex–”

“Of course it wasn’t just sex for me, Harry,” Louis blurts out, wringing his hands. “As much as I
may have wanted it to be just that, and I did, I did want it to be just a fuck, I can admit that, I’m
sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry interjects. “I get it.”

“But then like...you were so... we were so–”

“I know,” Harry says, reaching out and taking his hand. “Baby, I know.”

“It just...it would never be just sex, not with you, Haz,” Louis continues, wiping a tear away, not
realizing until that second that he’d started crying again. “Why the fuck do you think I’m freaking
out so much? Seriously, how are you not freaking out here?”

The tiniest smile breaks out on Harry’s face, his dimple briefly popping out to say hello.

“Don’t just smile at me, you asshole,” Louis scolds, shoving his arm weakly. “I’m crying and
you’re just smiling, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Harry answers, his smile widening.

“How are you sitting here completely calm?” Louis presses. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m calm because I know what I want.”

“And what is that?” Louis asks, even though he knows the answer. How can he not know the
answer when Harry is sitting here looking at him like he hung the sun and moon and stars?

“You,” Harry answers, gently brushing one of Louis’ tears away with his thumb. “I want you,
Louis. I want us to be us again.”

Louis’ breath catches, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest. He feels the way he did all
those years ago when Harry painted him for the first time, like he’s standing on the precipice of
something great, something life changing.

All he has to do is take the leap.

But how can he do that when he knows how everything ended between them before? It’s a hell of a
lot easier to leap when your heart hasn’t been broken once already, by the exact same person.

“I don’t know if I can do it again,” Louis admits, blowing out a long, slow breath. “This is all so
sudden, Harry.”

“Is it really though?” Harry asks.

“Okay, it’s not,” Louis concedes with a wry smile. “But I still don’t know if I can do this again.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, his face open, his tone genuine.

Louis sips his whiskey, trying to figure out where the fuck he should start. There are so many things
he wants to say; he’s probably had this conversation with Harry a thousand times in his head
before. But now that they’re actually here and talking about this, he realizes that it all boils down to
one thing.

“We hurt each other so much, Haz,” Louis says softly, looking down at their joined hands. “We did
it over and over again.”

Harry hums understandingly, thumbing over his knuckles.

“It broke me,” Louis confesses. “Losing you. I had to run halfway around the world to escape the
pain of it. Sometimes it feels like I’m still putting myself back together, you know?”

“So then let’s not hurt each other this time,” Harry proposes.

“You make it sound so simple, Haz,” Louis laughs helplessly, looking back up at him. “But it’s not.
You know it’s not.”

“You’re right, I know it’s not,” Harry agrees, his voice confident. Steady. Sure. “I can’t promise we
won’t hurt each other ever again, Lou. But I can promise that what happened to us before is not
going to happen again.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I’m not a twenty-five year old asshole anymore, for one thing,” Harry asserts. “That’s a
start.”

Louis can’t help but bark a laugh at that, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“We were so young, Lou,” Harry says.

“Too young,” Louis nods. “Stupid young.”

“I had my head so far up my own ass,” Harry muses. “I really thought I was gonna be the art
world’s Next Big Thing. I had so many people telling me that and I just like...I completely lost
sight of everything else in my life until it was too late. And even then, when you left, I tried telling
myself that I was better off, that I could do so much more now that I didn’t have you holding me
back–”

Louis sucks in a sharp breath at Harry’s confession, he can’t help it. It’s not like he didn’t think
that’s where Harry had been mentally by the end, but still, it’s an entirely different thing to hear it
out loud. Harry looks at him apologetically and Louis exhales slowly, remembering that this is not
just about him. It’s about them, what they did to each other.

“I mean, I was holding you back,” Louis admits. “I was depressed, Harry. I was depressed and I
couldn’t see past my own failures. I was jealous of you, I was so fucking jealous. I think of all the
events I go to for work now, and all the networking I have to do there, and...do you know I fucking
think of you every time I go to a conference or a book launch? I think about what an asshole I was
about all those openings, all those parties where I just stood in a corner–”

“Those parties were bullshit, Louis.”

Louis looks at him doubtfully.

“Okay, most of them were bullshit,” Harry amends. “You were right about it being like the same
twenty people almost every time though. You were right that I compromised my integrity and my
artistic vision. You were right about Xander having ulterior motives. You were right about so many
things, baby.”

A sob bursts from Louis’ lips. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear those words until
Harry said them.

“I’m so sorry I stopped listening to you, Louis,” Harry continues, reaching out and gently brushing
his hair off his forehead, his fingertips trailing down Louis’ cheek, wiping his tears away. “I’m so
sorry I didn’t trust you, you have no idea how sorry I am. Not because of what happened to me,
because I’m in a much better place now, but because we lost so much time–”

“Wait,” Louis interrupts, gulping for air, his nose completely stuffed up. “What do you mean what
happened to you?”

“Oh,” Harry says, squeezing his hand before he stands, heading into the kitchen area and grabbing
a handful of paper towels, bringing them back for Louis and sitting down in the chair next to him,
rather than the one across from him. “I’m surprised no one told you. I thought Niall would have for
sure.”
“No,” Louis answers, blowing his nose noisily, popping his ears. He takes several gulps of water to
pop them back. “No one’s ever told me anything. Everyone’s always talked around it, but never
like, actually said it.”

“Well, Ben Winston eviscerated me in his review,” Harry explains. “Said my work was derivative,
that it lacked any true sense of self or genuine emotion. And that’s probably the nicest bit. All the
critics panned it, really. I was all hype and no follow through.”

“Oh, Harry,” Louis says sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry assures him. “Bad reviews happen to everyone. I mean, it was definitely
humiliating, but it was high time someone knocked me on my ass. It just happened to be a very
public and very thorough dressing down.”

“I don’t get it though,” Louis says, confused. “That night...everyone was applauding? They said
you were brilliant.”

“No accounting for taste, I guess,” Harry shrugs. “Jeff and Glenne closed the show early because I
wasn’t selling anything. They terminated my contract with the gallery with a minimum buy-out not
long after that.”

“Bastards,” Louis huffs.

“Nah, they were just doing their jobs. I was supposed to make them money, and I didn’t. I made
them lose money, so they fired me. Xander was right about one thing, you know. It is a money
business. Galleries have to make money. And I wasn’t a good fit for them, Lou, I never was.”

“Still,” Louis grumbles, taking a sip of whiskey.

“Xander hit on me not even a week after you left.”

“Oh my God,” Louis breathes. “Seriously?”

“Even with everything you had said about him, I was still surprised when he kissed me. And then,
when I pushed him away, when I turned him down, do you know what he said? He said that I
wasn’t even all that talented. That he’d only been wasting his time with me in the hopes I’d
eventually put out and then it would be worth it. All I could hear was your voice in my head saying
‘I told you so.’ I mean, you’d be free to say it now, you earned that.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. He can’t, it’s too sad.

“I haven’t even told you the worst part,” Harry continues, bitterness darkening his voice for the first
time.

“It gets worse?”

“Xander blackballed me,” Harry says, sipping his whiskey. “All over the city. Between that and the
reviews from the Agora show, no one in New York would touch me with a ten foot pole, not until
Liam came along, and that wasn’t for two years. Two years, Lou. Like, when I say I lost
everything, I mean lost everything. And for what? My career was in shambles. I had nothing to
show for any of the ‘networking’ I’d done, nothing more than bad reviews and a massive chunk of
my portfolio that I didn’t really believe in. I’d alienated all my art school friends while I was with
Xander because I was so sure I was better than all of them. None of them were speaking to me. I
had lost you. You were long gone by the time I realized how badly I had fucked everything up. I
tried getting Nick to tell me where you were, Niall did too, but he was a steel trap. Then I just...I
gave up. Figured you didn’t want to be found, so I stopped looking.”

“I didn’t,” Louis admits. “I didn’t want to be found.”

“It’s my greatest regret,” Harry says. “Giving up on you, not fighting for you. I should have never
stopped looking for you. But then you found me, Louis.”

“We found each other,” Louis corrects.

“That’s right, we found each other,” Harry nods, grasping his hands. “We have the chance to get it
right this time, Lou. Don’t you wanna take that chance? I know I’m never gonna love anyone the
way I loved you. The way I still love you. I’ve tried and no one’s ever come close.”

Harry still loves him.

Harry still loves him.

“I don’t know about you, but I know I’m not gonna make the same mistakes again,” Harry says.
“You wanna know how I know that?”

“How?”

“Because everything I’ve done in the past few years in terms of my career has been to ensure that I
would never do to another person what I did to you. Remember how, at that first dinner with all the
boys, you talked about how you had redefined success?”

Louis nods.

“I did that too,” Harry continues. “I reprioritized. I figured out, with Liam’s help, what I really want
for myself and my career. I want a life, Lou, and I want to be present in it. I want to create art that
means something to me. I don’t want to always be looking forward, trying to figure out what I
should be doing next or what trends I need to follow. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are still times
where I lock myself in the studio and won’t emerge for a few days other than to shower and sleep.”

“I still do that too,” Louis admits. “When I’m writing. We can’t help it, you know. Creative tunnel
vision.”

“Exactly,” Harry nods. “But the difference is I’ve made a conscious effort over the past few years
to not bail on the people I care about. I make the effort to show up. I may not always be on time,
but I do show up. I didn’t show up for you back then, Lou. I always asked you to show up for me,
but I didn’t do that for you, and I’m so sorry, baby. I’d like to show up for you for the rest of my
life, if you give me the chance.”

“I don’t know what to say, Haz,” Louis confesses, wiping under his eyes. “Not in a bad way, more
in a like...this is all really overwhelming kind of way. I just don’t want to jump into anything
without thinking it through.”

“More than we already have?” Harry asks wryly.

“Yeah, exactly,” Louis nods. “Can I...I just need a little time to process everything you said, if that’s
okay with you?”

“Take all the time you need,” Harry says easily, getting to his feet. “You know what I want.”

Harry ducks down and for a split second, Louis thinks he’s going to kiss his lips, but he kisses his
cheek instead, his lips soft against his skin. Goosebumps prickle all over his body as Harry noses
along his cheekbone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry mutters in his ear. “I’m all in, Lou.”

Harry presses another kiss to the curve of his jaw before straightening up to his full height; Louis
looks up at him, butterflies dancing in his stomach.

“I’ll call you,” Louis manages to say, his tongue suddenly thick and heavy in his mouth.

“I’ll be waiting,” Harry winks, heading to the door. “Have a good Sunday, Lou.”

Harry goes, closing the door behind him quietly. Louis has no idea how long he stares at the door,
completely shell shocked. Finally, he grabs Harry’s leftover whiskey, dumping it into his mostly
empty glass and shooting it.

He loves Harry.

Harry loves him.

So what’s he still so fucking afraid of?

 Chapter 13

“So you and Harry had sex.”

“Jesus,” Louis yelps, scrambling into Zayn’s office and shutting the door behind him. “How did
you know?”

“Please,” Zayn replies, his voice a little bored, his eyes not leaving his computer screen as he
types.

“No, seriously, ” Louis demands, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “Is it really that
obvious?”

“Well, first of all,” Zayn starts, finally turning and giving Louis an appraising look, arching one
eyebrow as he removes his round reading glasses, placing them on his desk. “That jacket is a dead
giveaway. It’s August and you look like a buttoned-up Victorian heroine, Louis.”

“It’s always freezing in this building,” Louis replies primly, fiddling with the zipper under his chin,
making sure it’s all the way up, the green jacket’s high, black collar sufficiently covering the mark
on his neck. “You know I hate being cold.”

“Secondly, Liam and I saw you two leaving the club together,” Zayn finishes with a smug smile.
“Well, ‘leaving’ isn’t really the right way to put it since Harry practically dragged you out of
there–”

“Oh, God, Liam knows?” Louis asks, dramatically plopping down into one of Zayn’s chairs. “Do
you think Niall knows too?”

“I think everyone at the club knew,” Zayn informs him, still smiling smugly as he crosses his arms
over his chest. “You guys weren’t exactly subtle, you know.”

“Fuck,” Louis groans, scrubbing his hands down his face.

“So you and Harry had sex,” Zayn repeats, his voice expectant.

“We did,” Louis admits. “Like, truly spectacular, earth-shattering, life-changing sex.”

As if to prove a point, Louis unzips his jacket, just far enough that he can pull the fabric away to
show Zayn the mark on his neck.

“Was he trying to brand you?” Zayn snickers, impressed. “Jesus.”

“Yup,” Louis pops, zipping the jacket back up. “Something like that.”

They sit in silence for a few moments; Louis fidgets in his chair, feeling Zayn’s inquisitive eyes on
him.

“Okay, so what’s the problem?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s the problem,’ Zee?” Louis asks, the fear that’s been simmering for the
past twenty-four hours starting to boil over. “Did you not just hear me say that I had earth-
shattering, life-changing sex with Harry? My ex-boyfriend Harry? Harry who was the star of my
second novel? Harry, Zayn.”

“Yes, I know who Harry is,” Zayn says placidly, steepling his fingers under his chin. “And?”

“He wants to get back together, Zayn,” Louis states. “He said he still loves me and he wants to give
us another shot.”

“That’s great,” Zayn smiles.

Louis looks at him blankly. Zayn frowns, his eyebrows knitting together.

“...Isn’t that great?”

“I don’t know,” Louis puffs, tossing his hands in the air. “I mean, it’s crazy, right?”

“Yeah, it’s completely crazy,” Zayn nods, a smile starting to slowly creep across his face. “Do you
love him?”

“I mean, how can we just start over fresh with everything that’s happened between us?” Louis
sighs, collapsing back into his chair.

“That’s not what I asked,” Zayn presses. “Do you love him?”

“There’s so much history,” Louis insists weakly. “We can’t just ignore that–”

“Louis,” Zayn says gently. “Do you love him?”

Louis blows out a big breath, falling silent as he looks down at his hands.

Saying it out loud is what makes it real.

“Of course I love him,” Louis admits quietly. “Loving Harry has never been the problem, Zayn.”

“So then what is the problem?” Zayn asks. “You love him, he loves you. Boom. Happy ending.”

Louis snorts.

“Okay, tell me what the big deal is, because seriously, Louis, I’m not seeing it.”

“The last time I loved Harry I got clobbered,” Louis explains. “Am I supposed to just ignore the
fact that it could happen again?”

“Yes,” Zayn states plainly. “There’s always a chance you’ll get hurt, that’s just how relationships
work, that’s not exclusive to you and Harry.”

“But Zayn–”

“You gotta let people in, Louis,” Zayn continues, ignoring his objection. “You’re so open with your
friends but when it comes to dating? You’re guarded, you’ve got all these walls up. I’ve known you
for three years and the closest thing to a steady relationship you’ve had is whatever kind of
arrangement you had with Hot Luke.”
“Oh, God, Hot Luke,” Louis groans, raking his fingers through his hair, thinking of his former
conference hook-up.

Luke had been the perfect no-strings, no frills, glorified booty call kind of relationship Louis had
needed right after moving back to the States and starting his life in San Francisco. He only saw him
at conferences and they always went back to their own lives afterwards, rarely talking other than
the occasional sext. It went on for a year and a half, the relationship fizzling out naturally after
Luke missed a couple of big events.

“I haven’t thought about Luke in ages,” Louis says. “Whatever happened to him, I wonder? He just
vanished.”

“He became an agent,” Zayn replies. “That’s what I heard through the grapevine.”

“That makes sense,” Louis nods. “He was always more interested in that side of the work anyway.”

“Anyway, this is not about Hot Luke, this is about you,” Zayn says, circling back to the matter at
hand.

“You brought him up,” Louis mumbles petulantly.

“Look, at some point you’re going to have to let yourself be vulnerable with someone if you ever
want to be happy.”

Louis says nothing.

“I wasn’t around the first time,” Zayn continues. “I don’t know all the history and baggage that you
have with Harry, I know that. But I do know what I see now and from where I sit, this is a no
brainer.”

Louis swallows hard. He’s not going to cry at work. He’s not.

“Harry makes you happy,” Zayn concludes. “And you deserve to be happy, Louis. You know that
right? You just gotta get out of your own way.”

“Goddammit, Zayn,” Louis mutters, quickly wiping a rogue tear away. “I didn’t want to cry at
work.”

“Just trying to knock some sense into your thick skull,” Zayn says, passing him the box of tissues
on his desk. “You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that right?”

“Fuck off,” Louis sniffs, dabbing under his eyes with a tissue before delicately blowing his nose.
“You’re the worst.”

“I love you too,” Zayn replies fondly. “Now, you gotta tell me one thing. How did he–”

The intercom on Zayn’s phone buzzes, interrupting him.

“Dammit, hold that thought, that’s reception,” Zayn mutters, clearing his throat as he presses the
call button. “Yes, Gillian?”

Louis snickers at Zayn’s professional tone.

“Your ten-thirty is here a little early,” Gillian informs him. “Should I send her back or put her in a
conference room?”

“I’ll come meet her,” Zayn replies kindly. “Be right there, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The intercom clicks off; Zayn looks back at him, already slipping back into work mode.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize the time,” he apologizes as he stands. “Big meeting with a potential new
author today, and then another pitch meeting after that.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Louis waves, standing up, smoothing his hand down his jacket, straightening
it out around his hips. “I should definitely get back to work.”

“Pick this back up at lunch?” Zayn asks, grabbing his blazer from the back of his chair and
shrugging it on. “I should be free by twelve-thirty. We can go to the diner?”

“Perfect,” Louis answers, opening the door. “I just have to be back by two for a call with Sinclair
about his latest round of edits.”

“Oh God, is he giving you shit?”

“A little bit of shit, but nothing I can’t handle,” Louis answers blithely. “Besides, I know I’m right.
He’ll come around once I make him think the changes were all his idea in the first place.”

“That’s why you’re the best,” Zayn laughs, clapping him on the shoulder as they step out into the
cubicled common area, editorial and marketing assistants bustling about. “I’ll swing by yours when
my meetings finish up.”

“Sounds good, yeah,” Louis nods. “Thanks, Zee.”

“No problem,” Zayn grins as he starts down the hall to reception. “See you in a bit.”

Louis turns the opposite direction and heads back to his office, digging out his phone as he goes.
He loves Zayn, he really does, but there's really only one person who can understand where his
head is truly at right now. He unlocks his phone, thumbing over to his messages and tapping one
out as he walks.

Can we move our dinner date to tonight instead of Thurs?

His phone buzzes with a response as soon as he settles back at his desk.

Nicholas: Of course. Usual time?

********

Louis sits on the couch, placing his beer and his platter of chicken shawarma on the coffee table.
He flips his laptop open and signs into Skype, smiling when he sees that Nick’s already online. He
clicks the start call button, grabbing his plate and resting it on his lap as he settles back into the
couch cushions, Skype’s distinctive ringtone blaring as he waits for the call to connect.

“Lou-Lou! Long time no see!”

Louis is instantly put at ease by the sound of Nick’s rich, radio-ready voice coming through his
computer’s speakers. The picture is pixelated for a few moments as their connection stabilizes but it
clears up soon enough, his best friend’s face coming into focus, his brown eyes warm and his dark,
fluffy hair artfully swept up and off his face, save for one errant lock stubbornly falling across his
forehead. He’s wearing one of his signature loud blouses, this one bright cobalt blue patterned with
red and gold Chinese dragons, and several thin gold chains are draped around his neck, a gold “M”
charm resting between the juncture of his collarbones. He’s a sight for sore eyes and suddenly
Louis desperately wishes Nick was here and not just on a computer screen. They have a standing
Thursday night dinner and trash TV date but their schedules have been out of sync lately, and fuck,
Louis has missed him.

“Whose fault is that, Nicholas?” Louis replies archly, spearing a piece of chicken on his fork and
pointing it at the screen, narrowing his eyes as he pops it in his mouth. “You’re the one who’s had
to bail on the past couple of weeks because you declared that your birthday was a two week
festivus this year.”

“In my defense, thirty-five is a very important birthday,” Nick laughs, twirling some pasta on his
fork. “It’s a milestone! I had to celebrate properly.”

“Yes, old man,” Louis teases. “How does it feel knowing that with every day that passes now
you’re getting closer to forty than you are to thirty?”

“You shut the fuck up.”

Louis laughs, taking a sip of beer.

“How’s Mesh? Is he at rehearsal?”

“Yeah, probably for another hour or so,” Nick answers, sipping his wine. “The company’s new
show opens next week. Did I tell you he’s the featured soloist?”

“That’s so great,” Louis smiles. “He’s worked really hard for that.”

“I know, right?” Nick beams with pride, the obvious love on his face tugging something low in
Louis’ gut. “I mean, tech week really sucks with all the late nights and stuff, but at least now I can
watch Big Brother in peace without him judging me.”

Louis giggles.

“So what’s up, Lou-Lou?” Nick asks. “Because I know you didn’t change our Skype date just to
talk about Mesh–”

“I slept with Harry,” Louis announces, cutting right to the chase.

“Oh my God,” Nick exclaims, setting his dinner aside and sitting up straight, his glass of wine in
hand. “You slept with Harry? Harry Harry?”

“No, Prince Harry,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes as he self-consciously rubs the mark on his neck.
“Yes, Harry Harry.”

“I knew it!” Nick crows triumphantly, the wine sloshing as he makes touchdown arms. “I knew this
would happen! Mesh owes me a hundred bucks and the sexual favor of my choosing when he gets
home.”

“Did you two bet on if I would sleep with him?” Louis asks, slightly scandalized. “Seriously,
Nicholas?”

“Of course we did,” Nick snorts. “We shook hands on it and everything, like the minute you told
me that you ran into him at that gallery. Mesh thought you would hold out till at least your birthday,
but I knew better, Lou-Lou. I know you when it comes to Harry and I knew it would happen by
Labor Day. And look here we are, right on schedule.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Louis grumbles, setting his plate aside as well.

“You’re predictable,” Nick counters.

“God, I really am, aren’t I?” Louis sighs, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Do you think I’m
pathetic?”

“Absolutely not,” Nick states unequivocally. “You’re the furthest thing from pathetic, Louis.”

They fall silent. Louis takes another swig of beer, picking at the label as he tries to gather his
thoughts.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be an asshole or anything–” Nick says.

“No, no, it’s fine, ” Louis says, smiling up at him. “I mean, it is funny when you think about it. Did
you set a countdown clock or anything?”

“Y’know, I had thought about it,” Nick chuckles. “But that seemed like a step too far.”

“Good to know you have some standards then,” Louis teases, tilting his bottle towards the screen.

Nick toasts him with his glass, taking a sip of wine.

“Tell me something, Lou,” Nick says after a moment, his voice sincere. “Was this just a one and
done kind of thing? A fuck for old time’s sake? Or was it more than that?”

“The latter,” Louis admits. “Very much the latter. It was...everything. I freaked out yesterday
morning, like snuck out, did the walk of shame, the whole nine yards–”

“Oh no, Louis,” Nick sympathizes.

“Harry, he...he chased me,” Louis continues. “Literally ran to my apartment once he realized I was
gone and practically knocked my door down, saying that he’d let me go once and he wasn’t gonna
let it happen again. He wants to get back together, Grim. He actually said that, can you believe it?”

“Oh my fucking God.”

“I know. I thought shit like this only happened in romantic comedies.”

“Okay, so what do you need?” Nick asks, brushing his hands together, all business-like and ready to
spring into action. “Do you need a plane ticket? You can come stay with me and Mesh for the
holiday weekend if you need to get out of there. We can, I don’t know, go to the beach or have a
barbeque or something–”
“That’s very generous of you and very tempting, but I can’t,” Louis smiles, his heart swelling with
affection for his friend. “I can’t run away this time.”

“Are you sure?” Nick presses.

“Everything’s different now,” Louis muses. “Harry’s so different, Nick. It’s like night and day. He’s
like...he’s like the Harry I met at Marlowe’s in his sash and birthday tiara...but better? He’s not
obsessed with getting ahead anymore. There hasn’t been a single mention of him like, needing to
go to this show, or having to be seen at this place with these people. Remember how much he used
to give me that excuse? That he just had to be somewhere?”

“Yes,” Nick answers darkly.

“That hasn’t happened once, not in the entire time that we’ve been back in each other’s lives,”
Louis explains. “I know it’s only been two months, but given how much it used to happen, that
means something to me, you know? I’d be naive to think he won’t have to go rub elbows every
once in a while, but also I know how all that shit works now too. It wouldn’t be like it was last
time.”

Nick nods encouragingly.

“It’s so clear that he’s reprioritized,” Louis continues. “Like I could see that even before we talked
and he specifically told me that his priorities are different now. He said...” Louis trails off, taking a
deep breath. He’s still trying to process this last bit. “He said he didn’t show up for me before, but
if I gave him another chance, he’d like to show up for me for the rest of his life.”

Nick stares at him for so long that Louis is worried that their connection might have frozen and he
might have to go through that whole spiel again.

“Oh, Louis,” Nick breathes finally, a brilliant smile breaking out on his face. “So what’s the fucking
problem then?”

“What do you think is the fucking problem, Grim?” Louis asks, indignant. “You were there last
time, you saw how bad it got. And okay, Harry’s saying the right things, but it’s one thing to say all
of these things, it’s a totally other thing to actually do them!”

“But he’s already doing those things, Louis,” Nick points out. “You just said so yourself.”

“It just feels like it’s too good to be true,” Louis insists. “Who actually gets a second chance like
this? After everything we put each other through? Don’t you think it’s nuts? It’s nuts, right?”

“Some people might think it’s nuts,” Nick shrugs. “I don’t. What I think, Louis, is that you’re being
a chickenshit who’s too afraid to admit what he wants.”

“What?” Louis squawks.

“Look, I can totally see why you came to me, and I’ll admit, you almost had me there for a
second,” Nick states. “But being scared of what might happen with Harry isn’t a good enough
reason not to do this. And if you’re expecting me to pat you on the head and tell you it’s totally
okay not to take this chance with Harry because you’re too scared, well then you came to the
wrong fucking person, Lou-Lou, cause that’s bullshit.”
“You were there, Nick,” Louis repeats. “You helped me fucking pack my things the night I left. You
saw first hand how–”

“You’re right, I was there and I did see first hand,” Nick says seriously. “I saw it all, Louis.”

They fall quiet for a long moment, both of them sipping their drinks. Louis looks at his cold dinner
sadly; his insides are a jumbled mess and he’s completely lost his appetite.

“Do you remember what you told me the night you two met?” Nick finally asks. “Right after you
put a drunk little twenty-three-year-old tiara-wearing Harry in a cab? Because quite frankly, I’ll
never forget it. You came back inside and plopped down on your rickety stool and said–”

“I said I–”

Louis stops, his words catching in his throat and tears filling his eyes as the memories wash over
him. The feeling of euphoria that shot through him when they saw each other across the room. That
sense of recognition as they bantered, his heart, mind, and soul screaming “Oh, it’s you, I finally
found you.” The drunken promises to see each other again that always happen on New York nights
like that one but are rarely followed through on. The way Harry looked at him out of the back
window of the cab, his dimples popping in his cheeks as he waved goodbye.

The thrill of getting a very earnest text message not even a minute after the cab disappeared around
the corner.

“I said I was gonna marry him,” Louis murmurs, his tears spilling over.

“Yeah, you did,” Nick says gently. “It’s okay to be scared, Louis. Frankly, I’d be more concerned if
you weren’t. You’re afraid because you already know what you stand to lose.”

“Yeah,” Louis nods. “That’s exactly it.”

“But at the end of the day, we both know Harry’s always been it for you. He’s been it for you since
that very first night in the bar. So just...stop fighting it. Like you said, people don’t usually get
second chances like this. Don’t throw it away because of a silly little thing like fear. Do you want to
be with Harry, Louis?”

“Yeah,” Louis admits tearfully, his shoulders feeling lighter the second he says it. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then just...choose to be with him,” Nick concludes. “And before you start arguing with me, yes, I
know it will take work, but it really is that simple.”

Choosing Harry really is that simple.

It always has been.

“Fuck, I can’t stop crying,” Louis sniffles, swiping his cheeks. “I’ve cried so much over the past
thirty-six hours, I don’t know how I have any tears left.”

“You’ve got to be exhausted,” Nick sympathizes.

“Yeah,” Louis admits. “I am. But I feel better now.”

“So...does that mean you’re not too exhausted to go back to the beginning of this story and give me
every little dirty detail of how it all went down?” Nick asks, batting his eyes. “Please?”

Louis laughs brightly, his stomach suddenly growling as his eyes fall on his forgotten dinner.

“I need to know, Louis,” Nick demands once Louis’ giggles die down. “I think I’ve earned it.”

“Yeah, okay, you definitely have,” Louis concedes, grabbing his plate in one hand and carefully
balancing his laptop in the other. “But first, I gotta reheat dinner, I’m fucking starving. Let’s take
this to the kitchen, shall we?”

May 2011

The smell of freshly brewed coffee stirs Louis out of slumber.

He keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the sound of Harry quietly making his way to Louis’ side of the
bed, the full coffee cup making a soft clunk as he places it on the bedside table.

“Louis,” Harry murmurs softly, gently brushing his hair off his forehead. “Louis.”

“Mmmmrmphh,” Louis mumbles, turning his head into the pillow, breathing in the scent of citrus
and sandalwood. “Don’wanna.”

“Louuuuuissssss,” Harry drawls with a giggle, the mattress shifting under his weight as he sits on
the edge of the bed, bending down and dropping little kisses along the line of Louis’ shoulder.
“Baby, wake up, I brought you coffee.”

“Yeah, you better fucking have,” Louis grumbles.

He finally opens his eyes, blinking them several times until Harry’s smiling face comes into focus.
Louis props himself up on his elbow, tilting his chin and pursing his lips for a kiss. Harry obliges
him easily, dipping in and kissing him softly.

“Morning, baby,” Harry whispers against his lips, kissing him again.

“Morning, baby,” Louis answers, nuzzling their noses together before flopping back on the
mattress, stretching out like a cat. Harry’s plum-colored sheet slips down his torso as he stretches
his arms over his head, pooling at his waist; his morning wood twitches in interest as he watches
Harry watch him hungrily.

“Why in the world are you dressed when I’m naked?” Louis asks coyly, skimming his fingers down
his bare chest, his gaze locked on Harry’s. “Feels a bit wrong, doesn’t it?”

“Ugh, I have class,” Harry says regretfully, squeezing Louis’ ankle before getting to his feet.
“Don’t tempt me to skip, you minx. I have finals coming up, I have to go to class.”

“Boo,” Louis pouts, giving up the act and rolling to his side and reaching for his cup of coffee. He
blows on it and takes a tentative sip, humming appreciatively when he realizes that Harry’s made it
just the way he likes it. “This is perfect, Hazza, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry beams, twisting his long hair up into a bun.

“It’s okay if I shower here before heading out, yeah?” Louis asks, looking up at him.
“Obviously,” Harry answers easily. “Take as long as you need. Go back to sleep if you want to
even. You don’t ever have to ask if you can stay here, Lou.”

They grin at each other goofily. Sometimes it’s hard for Louis to remember that they’ve only been
officially together for a month now because it feels like he’s been with Harry for years.

“So what’s the schedule for today then?” Louis asks, sipping his coffee as he watches Harry stuff a
thick art history textbook in his backpack, followed by his laptop and a three-ring binder.

“Class until two,” Harry replies, sitting on his desk chair as he puts his sneakers on. “Then I was
gonna work in the studio for a couple hours after that? What about you?”

“Day off,” Louis answers, taking another sip of coffee. “Was gonna go find somewhere nice and
quiet to write.”

“You could just stay here if you want,” Harry suggests, tying his shoe.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, looking up at him with a smile. “Niall’s got class all day and he’s already
gone. I’ll be gone. You’ll have all the quiet you need. You have your laptop with you, yeah?”

“I do,” Louis affirms.

“Then just stay here, Lou,” Harry insists. “Who knows, maybe a change of scenery will be
inspiring.”

“You’re right,” Louis beams, warmth spreading in his chest as he sets his coffee aside. “I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Harry beams right back, grabbing his phone and wallet and stuffing them in his pockets. “I
like the idea of you being here when I get back.”

“Me too.”

“I should head out,” Harry says, ducking down to give him another quick kiss. “I’ll be back by
four-thirty.”

“Sounds good.”

“Wanna do Yum-Yum Three for dinner?” Harry asks. “I’m craving Thai.”

“I thought we liked Yum-Yum Two better?”

“No, it’s Three,” Harry asserts, picking up his backpack. “Their pad see ew is different, trust me,
Lou, Yum-Yum Three is definitely better.”

“Yum-Yum Three it is then,” Louis agrees, snuggling back into bed, hugging one of Harry’s pillows
to his chest. “Have a good day at class, baby, I love you.”

Harry’s backpack hits the floor with a loud thunk. Louis sits straight up and looks over at him, his
heart starting to race as he takes in Harry’s startled expression, his green eyes wide and his hand
pressed to his chest.
Oops.

That may have been the first time he said those three words to Harry’s face.

“I love you too,” Harry blurts out.

“Yeah?” Louis asks, a smile slowly creeping across his face, butterflies dancing low in his belly.
“It’s not too soon, is it? It’s soon–”

“Who the fuck cares?” Harry grins, his dimples popping. “When you know, you know, right?”

“Right,” Louis nods, matching Harry’s smile. “And I know. I love you, Harry. I love you so
much.”

“I–fuck,” Harry breathes, crossing the room in two long strides, taking Louis’ face in his big hands
and kissing him firmly, his tongue sliding into his mouth when he squeaks in surprise. Louis clings
to him, kissing him back with equal fervor.

He loves him.

“I love you so much, Lou,” Harry mutters against his lips, pressing kisses between almost every
single word. “I can’t believe I found you. I’m so lucky.”

“I love you too,” Louis laughs giddily, breaking the kiss and shoving him away playfully. “You
have to go, you’re going to be late to class!”

“Shit, you’re right,” Harry breathes, kissing him one more time before striding back to the bedroom
door, grabbing his backpack and slinging it on as he steps out into the living room. “You better be
in that bed naked when I get back.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Louis calls after him.

“Love you!” Harry shouts, the front door opening.

“Love you too!” Louis shouts back.

The door closes and Louis flops back into bed, smiling so hard his face hurts.

He really is gonna marry that boy one day.

 Chapter 14

Harry carefully places one of his new paintings on an easel and then takes a step back, brushing his
hands together as he contemplates the collection of pieces he’s assembled for a meeting with a
potential new client. He blows out a big breath, raking his fingers through his hair and scrubbing
his hand down his cheek.

Something’s missing.

He’s just not sure what.

Harry never knows exactly what he should do for these pitches. Does he demonstrate his range or
does he concentrate on a particular theme instead? Should he stick to his most recent work or
should he pull from deeper in his portfolio and showcase his old favorites? Normally Liam is on
hand to advise Harry on which pieces to pull, but he’s on Fire Island with Zayn, so Harry’s on his
own for this one, with very little to go on other than the fact that the client wants a portrait and that
it’s “important” that he land this commission. He’s still not sure what’s so urgent that it can’t wait
till after the holiday weekend, but he knows better than to argue with Liam about these things, and
besides, he was in the studio anyway since he was planning on working through the weekend to
keep himself occupied, just like he’s done every day this week.

Oh.

Harry suddenly knows exactly what’s missing from this presentation.

Striding over to his storage closet, Harry flips on the light as he steps inside, clicking his tongue as
he scans his meticulously organized shelving units. Unframed, gallery-wrapped canvases are stored
in color-coded felt sleeves, with numbered boards of foam core in between each one, while the
framed pieces all live in boxes, the outside spines of which are color coded and numbered as well,
so everything can be easily found. He walks over to the blue section of shelves without even having
to consult his archival list; after all, he just put these boxes back into storage a month ago, he
knows exactly where they are. Harry slides out the box labeled with the number one, its weight
familiar in his hands as he hefts it up, tucking his chin over one of the corners. He carries it back
out to the studio space and carefully places it on one of his display tables, sliding his fingers under
the tabs to open it.

Even though he knows what’s inside, Harry’s breath still catches as he pulls the lid away and
twenty-five-year-old Louis is revealed, gazing at him with wonder and soft adoration. It feels like a
lifetime ago, but Harry remembers it like it was yesterday.

“I want to be with you, Louis. I want to know everything about you. The good, the bad, the ugly. All
of it. All of you. If you’ll let me, that is. And I want to share myself in return. I know it sounds crazy
because we just met, but it’s how I feel. Is that weird?”

“No. No, it’s not. I want all of that, Haz. All of you. Everything you said, I want it too.”

Harry’s heart clenches in his chest.

It’s been seven days since he and Louis slept together. Six days since he’d chased Louis down the
next morning, laying himself completely bare and putting his entire heart and soul on the line by
saying that he wanted another chance, that they deserved the chance to get it right this time.

And it’s been complete radio silence from him ever since.

Harry knows he said that Louis could take all the time he needed to think things through, and he
meant it. He really did. He respects Louis’ need for space, but fuck, these past five days have felt
like an eternity. The confidence that he’d felt leaving Louis’ apartment on Sunday morning has
been slowly ebbing away with every passing hour, doubt creeping in and taking its place. Could he
have done things differently that morning? Did he scare Louis off by being too open and too
earnest? Harry knows that Louis’ afraid of being hurt again, but he really doesn’t know what else
he could have said to convince him that things were going to be different this time. That he was
different. So now, he just has to trust that he did everything he could, and that’s really fucking hard.
He’s this close to knocking on Louis’ door again, begging him to just let him know what else he
needs from him in order to make his choice.

But he’s not going to do that.

He’s not.

Newly resolved, Harry gingerly removes the precious painting from its box, placing it on the table
and taking the foam rubber guards off the corners of the frame, setting them aside. Grabbing a
microfiber cloth, he polishes off the dust that’s accumulated since putting the painting back in
storage, not stopping until the rich, cherry-stained wood that he specifically chose to accent the
maroon of Louis’ t-shirt is gleaming under the studio lights. Harry turns toward his display of
work, eyeing it critically, looking at where he might want to put the portrait. After a long moment,
he grabs another easel and sets it up on the end. He moves one of the new pieces he just finished
this week, a painting of two boys lying in a field of wildflowers with their pinkies linked, to the
empty easel on the end, putting it next to a portrait he did last year of his friend Sarah on the
Brooklyn Bridge at sunrise, her long floral dress billowing out behind her. That leaves an open
space next to the chapel scene painting, which sits proudly in the middle, a solo portrait of his
mother and another new painting of a picnic in Sheep’s Meadow on a summer afternoon on its
other side. Harry picks up Louis’ portrait and carefully places it on the empty easel, taking a step
back to survey the new arrangement.

He nods in satisfaction.

Bingo.

Harry checks the time, his nerves kicking up a notch when he realizes his prospective client is due
to arrive in the next fifteen minutes. He starts to second guess himself, wondering if he should pull
more traditional portraits, suddenly wishing, not for the first time, that he had something more
recent of Louis to show, now that he’s had eight years worth of honing his skills. He has his
sketchbook though, if this mystery client wants to see more, it’s full of ideas.

His phone rings. Harry pulls it out of his pocket, smiling at the picture on the screen as he accepts
the call, putting it on speaker as he walks over to the sink in the corner of the room.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” Harry asks, placing the phone on the counter, as he turns
the sink on.

“I am on vacation,” Liam protests good-naturedly. “I’m sitting on the beach with a mimosa. I’m on
vacation!”
“And yet, here you are calling me,” Harry teases, soaping up his hands. “Do you really miss me
that much, Leeyum?”

“Desperately,” Liam deadpans. “I’m just calling to make sure you didn’t forget about your meeting
today.”

“You mean the one that’s supposed to start in like fifteen minutes?” Harry asks, rinsing his hands,
knocking the faucet closed with his elbow and grabbing a towel. “You wound me, Liam.”

“It’s happened before, H,” Liam points out. “Especially when you’ve been working like you have
all week. Just doing my job.”

“Fair,” Harry concedes, hanging the towel back up. “But a fifteen minute warning is cutting it
awful close though, Li, what if I had forgotten, huh?”

“I knew you were planning on being at the studio all day anyway,” Liam says. “And did I mention
that I’m on vacation?”

“You may have, yes,” Harry laughs, studying his reflection in the mirror. He fluffs his hair and
fiddles with the delicate chain around his neck, sliding the clasp back where it belongs. “Speaking
of which, am I gonna get you in trouble with Zayn for making a work call?”

“Nah,” Liam replies. “He knows this is important. And besides, he’s not even here right now; he’s
getting us more drinks.”

“I see, I see,” Harry hums, tucking the tails of his lilac and white striped dress shirt into his high-
waisted lilac pants, and adjusting the suspenders on his shoulders. Scrunching his nose, he undoes
one of his buttons to reveal the tank top he has on underneath his shirt. “So what you’re saying is
this is a secret work call, Liam.”

“...Maybe,” Liam admits. “But Zayn does know you have a big meeting today, it’s fine.”

“Whatever you say,” Harry laughs, redoing the button.

“Seriously though,” Liam continues as Harry’s internal button debate rages on, unbuttoning and
buttoning it again. “How are you feeling? Do you have everything ready?”

“I do,” Harry confirms, undoing the button and leaving it this time, smoothing his hand down his
stomach. It really does look better this way. “I mean, I wish you were here ’cause I’m second
guessing everything I’ve pulled to show him. I still don’t get why this couldn’t wait till next week,
Li. What’s the big rush?”

“Mr. Williams was very insistent about meeting with you today, Harry,” Liam explains patiently, as
if they haven’t gone over all of this already. “It’s the only day he had available. I told him that you
only take appointments during the week, but he was very persistent–”

“Pushy is more like it,” Harry huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, fine, he was a little pushy,” Liam agrees.

“Thank you,” Harry triumphantly. “I mean, it’s not just a weekend, Liam, it’s a holiday weekend.”
“You accepted the appointment, H,” Liam points out. “You could have said no, no matter how
pushy the guy was being. You’ve said no before.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t have anything else to do this
weekend.”

“Still no call?” Liam asks, sympathetic.

“No,” Harry replies, scuffing his boot on the floor. “No call.”

“Harry, it’s gonna be–”

“Look, I can’t talk about it right now, I can’t,” Harry interrupts. “I gotta get my head in the game.
Since I have you, can I walk you through the pieces I pulled?”

“Sure,” Liam says easily. “I have a few minutes before Zayn gets back, so go ahead, walk me
through it.”

“Okay, so I have the chapel painting in the–”

Someone knocks on the door.

“Shit,” Harry mutters under his breath, checking his watch and crouching down as if his visitor can
see him through the door. “Liam, he’s here early. I gotta go.”

“Good luck, H,” Liam says. “Text me later and let me know how everything went, okay?”

“Will do,” Harry says. “Have a good beach day, don’t forget sunscreen.”

“I won’t,” Liam chuckles. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

Harry hangs up, sliding his phone into his pocket. Mr. Williams knocks again, spurring him into
action.

“Be right there,” he calls, standing to his full height, tousling his hair. He strides towards the door
confidently, slipping into professional mode as he straightens his shoulders.

He’s going to fucking nail this pitch, goddammit.

Harry opens the door and his heart skips a beat, immediately stuttering into overdrive at the sight of
Louis standing in the hallway, smiling nervously and looking just about as beautiful as Harry’s ever
seen him. His slim black jeans hug his thighs and his short-sleeved button down is sexy yet demure,
the top loop of the “h” of his chest piece barely peeking out from under the collar. The shirt’s rich
navy color complements his permanently golden skin and somehow makes his blue eyes look even
brighter than they normally are.

“Hi,” Louis rasps, smoothing his hair across his forehead, the silver streaks at his temples catching
in the light.

“Lou?” Harry asks, shaking his head a little because he can’t believe Louis is here, actually here.
“What are you–? How did you–? Oh my God, hi.”
“Hi,” Louis says again, his eyes crinkling as his smile widens. “Can we talk?”

“Yes, of course, always,” Harry replies eagerly, holding the door open wider for Louis and then
immediately stopping in his tracks, his stomach dropping as he remembers his appointment. “Fuck.
Actually we can’t right now? Shit, oh my God.”

Louis looks at him questioningly, a smile still tugging at his lips.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t believe that Louis chose to show up now, of all the possible times he could show up, he
picked the exact moment when Harry can’t see him.

“Lou, I’m so sorry,” Harry apologizes profusely. “I’m dying to talk to you, you have no idea how
much I want to talk. Or hopefully you do know. You’re here, after all. How did you know I was
here, by the way? Or even know where my studio is, for that matter?”

“Well, I–”

“Jesus, it’s good to see you. I’m so glad you’re here, please, you have to know that. Tell me you
know that.”

“I know that,” Louis replies, pressing his lips together, his face scrunching up fondly.

“There’s so much I want to show you,” Harry babbles, thinking of all of his new work. “So many
things I’ve been meaning to show you, Lou, but it’s just...it’s not a good time? Listen, I never do
this on weekends anymore, but I have a client consultation in a few minutes.”

“I know you do.”

“Liam set it up for me,” Harry continues. “Apparently this guy’s really pushy–”

“Would we actually call it ‘pushy,’ Haz?” Louis asks, his eyes twinkling. “I think I prefer
‘determined’ over ‘pushy,’ but that’s just me.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Harry stammers, his brain finally starting to catch on to what Louis is
saying. “Are you–”

“Mr. Williams?” Louis asks, arching one eyebrow. “Honestly, Hazza, I thought using my middle
name would be a dead giveaway, but Liam thought it was clever.”

“Oh my God,” Harry breathes. “It’s you? You’re my pushy client?”

“That’s me, yes,” Louis nods. “I am your persistent client.”

Harry sucks in a breath, his hand flying to his hair as tears spring to his eyes, unbidden. His heart is
pounding hard, so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if Louis could see his pulse fluttering in his
throat.

He can’t believe this is actually happening. For all his bravado, he still didn’t allow himself to think
that it would.
“So can I come in?” Louis asks, his face almost unbearably soft as he smiles up at him. “Sorry, I
guess maybe I am a pushy client after all, because I do have an appointment, you know.”

Harry laughs wetly, nodding as he holds the door open for him, allowing him to come inside.

“But why did you make an appointment?” Harry asks, closing the door behind him and leaning
back against it as Louis turns to face him. “You know you never need to do that, right? You could
have just called me, Lou. I’ve…”

Harry trails off, his throat tightening as he loses the battle against his impending tears, two fat ones
starting a cavalcade down his cheeks.

“I’ve been going out of my mind waiting for you to call,” Harry whispers hoarsely, his chin
trembling as his gaze drops to the floor. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry for making you worry,” Louis apologizes, closing the distance between them.
He gently wipes Harry’s tears away with his thumb, tipping his chin up so he can look him in the
eye. “I just...I got this whole idea in my head, and once I did, I couldn’t let it go. It’s pretty silly
now that I think about it really.”

“I doubt that,” Harry sniffles. “Sorry, I’m like...ruining everything. I’m such a mess, Lou.”

“You’re not,” Louis smiles, tucking a curl behind his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, taking his left hand and squeezing it tightly. “I cried for like two days straight
this week, Hazza. You’re fine, baby. This is a lot to process.”

“It is,” Harry agrees tearfully, swiping under his eyes. He walks them over to the sink counter, the
pressure from Louis’ grip on his hand grounding him the entire time. Harry grabs a paper towel,
wetting it and wiping his tears away, blowing his nose noisily. He takes a deep, cleansing breath,
exhaling slowly as he focuses on Louis’ beautiful face. “Can we start this over?” Harry asks,
balling the paper towel up and throwing it away. “I promise I won’t fuck it up this time.”

“You didn’t fuck it up this time,” Louis laughs, his smile as bright as the sun. “But sure, we can
start over.”

“Why did you make an appointment today, Lou?” Harry asks, leaning back against the counter.

“Eight and a half years ago, you asked to paint my portrait, Harry,” Louis starts, his gaze steady, his
voice confident. “That's how all this started, how we started. I fell in love with you that day and my
life hasn’t been the same ever since. And through everything, the good and the bad, through all the
bullshit we’ve put each other through, that love has never gone away, no matter how hard I’ve tried
to leave it behind. And I’ve tried, Harry. I tried so hard. I went to the other side of the world trying
to escape you, but it feels like everything I’ve done since the moment I left has slowly been
bringing me back to you, back where I belong. Back home. So I...I just thought it was fitting that I
sit for you today. On the day that we start over. Can I do that?”

“Lou,” Harry whispers, tears streaming down his face. “Baby, of course you can. I’ve been dying to
paint you again.”
“I’m sorry I got scared,” Louis continues, closing the small bit of space between them as he reaches
for another paper towel, tenderly wiping Harry’s tears away. “I’m still scared, if I’m being honest,
but I’m more scared of being without you for even one minute longer than I already have been.
There’s no one like you, Harry. You make everything better, you make everything more. You make
me feel so alive, baby. You make everything in my life beautiful. If someone asked me what my
wildest dream come true would be, do you know what I’d say? It wouldn’t be having a bestseller.
Hell, it wouldn’t even be having a seller.”

“What?” Harry gulps, his heart beating so hard it feels like it’s about to explode. “What would it
be?”

“You, Harry,” Louis says simply, smiling as he traces his finger down the slope of Harry’s nose,
gently bopping the tip. “Mine would be you.”

A half-sob, half-overjoyed laugh bursts from Harry’s lips as he takes Louis’ face in his hands,
ducking down and kissing him firmly on the mouth.

“Mine would be you too, Lou,” Harry whispers against his lips, unable to stop himself from kissing
him one more time, nuzzling their noses together before pulling back. Louis looks absolutely
radiant, his blue eyes shining.

“It’s always been you for me, Haz,” Louis confesses, tucking a curl behind Harry’s ear. “No one
else.”

“It’s always been you for me, too,” Harry replies softly, brushing his fingers down Louis’ cheek. “I
was a goner from the instant you winked at me.”

“I don’t want to run anymore, baby,” Louis murmurs, resting their foreheads together as he slides
his arms up around his neck. His warm, minty breath puffs against Harry’s lips and his fingers toy
with the ends of his hair, tickling at the base of his neck. “I believe you when you say that things
will be different this time. And I’ll do whatever I can to make sure of it too. Because I love you,
and I always will.”

“I love you, too,” Harry promises, linking his arms around Louis’ waist, pulling him completely
flush against his body. “For the rest of our lives, Lou.”

“For the rest of our lives,” Louis agrees. “Sounds good to me.”

Harry isn’t sure who moves first to connect their lips, him or Louis. Maybe they both move at the
same time. All he knows is that they’re suddenly sharing the same breath, their lips moving
together as they kiss softly.

Sweetly.

Perfectly.

They kiss slowly at first, their mouths just getting to know each other again without the desperate,
hurried frenzy of too much tequila and pent up sexual tension and yearning. Harry melts as Louis’
tongue teasingly traces along the seam of his lips. He sighs as his lips part, allowing Louis to lick
inside. Louis groans softly as their tongues stroke against each other, the intensity of the kiss
starting to build. A fire catches low in Harry’s belly, his cock twitching in his loose slacks. He lets
his hands wander up Louis’ back and down his sides, mapping his curves, feeling the dents of his
ribs and the soft dip of his waist before settling on the generous curve of his ass. Louis gasps as
Harry squeezes, rocking their hips together. His grip on Harry’s shoulders tightens as he rolls up
onto his tiptoes, his tongue thrusting against his lips insistently. Harry gets the message real fast,
spinning them and hauling Louis onto the counter in one swift maneuver, not even missing a beat
as they keep on kissing. Harry steps in between Louis’ parted thighs and Louis wraps his legs
around him, whimpering softly and throwing his head back as Harry starts to kiss down his neck,
popping his top button open and pulling the fabric aside. The mark he left there last Saturday is
practically gone now, only the faintest yellow smudge remaining on his skin.

Harry would very much like to rectify that matter as soon as possible.

“Harry, fuck,” Louis gasps as Harry attaches his lips the exact same spot, sucking hard. “It took
ages for that to go away, you know!”

Harry just snickers in response, peppering little kisses over Louis’ reddened skin.

“We have to stop,” Louis murmurs, pressing kisses to the crown of his head. “You have to paint me,
baby. Or draw me, at least.”

“Think of all the other things we could be doing right now,” Harry whines, kissing under Louis’
jaw, nipping at his skin gently. “Naked things. So many naked things. Painting is so boring, Lou, do
I really have to?”

“Yes, you have to,” Louis laughs, carding one hand through Harry’s hair as Harry continues to kiss
along his neck and jaw. “I am a paying customer, after all, and I–”

Louis stops abruptly, going completely still, his blunt nails digging into Harry’s shoulder. Harry
freezes in place.

“Lou?” Harry asks, pulling back in concern. “Everything okay?”

Louis stares at a point over his shoulder, his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide.

“Is that Danny? In the chapel?” Louis asks, his voice slightly strangled. “From Only the Brave?”

“Yes,” Harry answers, deciding that now is not the moment to beat around the bush. “It is.”

Louis untangles himself from their embrace, sliding off the counter and walking towards the
display of paintings Harry had set out for his meeting. For his meeting with him. Harry hangs back,
giving Louis plenty of space to take everything in. He stands in front of the chapel painting for a
long time, just staring at it. At one point, he reaches out like he’s going to touch it, barely stopping
himself, clenching his hand in a fist and pressing it to his lips as he moves on, looking at the other
paintings.

Harry chews on his lip, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he tries to gauge Louis’
reaction, doing his best not to intrude on his experience.

“And this,” Louis says, his voice wavering as he stops in front of the wildflower painting. “This is
Adam and Seth. Feels Like Home, chapter fourteen. You were...there was a sketch of this in your
bedroom last weekend.”
“Yes,” Harry nods, surprised that Louis noticed it, but also not, because he notices everything.
“There was.”

“Fuck, I knew it looked familiar,” Louis says, awe in his voice as he studies the painting. “I just...I
couldn’t place it then.”

“Well...we were otherwise occupied,” Harry mumbles.

“You painted this in less than a week?”

“Yes,” Harry blushes, scuffing his loafer on the floor.

Louis stops briefly in front of his original portrait, smiling at it before moving onto the Sheep’s
Meadow painting.

“Defenseless,” he pronounces.

“Yes,” Harry whispers. “Chapter two.”

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis breathes, swiping under his eyes and scrubbing his hand down his cheek.
“Really?”

“Well, I couldn’t leave that one out, could I?” Harry asks stubbornly. “You said it was your most
popular book.”

“It’s a book about us, Haz. A book about everything that went wrong with us. How could you–”

“You said not to read too much into it.”

Louis barks a laugh, finally turning to look at him. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, pure love
shining in his eyes.

“My original plan was just the chapel scene,” Harry explains. “I knew I wanted to paint it as soon
as I read it. I was just gonna leave it at that one painting, but your work, Lou, the beautiful pictures
you painted with your words, they just...got in my head. You know how you used to say that some
stories just demand to be told? Like they just won’t leave you alone until you sit down and tell
them?”

“I still say that, actually.”

“Well, it’s the same with paintings,” Harry says. “I just...I saw them so clearly, y’know? I couldn’t
let them go. I only hope I did them justice, baby.”

“Are they for your show?” Louis asks, wiping a tear away.

“They don’t have to be,” Harry reassures him quickly. “I would never show them without your
permission, Louis. You say the word and these will never see the light of day, I promise.”

“Are you nuts?” Louis asks incredulously, striding back over to him, a look of determination on his
face. “Harry, baby–”

Louis takes his face in his hands, kissing him solidly; relief rushes through Harry’s veins as he
clings to Louis, kissing him back with equal fervor.
“Don’t you dare say these will never see the light of day, Haz,” Louis says, breaking the kiss. “That
would be so wrong? They’re the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen. You have to show them,
Harry, you have to.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Louis nods, tapping the end of his nose, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “I mean, fuck, I
already want to reprint Only the Brave with that painting as the cover.”

“Seriously?” Harry asks. “God, Louis, for a second I thought you were upset.”

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” Louis apologizes, pecking his lips quickly. “I was just shocked, that’s all.
They look exactly like they did in my head. Like, exactly. How did you do that?”

“It’s all there on the page,” Harry says simply. “You make it easy, Lou. You’ve always been my
muse, you know that. And after all this time, you still are, baby. You always will be.”

“I love you, Harry,” Louis says, gently thumbing over the spot where his dimple usually appears. “I
love you so much.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing Louis say it.

“I love you too, Louis,” Harry beams, kissing him gently and then grabbing his sketchpad, tucking
under his arm. “Now, can we please go home? I’ll sketch you when we get there, I promise I will.
I’ve just been cooped up here all week, and there’s nowhere comfortable for you to sit, I really
should get a couch or something here–”

Louis silences him with a kiss.

“Yeah, let’s go home,” he agrees. “Where is home? Yours or mine?”

“Home is wherever you are,” Harry says honestly, looking around for his keys. “But your
apartment has better lighting for drawing. And I like your Chinese place better too. Can we order
takeout? I’m starving.”

“Boom boom Pao chicken,” Louis says, beaming when Harry giggles. “I told you I’d never be able
to call it anything else ever again. So takeout and then sketching, yes?”

“Yes,” Harry nods, finding his keys, twirling them around his finger. “Sounds perfect, baby.”

“I agree,” Louis says, opening the studio door and leaning against it, waiting as Harry gives the
studio one last quick glance. He holds out his right hand, grinning as he waggles his fingers,
beckoning Harry over, the rope pulling the anchor home.

Just like it was always meant to.

Harry’s heart swells with love as he crosses over to Louis, taking his hand and threading their
fingers together. Louis’ hand is soft, warm, and fits perfectly in his own, like it was made only for
him to hold. He looks down, smiling at the way their tattoos align, forever tying him to Louis’
side.

There’s no place else he’d rather be.

 Epilogue

“Mini avocado toast, sir?”

Louis looks down at the waitress’ tray, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

How are avocado toasts still a thing? Their fifteen minutes of fame should have been up ages ago,
in his opinion, and yet, they still keep cropping up at every single goddamn event he’s been to over
the past two years. His stomach grumbles angrily.

He’s hardly been able to eat a thing all night.

“No, thank you,” Louis replies, doing his best to keep the disdain out of his voice. “Have you got
anything more substantial by chance? Sliders? Mini tacos? Those fried mac and cheese thingies I
saw going around? Anything other than avocado toast? Please?”

The waitress giggles.

“My girlfriend has a tray of sliders,” the waitress says, leaning in conspiratorially. “She’s down at
the other end of the room. Tall and hot pink hair, you can’t miss her.”

Taking a sip of his Peroni, Louis follows the girl’s gaze, stepping aside so he can see around the
line of columns that traverse the slightly narrow length of the event space. Sure enough, he spots a
head of hot pink hair in the crowd, slowly weaving her way through the cluster of cocktail tables
situated on the other side of the curving staircase.

“I’d move fast if I were you,” the waitress advises with a smile. “They won’t last long. You know
how people can be vultures at these things.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Louis chuckles drily, taking another swing of beer. “This isn’t my first
rodeo.”

The waitress laughs, winking at him as she moves on, offering up the toasts to her next
unsuspecting victims. Louis’ stomach growls in protest again, so he sets off in pursuit of the pink-
haired waitress with the sliders. He’s stopped every few feet, people clapping him on the shoulder
as he passes by, offering him their hearty congratulations. Louis smiles graciously, always making
sure to look people in the eye as he shakes their hands, chatting briefly and thanking them for
coming, all the while ignoring the steady, insistent rumbling of his stomach.

Such is the burden of being the guest of honor.

Louis never dreamed this would happen when he handed Zayn the manuscript for his fourth novel
eighteen months ago. He looks around the room, still flabbergasted to see his book on the shelves,
mass produced, with Harry’s painting on the cover, a man in profile looking down at the dandelion
in his hand, the seeds blowing away in a curlicue, leading up to the title.

Always You.

None of this was supposed to happen. The book was meant to be a sequel to Feels Like Home, the
next in his line of self-published works . There was nothing different in his mind about this one,
except for the fact that it was the fastest he’d ever written a novel, ninety thousand words pouring
out of him not even six months after finalizing his outline, even though he’d had to juggle both
writing and his day job. Louis had given it to Zayn to edit, just like he’d done with all of his
previous work, and for Louis, that was that.

It was at their traditional fancy dinner as payment for his editing services that Zayn said enough
was enough; he absolutely had to publish this one through one of their imprints. This novel was the
one, and he wouldn’t be taking no for an answer this time.

Louis, of course, said no.

Always You would still be the one, even if he self published it, he’d stubbornly asserted.

What he hadn’t counted on was Zayn playing dirty and getting Harry involved in convincing him.
Harry had, of course, been instantly on board with the whole idea, to the point where Louis had
joked that Harry actually wanted this more for him than he did. (“I do,” Harry retorted stubbornly.
“It’s what you deserve, baby.”) After a good amount of soul searching, along with multiple long
conversations with the love of his life about what the fuck he was so afraid of in regards to this
level of success and how he definitely wasn’t going to let it change or define him, Louis had finally
said yes.

A week later, he signed on the dotted line on a publishing contract with Penguin Random House’s
boutique imprint, Dutton, the same imprint that John fucking Irving had originally published The
World According to Garp under. He had spent several months doing rewrites in his off hours,
ensuring that Always You would be able to stand alone, that people would be able to connect to
Adam and Seth’s story from this entry point rather than their beginnings in Feels Like Home. (“You
could just let me publish that one too, Louis, it would make this a lot easier,” Zayn had commented
during one marathon editing session.) The entire process had been difficult, especially with Louis
refusing to lighten his own editing load at Anchor Books, but it had also been one of the most
creatively rewarding experiences of his life.

All of his hard work over the past year has brought him here, to the Housing Works Bookshop in
SoHo and the official launch party for his “debut” novel. Louis still can’t wrap his head around the
“debut” bit, but he supposes it’s like Lizzo getting nominated for Best New Artist on her third
studio album. Zayn’s welcome speech is done, as is Louis’ selected reading, so he can actually
relax and enjoy the party, the nerve-wracking public speaking part over and only the signing ahead
of him.

Now, if he could just get some fucking food.

Louis ducks down an aisle of books, hoping that, by taking the route around the edges of the store
rather than the middle, he will be able to avoid the onslaught of well wishers, just for a little while.
(He’s grateful to them, he really is, he’s just really fucking hungry.) He emerges on the other side of
the stacks, coming out into the open reception area by the staircase, barely stopping himself from
cheering when he spots the pink-haired waitress.

Louis’ triumph quickly turns to defeat when he sees someone take the last slider off her tray.

God fucking dammit.

Louis wrinkles his nose, pressing his lips together as he scans the room, looking for more of the
good appetizers. The crowd shifts and he immediately forgets about his stomach when he spots
Harry standing at one of the cocktail tables, clutching a glass of red wine in his hand, deep in
conversation with Niall and his boyfriend Shawn.

His heart skips a beat at the sight of him. Several beats, actually. Louis can’t help but stand there
and admire him for a moment, wondering once again how in the hell he managed to get so damn
lucky.

Harry opted for a more subtle, classic look tonight rather than one of his usual loud, colorfully
printed suits. Louis had insisted that he wanted Harry to wear whatever the fuck he wanted to wear
tonight but Harry had insisted right back that it was Louis’ night and he was just the arm candy.
Still, Harry cuts an impressive figure in an impeccably tailored double-breasted black suit, his rich,
chocolate curls tumbling down just past his shoulders and his slightly undone ivory dress shirt and
burgundy boots adding the perfect amount of Harry-esque flair to the ensemble.

Subtle look or not, Harry’s still always the most beautiful man in the room.

And he’s his.

Harry’s attention shifts, almost as if he feels Louis’ gaze on him; their eyes meet across the room
and Harry’s face lights up, his dimples carving deep craters in his cheeks as he beams.

“Baby!”

“The man of the hour,” Niall cheers as Louis walks over to them, placing his nearly empty beer
bottle on the table. “Great job on the reading, Tommo.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Louis acknowledges, turning to Harry and pecking a kiss on his waiting
lips. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, baby,” Harry murmurs, smiling as he nuzzles their noses together. “Niall’s right, you did so
fantastic up there.”

“Congratulations, Louis,” Shawn adds, the epitome of Canadian politeness. “This is all so
awesome.”

“Thank you,” Louis says genuinely. “Are you guys enjoying the party? Sorry I’ve been so busy and
can't hang out much.”

“Don’t be silly, we’re fine,” Harry admonishes, squeezing Louis’ shoulder comfortingly. “Are you
fine, though? You were making that angry hedgehog face of yours just now, I saw it.”

“Ugh, I’m fucking starving,” Louis whines, his neglected stomach rumbling again. “I keep missing
all the good appetizers too. I keep getting offered the fucking avocado toasts, which like, it’s my
party, Hazza, shouldn’t they have known to keep those horrible things off the menu? Honestly, I
told Zayn no avocados, I wonder if this is a breach of contract.”

“Monsters,” Harry snickers, picking a piece of lint off the shoulder of the burnt red v-neck sweater
that Louis paired with a swimming pool blue cashmere turtleneck and slim fitting black dress pants.
“We should definitely sue.”

“I was trying to catch the girl with the sliders,” Louis pouts. “But someone grabbed the last one
right as I got to her. Fucking vultures.”
“Oh,” Harry says casually. “Do you mean these sliders?”

“Oh my God,” Louis gasps as Harry slides a full plate of sliders over to him. “How did you–”

“I know how hard it can be to eat at these things, Lou,” Harry beams proudly. “So I’ve been
hoarding them for you, grabbing one every time they passed with them. Finally had to ask one of
the girls to get me a plate. Some of them may be cold by now, but I did my best.”

“God, I love you, Hazza,” Louis moans happily, taking a bite of one of the mini burgers. “Marry
me?”

“Already did that,” Harry beams, holding up his left hand and wiggling his manicured fingers, the
black glittery polish catching in the light. A diamond band sparkles on his ring finger, surrounded
by the large sunstone ring that Louis had proposed with seven months after they got back together
on his middle finger and the jade ring that Louis had bought him on their honeymoon in New
Zealand on his pinky. “Remember, husband?”

“Right, how could I forget,” Louis grins, running his thumb along the underside of the platinum
band on his own left ring finger. “We did do that, didn’t we, husband?”

“Oh my God,” Niall groans good-naturedly, rolling his eyes and turning his face into Shawn’s
shoulder. “You would think that you two actually going on a honeymoon would end the whole
honeymoon phase thing, but if anything you’ve gotten worse since the wedding, you assholes.”

“Aw, give them a break, babe,” Shawn grins, his arm sliding around Niall’s waist. “They’re
newlyweds. How long has it been now? Four months?”

“Three,” Harry answers, bopping the tip of Louis’ nose, smiling down at him as he polishes off his
second slider. “Three whole months.”

“Yeah, Neil,” Louis says, wiping the grease from his lips with a cocktail napkin. “We’ve only been
married three months, give us a break.”

“All I’m saying is, you’ve been in your honeymoon phase pretty much ever since you got back
together. That’s more than two years ago,” Niall points out. “Is it ever going to end?”

“Harry and Louis’ honeymoon phase? I don’t think so.”

Louis drags his gaze from his husband (his husband, it will never get old) to see Liam smirk at his
remark as he joins them, setting his champagne flute on the table.

“Thank you, Payno,” Louis says haughtily, grabbing another slider and taking a bite.

“Zayn is looking for you, by the way,” Liam informs him. “He said the signing is supposed to start
soon?”

“Right, right,” Louis says through a mouthful of burger, swallowing and wiping his mouth again.
He glances over at Harry, smiling apologetically. “Duty calls, baby.”

“Don’t apologize,” Harry admonishes, pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s your night, Lou, do what
you need to do. I’ll be here.”
“The signing’s only supposed to be for an hour or so, I think,” Louis says, finishing off his beer and
wadding up his napkin, stuffing it down the neck of the bottle. “We can all head out after that.
Wanna go to Marlowe’s? I want some frites. And a real-sized burger.”

“Sounds great,” Harry grins.

“By all means, come and give my bar money,” Niall says grandly.

“Like you actually charge us,” Louis quips, brushing his fingers along Harry’s shoulder as he goes,
Niall’s cackles following him.

Louis weaves his way back through the crowded bookshop, quickly making his way back to the
table that’s been set up for the signing.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis apologizes to the small line that’s formed in front of the table, all of them
clutching their copies of Always You. “Had to grab a bite to eat and kiss the husband, you know
how it is.”

The line titters with laughter as he settles in his chair. Zayn appears by his side, setting a full bottle
of Peroni on the table with a wink. Louis smiles at him gratefully and then grabs his pen, turning
his attention to the first person in line. The twenty-something boy approaches and Louis’ heart
grows five sizes when he sees that he is clutching a battered copy of Feels Like Home in his hands,
as well as a shiny new copy of Always You.

“Hi,” the boy says shyly. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to sign this one too?”

He’s not going to cry.

He’s not.

“Of course,” Louis says, his throat tight as he flips to the title page. “Obviously. Who should I
make it out to?”

Louis knew that the Dutton publicity team had opened up a select amount of RSVPs for the launch
to the general public, but he’s truly astounded by the amount of people who come through the line
that are familiar with his body of work. The hour flies by as Louis makes sure to give every person
the attention they deserve, chatting about favorite scenes and characters as he signs. A publicist
pops up by his side every so often, making sure he has what he needs, changing out his pens. As the
line dwindles, Louis waves Zayn off when he pops up, tapping on his watch to indicate that they’re
now running over time; he really wants to make sure everyone gets their time and no one feels
rushed.

The line is almost finished anyway.

Louis waves goodbye to the girl he just signed for, turning back to the line and barking out a laugh
when he sees that the last person standing there is his own damn husband.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry sighs, hugging his copy of Always You to his chest, his smile practically
splitting his face in two. “You’re my favorite author.”

“Oh my God, Hazza,” Louis laughs as Harry approaches. “Did you actually buy a copy? We have
them coming out of our ears at home, you know. You have the original mock-up of the book!”
“You bet your gorgeous ass I bought a copy,” Harry smirks, placing the book on the table. “Slapped
my Visa down, just like that.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Louis says affectionately. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Lou,” Harry replies. “Now sign my book please.”

“Any particular page, sir?” Louis asks.

“The inscription page, please, baby,” Harry requests.

Louis looks up at him, smiling softly. Harry’s green eyes are shining, full of love and pride. Louis
turns to the inscription page, grabbing his pen and thumbing at his wedding ring. He looks down at
the page, seeing the same words that are inscribed inside the band on his finger.

For Harry.

Mine would be you.

Louis purses his lips, blowing Harry a kiss as he circles the inscription, adding a word and
scrawling his name under it.

Always.
End Notes

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