Chapter Text
“Hazza!”
That bright voice, the first half of a ‘Marco/Polo’ across the pool of people in the club, erupted from somewhere on the edge of the dance floor. Even over the conversations and the music, Harry heard him, loud and clear.
Because Louis was loud. His name was built into the word. Lou. Loud. Louis loud. Lou is loud.
He must be on at least his fourth pint if he was laughing at word play.
Zayn muttered, “here we go,” the instant he saw the wide grin weave its way onto Harry’s face.
That only made Harry's smile wider. He threw out his arm and called back the answering ‘Polo,’ the alcohol he'd had making his accent thick enough so that the two names almost rhymed.
“Louis!”
With a week to the start of their second tour, the five of them had decided to celebrate all together with a night out, one final weekend that was completely theirs. They still had rehearsals—sound checks, wardrobe fittings, a photoshoot and the Brits on Tuesday—but tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday were completely their own. They’d been here for a few hours now and Harry had taken a break from dancing with Louis and Niall to grab another pint, settling in next to Liam and Zayn in the round corner booth they’d been occupying for the past hour.
He'd needed the break, for more liquor to wet his throat, for a change of scenery to clear his head. The dangerous mixture of alcohol and dancing and Louis and the sea of anonymity and the heady thrum of the music had put him dangerously close to an edge that he didn’t want to freefall over.
A strong arm looped over his shoulders as Louis all but careened into his side. The white YSL tee he was wearing, the one with the exploding head on it that had cost well over 200 quid, glowed beneath the black lights.
Harry thought it was oddly fitting, the image. Drunk Louis was almost the same as sober Louis, really. He was a spitfire, a firework explosion with a mouth full of snarky comments that turned his flare of a soul into a full on lightsaber. With enough alcohol in him, Louis didn’t need an audience to go into full theatre mode, drawing laughter and smiles from everyone blessed enough to be around him. The shirt seemed to send out a warning of what would happen to anyone who strayed too close to his magnetic orbit.
“What you lot even doing anyway? We’re at a club and you’re fucking sat here like—” sharp blue eyes flicked to Zayn, hint of a smirk touching his lips, “—three twats judging the dance portion of a competition.”
Niall burst out laughing at the look on Zayn’s face and Liam groaned, obnoxiously so (for Zayn’s benefit probably), but Louis only grinned.
Louis had let his hair grow out a touch in the last couple months before tour, had spiked it up before they’d gone out, but he must’ve been running his hands through the fluffy strands. Some of it had started to fall, fanning across his forehead into the telltale fringe. He ducked forward and swiped the fringe to the side out of his eyes, which were logging the three pints and four empty glasses laid out around the table.
He looked like a king plotting the next moves on a battlefield map. Harry immediately tightened his hold on his pint. Zayn lifted his to drink and Liam laced his fingers together around his own. Louis arched a brow at the three of them and made a casual swipe for Harry’s.
“We’re not dancing,” Zayn said, flippant, but he’d had enough to drink that he’d gone all loose-limbed himself, flopped in the booth with his arms splayed across the back of the seats behind Harry and Liam.
Ply Zayn with enough alcohol and his normally steely resolve to not take any of Louis’s verbal bait all but vanished. He didn’t lose himself really. No, alcohol made Zayn relax, care just a bit less about what others thought about him. Harry supposed it had something to do with his heritage. Zayn had been being careful with his image long before they all became famous. It always made him happy to see Zayn stop caring quite so much about what others thought.
“We’re staking our claim.”
Even if it meant caring a bit too much about club decor.
“You focus on the strangest shite when you’re flutered, mate,” Niall laughed, echoing Harry’s thoughts. He’d been out on the dance floor with Louis and decided that seats were beneath him, plopping half his arse on the edge of the table closest to Liam.
Niall was one to talk though. If they didn’t keep him occupied, he had a tendency to educate them on strange facts when he’d had enough to drink.
“It’s a circular booth!” Zayn protested, eyes wide in the way only alcohol could make them. He was still wearing his leather jacket, even in the heat of the club. Next to him, Liam snorted and offered his pint to Niall, who took it with an easy grin and a cheers, mate.
Louis again made a grab for Harry’s pint, but he only tightened his grip even more. He was well-practiced in this.
Until deft fingers twisted his right nipple and he wasn’t fast enough to smack the offending hand away.
“Hey,” he whinged, drawing it out and rubbing at his poor nipple. Louis grinned and swiped his pint up from the table, swilling it twice before swigging half of what was left.
Harry gave up too quickly. Louis was warm against his side, fingers of the hand still around his shoulders tapping the beat of the music—David Guetta right now—out against his skin and it seemed like a fair trade to lose half a pint. He was pleasantly tipping past tipsy, the rush of alcohol a tingle through his veins. He tracked the movement of Louis’s tongue sliding across his bottom lip, catching the ale shining there before it could slip down his chin, lips slightly parted, always hinting a grin, wet and plush in the lighting, inviting and—
Shit. Harry tore his gaze away and stared towards one of the black walls by the dance floor. He quickly sorted through the mental list of words he kept at the ready for moments like these when he started down the Louis-rabbit-hole and latched on to the one he’d chosen for the day.
Queue. Q-U-E-U-E. Queue. Cue. It didn’t even make sense. How would it sound if he even tried to pronounce every single vowel? What about Qway-way? He should start using that instead. Why were the French so strange? He blamed it on the royalty. It was always the royals. Wasn’t one of them known as the Sunshine King? Or was it just the Sun King? King Louis the something or other, the Sun King.
Fuck.
“Alright there, Haz?” Fingers gave one of his curls a gentle tug. Louis’s voice was right by his ear and Harry blinked, drawing in a sharp breath. Louis had leaned close enough to be heard over the music without raising his voice, close enough that Harry could see the faint traces of stubble starting to pepper his cheeks.
Harry shook his head, cleared his throat and grasped desperately for something to say, sputtering out the first thing that came to mind.
“The French don’t know how to spell.”
He knocked his shoulder into Louis even with Louis’s arm still looped around him.
Sometimes he really felt like the exploding head on Louis’ shirt.
For a moment Louis just stared at him but then his entire body exploded with laughter. He wasn’t alone either, the others were looking at him with a mixture ranging from utter confusion (Liam), to equally raucous laughter (Niall). Zayn just locked eyes with him and offered a small, understanding smile.
“What the fuck, Haz?” Louis cracked, still laughing. “How do you even human with a mind like yours.”
Well, distraction successful. And he got to watch Louis’s entire face light up like a sunshine king in disbelieving delight. Bonus points.
He shrugged, wiggled his eyebrows.
“Reckon that’s my real talent.”
Louis’s arm left his shoulders and he leaned forwards on his forearms, mirroring Harry, shoulder to shoulder now.
“Is it now, Harold?”
Harry shrugged again, content to let his bicep brush along Louis’s, feigning nonchalance.
“It’s worked so far. Even fooled you.”
Louis arched an eyebrow, shifting a little more in his direction. The movement was small, but the meaning was loud. You have my full attention now. Use it wisely, Harold.
Or maybe it was more of an I’m intrigued, you bloody alien.
“You pissed on me when we met. What makes you think I ever thought you were human?”
“So... what? You thought that was normal for an alien to do?”
“Normal for a dog.”
Harry smirked.
“So you’re saying I was marking my territory?”
“How should I know?” Louis suddenly flicked at his forehead, smirking right back. “I’ve never been to Mars.”
“Neither have I. I’m from Venus.” Harry flicked his hair out of his face and shot Louis a winning smile, obnoxiously fluttering his eyelashes and leaning closer to stage-whisper his biggest secret. “It’s the hottest planet.”
Louis barked out a short laugh before he could stop himself and then matched him, leaning closer himself, that ever-present half-smirk Harry loved so much widening a bit more to show off a hint of teeth.
“So what does pissing on someone mean on Venus?”
“Depends on the someone.”
“Anyone else waiting for the Steve Irwin voiceover on this utterly fascinating wildlife documentary or is it just me?” Zayn deadpanned, reaching for what was left of his ale and downing the rest as Harry and Louis both looked over at the same time. Niall and Liam lost it in laughter.
“Just for that, Malik—” Harry turned back to Louis, “You were saying something about dancing?”
Zayn groaned.
“Bastard.” He threw a balled up napkin, one that he’d been doodling on earlier, at Harry’s head, but Harry just grinned right back when it missed and fell behind him onto the booth.
“Come on, Zayn. I’m sure no one will steal your booth.” Niall snickered. “It’ll be here all fucking night.”
Louis pointed first at Niall and then Zayn with the hand that still claimed Harry’s ale. Harry leaned further into him and Louis seemed comfortable right where he was, their forearms pressed together on the table now too.
“Oi oi, now listen up you sorry excuses for wankers. Patrick’s right. Stop claiming round tables and come dance already. We’re fucking rockstars, not knights.” He leveled a glare a mite too glassy from drink to be effective at Zayn. Or maybe it was the smirk he was trying to hide that took the bite out his quip. “You want to sit in a circle so much we’ll take a special trip to Disneyland Paris and let you ride the teacups, mate.”
“Patrick?”
Louis rolled his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh, loud enough that Harry knew Liam had just done exactly what Louis had wanted. Watching Louis run circles around the other lads with his quick tongue would never get old. The alcohol loosened Louis’s tongue the way alcohol loosened everyone else’s bodies and his wit had no reason to stop.
Obviously this was one of those moments, so Harry dramatically plopped his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm, pasting a cheesy grin of anticipation on his face and waiting for the show to start.
Louis’s gaze flicked to him, just the barest of moments, but it was enough for Harry to know he got the message. Louis was trying to keep a serious face.
“That’s what you took away from me words, Payno?” Louis jerked a thumb at Niall. “Ireland here hasn’t been a saint in years so ‘Patrick’ is all he gets.” He polished off Harry’s beer, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and set the empty glass down with an audible thump. “Keep up, mate.”
“And fuck off, Tommo,” Niall added with a wide grin. “Least I lost me sainthood. You should work on that. Clock’s ticking.”
Harry was impressed, Niall had come a long way if he was opting for a dirty joke against Louis now of all times. He doubted that quip would be enough to throw Louis off, especially when Louis was at least three (and a half) pints in. He remembered a comment he’d made to Louis that was far more sexually direct and Louis hadn’t given it a second thought.
He couldn’t remember what rag had been interviewing them, but he and Louis had been seated on the sofa, laptops plopped in their laps while Niall had been sat in the hot seat across the room. Niall was getting used to their game though, fast becoming too unfazed by anything they did, so it'd been becoming harder and harder to trip him up during interviews. Harry had suddenly stopped typing and leaned in enough to whisper, “I’ve got this.”
Louis had quirked up an eyebrow at him in response and the moment Niall had paused to think about his answer, Harry had asked, loudly enough to reach Niall, “Lou, can I give you a blowjob?”
And Louis hadn’t even batted an eyelash, casually looking at his screen he'd shot back, “I’d love it if you just wait.”
It’d worked. And when Niall had swiveled in his chair so fast to look at them, momentarily stunned, he'd found Harry and Louis both looking over the top of their screens at him. Harry had wiggled his eyebrows, shoving the most innocent grin on his face that he'd just known Louis had been giving Niall too.
He couldn’t deny that even he’d been impressed at how easily Louis had gone with it.
He’d learned two important things that day: 1) the things Louis said had nothing to do with how he really felt and 2) no topic was off limits when it came to the game the two of them had been playing since they became a band to try and trip up, stun, or get the other three lads to break, especially in public.
He would never give up the utter joy that matching wits with Louis had brought into his life.
He blinked back from the memory now right as Louis thunked his elbow onto the table, shoved his index and middle fingers up, and then leaned down so he could peer at Niall through the ‘V’ they made.
“These eyes and me golden tongue took care of that ages ago.” And as if the fuck you of his fingers wasn’t enough, he flicked his tongue out suggestively into the ‘V’ and winked. The music had no lyrics now and the deep base pulsing through the club made the action even dirtier. “Why? Fishing for pointers there, Nialler?”
Christ. All the world’s a stage when Louis’s in his element. Harry quelled the strange shifting of rubble in his chest. Queue. Queue. Q.U.E.U.E.
Niall threw his hands up in surrender and Liam leaned over Zayn, Harry, and the table to shove at Louis’s arm, laughing himself.
“I think he gets it.”
Louis’s arm didn’t move.
Louis never moved unless Louis wanted to move.
It was his choice to sit back up against Harry, but not before shaking his hand in an impressive cross between the wrist-flick he tended to do when he was feeling particularly triumphant and miming a handie. Blue eyes shining, he shared a look with Harry that said Props to Patrick for the effort though, yea? and then focused back on the other three.
“So. Dancing.” He said it so casually, like he hadn’t just completely leveled Niall into the table.
“Some of us don’t dance because we can’t, you know,” Zayn argued, unable to help rolling his eyes.
“None of us can dance, so stop sitting on your bloody arses like you’ve got a right to judge,” Louis laughed, moving again, always moving. He leaned further into Harry so he could poke at Zayn and Harry slid his arm around Louis’s waist to keep him from toppling straight over his lap.
They didn’t make it as far as they did on X Factor because of their moves, but that never seemed to stop Louis from moving his hips, dragging them all into moves that were more and more obnoxious until even Zayn was comfortable letting loose. Harry couldn’t help but laugh and Louis playfully bit down on his shoulder when he did, just enough for Harry to feel the press of teeth through his shirt, before saying, “You still think you’re dancing for other people, Z. Save that for tour.”
Zayn muttered something Harry didn’t quite catch, but it sounded a lot like Right, because I’m the one banging on other people to dance right now. He sat forward, drained his glass, looked incredibly put out to realize it was already drained, and dug into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Going for a smoke first.”
When Louis stood up, crossing his arms with nothing short of triumph on his face, Harry followed to let Zayn out, mentally trying to decide what type of crown would suit Louis best.
He plopped his chin down on Louis’ shoulder from behind—one of his favorite places to be—so he had a better view of Zayn’s muttering as he slid out of the booth. He wasn’t the only one to do it: use Louis’ shoulders as a head rest. They all did it, really. There was something indestructible about the line of Louis’ shoulders, like if Harry or the other three ever needed it, without a second thought Louis could and would take on anyone, anything, anytime, anywhere, and win. Sometimes Harry liked to think their alternate band name should be Louis and the Lads, because it just made sense.
If they were all charging in one direction and taking the world by storm, Louis definitely took point.
He kept his voice at normal speaking volume, which made it a whisper because of the music, so only Louis could hear him.
“He’ll try to get out of it.”
Louis turned his head enough to catch Harry’s eye and winked, the quirk of his lips both devious and victorious.
King Louis indeed. He then quickly filed that into the list of thoughts he would never let Louis find out.
It was a long list.
“Course he will. Won’t be successful though.” Louis pulled away and spun so smoothly, like a footie player stealing the ball, smacked Harry’s bum and then slung an arm over Zayn’s shoulders, the two of them disappearing towards the exit. Harry watched them go.
The lights of the club near the back exit highlighted the curve of Louis’s body, momentarily silhouetting the slight dip at his waist through the loose white fabric of his tee. Harry’s gaze followed the line of his hips down ever further, lingered over the swell of Louis’s arse in the fitted black jeans he was wearing until the crowds of people blocked his view.
Fuck. Once his brain caught up to his eyes, Harry shoved his fingers into them as though he could physically reprimand them for looking and took a deep breath. He was normally so much better at this, at controlling himself. He wasn’t stupid, knew it was the alcohol in him, which was half the reason why he’d been so careful for months not to go drinking and partying with Louis, but he couldn’t resist. Everything was just so much better with Louis around. He just had to really focus, that’s all.
But right now all he wanted was another drink.
*
“Going to dance anymore tonight?”
At Harry’s question, Liam glanced over at him from his side of Zayn’s round table. With Zayn and Louis gone and Niall begging off for a piss and then to the bar for their next rounds, he and Liam had the booth to themselves and were making use of it, sprawled out on either side.
“Nah. I’ve had my fill. Feels too good right where I am.”
And Liam looked it. One arm on the table, the other over the back of the booth, his legs were up so that his feet dangled over the edge of the seat. Like Louis, he’d been growing his hair out too, out of the buzz cut. It wasn’t back to the crazy curls though, but long enough to look good either way.
All the lads always looked good, but Harry couldn’t deny he had a preference for having hair, especially since his own curls were apparently his defining feature. Besides, if he didn’t have hair he’d miss out on Louis’s fingers running through it all the time. He was more than happy to indulge Louis’s fascination with his hair if it meant head rubs and attention. Maybe he should grow it out more. He kind of wanted to.
Hairy Harry. Heh.
He blinked when he realized just how far he’d gone with his thoughts if he was recycling very old puns. Where had he been anyway? Oh right, loose-limbed, laid-back, longer-haired Liam.
He was doing it again.
Harry knew the feeling that was pasted all over Liam’s face though, that magical moment of alcohol intake where shit just didn’t matter.
He loved that moment.
He clearly wasn’t there yet.
“You know you’re just going to pumpkin faster,” he finally said.
“Mm. Can’t really be arsed to care though.” Liam laughed, tapping two fingers idly against the table. They’d learned Liam’s strange quirk early on when they were still only getting drunk in private, before Harry could legally drink in public. He was fun, far more talkative, but somewhere in there it was like a switch flipped and turned him off, the alcohol turning him into a suddenly sleepy mess. Rarely was he the last one standing.
Liam lolled his head to the side, studying Harry.
“What about you, mate?”
“Think I’m good too.” Harry had been dancing earlier and for a lot longer than Liam had. He’d mostly gotten it out of his system too before the heat and the alcohol and the oddly private space that being surrounded by a sea of strangers all dancing against each other created had become too much. He’d started losing grip on his own thoughts, finding it harder and harder to stop himself from dancing with Louis. Not with Louis, with Louis. He’d danced with everyone, bloke, bird, it didn’t matter, never strayed far from where Louis had been doing the same, but all he wanted to do was dance with Louis and that was the one thing he knew he shouldn’t do right now.
So in the single instant where he’d been between dance partners and Louis had been right there, dancing between a girl at his front and some bloke grinding against his back, so bright under the lights compared to the other two, eyes bright enough that Harry saw the moment he looked up and met Harry’s eyes and grinned, looking so happy and blissed out on music and alcohol that all Harry wanted to do was grab him and kiss him... Harry had taken that moment as his cue to leave.
He knew his emotions well enough to know when he needed to remove his own triggers. It was something he’d learned how to do a long time ago when he’d found out he had asthma: know his triggers and control his thoughts before they got the better of him. He’d mostly grown out of his asthma so it wasn’t really a problem anymore, but his triggers still definitely could be.
Because it was a beautiful game, is the thing. What they had.
Harry had walked out of the toilets that day so long ago with not only a new mate, but a new mate who shared his special brand of humour, who seemed to just understand. They’d walked out with an inside joke and a challenge rolled all in one and they hadn’t stopped playing that game since, wherever they could. It was the challenge of never backing down, of who could be more outrageous.
Louis always won with physical outrageousness, but they’d both do what they could to make comments in interviews, each one with that special brand of humour they both shared, that proof that there were no boundaries, no lengths to which they weren’t willing to go.
Harry wasn’t sure when his feelings changed. Actually, he was sure they hadn’t changed. He was sure they’d always been there, but realizing them? Well, even that had been in fits and starts, little things that caught his attention until he could no longer blindly pretend it wasn’t there.
But Harry was afraid that if he said anything, he’d lose the game. In more ways than one. He’d lose, certainly, in the sense that somehow Louis would end up with all the points, but he’d also lose the game itself. Game Over. The end.
And Harry lived for the game, lived for what he had with Louis. He couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it.
The silence stretched between him and Liam now and Harry lost track of how long it had been now.
“Heard you’ve been making rounds of the party scene.” Even drunk, the sentence was all Liam, casual in the way that made Harry immediately think carefully about how to answer.
The question made him fidgety and he reached for the pen left on the table from Zayn’s scribblings, tapping it in time with the music. He shrugged, fast running out of time to come up with an answer that would sound reasonable to Liam’s ‘suspiciously-protective sensibilities’. Harry just shortened it to ‘spidey-senses.’
“Might as well while I can.”
Liam dropped his head back against the booth, staring straight up at the ceiling.
“You say that like they’re necessary.” He tripped up slightly on the last word. Necessary was hard enough to say without alcohol weighing down the tongue though.
Harry sighed, flipping the pen around to doodle on the back of one of the paper coasters that Zayn hadn’t touched yet.
He wasn’t getting drunk at all the parties. Mingling, focusing on meeting people, focusing on being careful of what ended up getting back to the press, enjoying enough drinks to stay pleasantly buzzed...it went a long way to clearing his head, a long way to rebuilding fortress walls and battle towers that now needed to be so carefully constructed and were so easily torn down by the blue eyes and witty mouth of an always-victorious king.
His mum had told him once that the best way to make a big problem small is to give yourself a bigger one. Not that parties were a problem, no, but the threat of fucking something up and creating a PR nightmare was enough to make it seem like a ‘bigger problem’.
And it worked, the way pressing down on an open cut made it stop bleeding only as long as he kept pressing.
So while they still had time, he stocked up on his reserves with as many parties as he could, not wanting anything to get in the way of the utter chaos and madness and absolute joy that being on tour with his best mates for the next eight months would be.
He glanced down at the coaster and his own scrawl, the lines deep and dark where he’d run over and over them several times until he’d almost ripped through it, realized what he’d been doodling.
@978/
He smacked the pen down with more force than he really meant to and scrubbed his hand over his face before following Liam’s lead, letting his head fall back so he could stare at the blissful blackness of the ceiling. It was industrial, pipes and rivets all painted black, like you weren’t meant to notice it. He sighed, wondered if Liam even remembered what they were talking about anymore. Necessary. He responded anyway.
“Maybe they are.”
He needed to get another tattoo. Nail down the lid on his mind because he was becoming unhinged again. It’d only been what, less than a month, since his last? He huffed a laugh to himself, made up his mind right then. Three nails. Three nails to weld down the lid on his mind.
Contents under pressure, bound to explode.
Better tattoo that shit down now.
When Niall arrived with three pints, Harry couldn’t be arsed to care that he immediately downed half and set the glass on that coaster, watching a drop of ale slide down the side of the glass and bleed straight through the numbers like an alcoholic tear.
*
He was truly pissed now. Empty pints were scattered over the table between him and Liam like a foolish game of chess that he couldn’t tell if he’d won or given up. Niall had long since gone back to dance with Louis and Zayn but no amount of begging from Louis or Niall would get Harry’s arse off this booth. He was too happy and didn’t want to ruin it and now he couldn’t remember what he and Liam had just been laughing about for the past hour, but it felt damn good.
He squinted down at his phone. Half two. Cinder-Liam made it well past midnight. Impressive.
“Alright, mate.” He stood up slowly, topple-leaned over the table and clapped Liam on the shoulder. “Gonna wee. Then we’ll get you to yours.” Liam didn’t exactly need him to come, Paul would make sure he got in alright, but the alternative for Harry was finding the others on the dance floor and that. No. Too much alcohol for that to be safe now.
Liam threw up a hand in some sort of response and Harry pushed away from the table to the toilets. The bright light inside the toilets seared through his eyelids and he had to squint them open. So bright. Like sunlight. Sunlight. Sunshine. Sun. Sun kings.
He should text the others, tell them they were leaving. He unlocked his phone, stared at the fuzzy little colorful blocks for three seconds and then put it back in his pocket, nodding in accomplishment.
The deep bass thrummed through his veins when he exited the toilets, heady and intoxicating as he wound his way around the dance floor back towards Liam.
If he was still following the beat of the music, it was talent.
Talent. Yes. He had talent. Talent at being pissed. Talent pissing on people.
He glanced into the crowd of dancers to his left automatically at that last thought. Everyone was pressed so close together it was impossible not to be dancing with someone and impossible to spot anyone in the mass but he found him.
He always found him. His body always knew where he was.
Maybe because under the blacklights Louis was glowing. Harry didn’t know how, but the expanse of his back in that white shirt lit up like a sunflare under the lights, luring Harry like a sonar pulse through the mass of bodies on the dance floor. Louis had a beautiful girl pressed against him, her back to his chest, her sequined crop sparkling as they moved, her hands covering his on her waist. Louis was leaning down into her space and Harry traced the long line of his neck, stared at the preciously private spot behind Louis’s ear, followed the contour of his hairline, sweaty and slick, down, down, down.
He needed to tell him.
Harry pushed through the dancers, too sloshed to pull himself back, drawn towards Louis and into that light like the butterfly-moth he’d tattooed on his stomach. Because that’s what he was, a mothy-butterfly caught up inescapably in Louis’s aura. Someone jostled into him at the last moment and he stumbled into Louis’s back. Pasting himself into the small space behind him, he grounded himself with hands on Louis’s hips so he could shout into his ear and be heard over the deep throb of the music.
They were nearly the same height and the flex of Louis’s muscles, sinewy and bursting with frenetic energy beneath Harry’s fingers and against his body zipped through his veins, wild and exhilarating.
Louis pressed back into him, tipped his head to the side to make room for Harry on his shoulder and froze, hands falling away from the girl. Harry felt it, the loss of movement, how still he became, felt it everywhere and it sent his thoughts flying. He forgot what he was about to shout.
He should pull back. Didn’t think he could. There was no space to do so, not really, squeezed between bodies as they were. The girl was already gone, another bloke slotting easily behind her where Louis used to be. Harry needed to clear his head and remember what he’d come out here to tell Louis but his head was exploding like the man on Louis’ shirt over and over again and Louis was grounding him in place and he was falling falling into solar flares of heat and flame.
He dropped his forehead onto Louis’ shoulder, fingers curving around the jut of his hipbones, holding on tightly enough to feel the ridge of the waistband of Louis’s black jeans through his shirt. The brush of bodies on his arms and back felt like constant prods, digging and jabbing at his body in overstimulation. He tried to press even closer to Louis, burying his nose into the curve where neck met shoulder and the unmistakable scent of sweat and beer and boy filled his senses. Narrowing his focus down to every place he was holding onto Louis, he held on for the world to stop swaying and had to close his eyes until he could see again.
“Haz?” Lips brushed against the hair at Harry’s temple. The vibration of his voice, that voice Harry swore haunted the dreams he never remembered rumbled against his chest.
This was ridiculous. This was all so ridiculous. He was ridiculous. As ridiculous as the word ‘queue’. Queue, queue, queue, step up, step up, wait in line for your chance to find your sanity again, Harry. You won’t find it here though, not where you feel sane the most.
That didn’t even make sense.
His own thoughts didn’t even make sense.
Laughter bubbled up out of him, wet and wanting, disappearing into Louis’ shoulder. He still couldn’t pull away, mumble-shouting with his lips now pressed into the soft, sweaty skin just below Louis’s ear because his aim was a bit off.
“I’m so ssss....sozzled.”
He felt more than heard Louis laughing against him at his word choice.
Louis started to move to the beat again, his hands falling over Harry’s on his hips, like Harry had just said he needed help standing. Louis was far from sober himself, but he still found the rhythm easily, drawing Harry into the movement of his hips the way he drew everyone into him.
Louis had talent too. Louis was so talented. He was so talented it hurt.
The DJ was transitioning between songs, nothing but a single, steady bass beat throbbing through the air, fast, deliberate, primal. The heat pooled low in Harry’s stomach, mind fogging over from the swell of Louis’s arse against him, trapping him, drawing his hips into the inescapable sway of the beat.
He flexed his fingers on Louis’s waist under Louis’s hands to keep them from wandering, to keep Louis there. A shaky breath fluttered past his lips into Louis’ skin as he gave in to temptation and tightened his grip for a single split of a moment and tried moving those hips himself. He pulled Louis tight against his body, mind clouding over when Louis just followed in the single, deep, syrupy-slow sway, loose and pliant and burning Harry from the inside.
The sound sucked out of the club in a deafening rush of held breaths and stolen heartbeats.
The beat dropped.
“Come out here just to tell me that, you posh bastard?” Louis pulled Harry back into his senses just enough, that honey-drip glide of amusement pearling his voice until all Harry could picture was the half-smirking quirk of his lips that he knew Louis was making right now. Fingers carded into his hair, curled, the pads pressing against his scalp and tugging gently for Harry to pick his head up.
He did, but he left his chin resting on Louis’ shoulder.
And frowned.
No. He came out here for another reason. He knew that. He came to tell Louis something that had to do with Louis. No. L. L. Hm.
Across from them Niall was grinding up against a bird, beautiful and brunette, looking as blissful as Harry felt right now. And Zayn was dancing too, dark hair and darker skin even more mysterious under the lights. Louis could get anyone to dance, even Zayn. Louis knew, he always knew what they needed. His mates looked so happy; he had the best mates. Everyone around them was so blissed out, happy, beautiful.
Everyone was beautiful. Had he ever met someone who wasn’t beautiful? People were beautiful. He loved people.
Louis was beautiful. Louis was a sunflare and Harry was getting burned. The heat of the dance floor, of Louis’s body searing into his skin, sizzled his insides into something very very hot. Hot. Lava is hot. Yes. Lava.
The DJ wasn’t playing Lady Gaga anymore. He didn’t recognize the song, must be something new that had just come out. He tuned in on the words the girl was singing. ...feelings you can’t deny that you’re living open up your eyes And I just want to sink into your crazy laughter—
He tensed, hips stilling and then pulled back, finally lifted his chin from Louis’ shoulder. It was only an inch between their bodies now but the loss of feverish warmth felt like a chasm of...of...something bad. He didn’t like it. But it made him remember.
“Taking Liam home. Wanted to tell you.”
He forgot he was still holding on to Louis though until his fingers slid from the juts of Louis’s hips, across his lower back and low along his belly, to the opposite hipbones when Louis turned to face him, cheeks flushed and eyes too blue from his own intoxication. For a moment Harry searched his eyes, looking for something he didn’t know what, but it just made him feel a bit dizzy, this constant push and pull, searching and seeking and finding and not finding but had found long ago but still searching still seeking and—
Louis was watching him. Harry closed his eyes on the intense gaze but still felt the thrill tingling through his body. He tipped forward until their foreheads touched, until he could feel loose strands of hair brushing against his skin. He swallowed, took a breath, pulled away when he felt less dizzy but still very dizzy anyway.
Blue eyes stopped searching his face and peered over Harry’s shoulder towards Zayn’s infamous circular booth as though he could see Liam through all the bodies piled together on the dance floor. His lips pressed together, but then his fingers were curving, warm and loose, around the bend of Harry’s jaw, just enough pressure to tip Harry’s head to the side.
Harry resisted the urge to shiver when fingertips brushed against his ear, but then Louis was distracting him with a shout into his other ear, pressing right back against him.
“Course. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, yea?”
Louis leaned back just far enough for Harry to see the jaunty, cock-sure grin and eyebrow-wiggle that accompanied his words. He was still dancing, drawing Harry right back into it, into him. Harry had to desperately tighten his fingers on Louis’s hips and fight to keep them there and not slide back and over the flesh of Louis’s arse, pull them right together and repeat the motion from that delicious friction.
Louis thrust forward into Harry once, long and slow and challenging.
Fuuuck.
That was just enough to sober him back up into remembering he shouldn’t do it, shouldn’t recip...recipor....reciprocate, no matter how much of a challenge it was.
Louis was still watching him, their hips still moving.
Harry licked his lips then beamed, toothy and no doubt a bit mental. Squeezing Louis’s hips one more time, he pulled his hips back and he leaned in again at the same time, missed a bit so his cheek ended up against Louis’s, that sweep of fallen hair tickling Harry’s temple this time when he shouted somewhere near his ear.
“Won’t cook or clean. I swear.”
Even if half of his devious tone was lost in having to shout to be heard, Louis still laughed, quietly enough that if he weren’t so close to Louis’s lips he wouldn’t have heard it. He pulled away to pat Harry’s cheek twice before easing him back with a palm on his chest, slowly enough that Harry felt each moment of the space widening between them and had to pry his own fingers away.
“Good lad. Go on then.”
Harry covered those fingers, squeezed once, before sliding away back through the press of bodies to where he’d left Liam half-way to falling asleep.
*
“Fuck, I miss Dani,” Liam grumbled, throwing splashes of cold water on his face, half of which missed and got all over the bathroom sink he was leaning over.
Harry watched from where he was leaning against the doorway, arms and legs crossed, his own eyes half-closed, head resting against the wood.
Liam plucked open his cabinet for toothpaste—Harry didn’t think Liam would ever be too drunk to sleep without brushing his teeth first—and shoved some on his brush, sticking it in his mouth and speaking around it.
“Don’t care how it sounds. I’m allowed to want her, even if she’s just visiting family for the weekend.”
He met Liam’s eyes in the mirror, offered him a half-smile.
“Course you are. Wanting someone you love isn’t a crime.”
Liam turned to face him, leaning sideways against his sink now and starting to actually brush, the movement slow and not nearly as precise as Liam tended to be sober. He didn’t say anything, so Harry let his eyes slip shut and took a deep breath.
The air felt good in his lungs, like they were giving his heart a hug, all nice and filled up like this. He loved hugs. His little creature of a heart needed a hug right now because it hurt and he was pretty sure it had something to do with what he’d just said to Liam.
“Here.”
He opened his eyes to see Liam pulling out a green-handled toothbrush from the cup in the cabinet. They all spent enough time at each other’s places that everyone had a brush, colour-coded to keep them straight. His gaze flicked to the blue brush before he could think about it and he then had to fumble to catch his own brush against his chest when Liam tossed it to him, his aim as lacking as Harry’s reflexes.
“Case you want to stay.”
Now that he thought about it, the idea was incredibly tempting. The loss of music and rush of energy that came with a sea of dancing drunk people left all the remaining energy seeping out of Harry, leaving him more sober and exhausted, halfway to Liam’s pumpkin status. He knew Paul was idling outside while Harry made sure Liam got in alright, was planning on taking him home after this, but he didn’t want to put up with himself, with the twenty minute ride back to his and Louis’s place, with his thoughts, with...being awake.
He’d spent all night fighting the push and pull of being with Louis, of balancing on the tightrope between wanting so desperately to be with his best mate that it felt like a need and not falling overboard and losing himself in doing something stupid. He’d spent all night fighting to keep himself on the very precipice of just mates. He didn’t want to do it anymore tonight.
"Harry?"
He blinked. Oh right, verbal responses.
“Yea. Think I will. Cheers.”
Liam arched a brow at him a moment but then he smiled, clapped a hand to Harry's shoulder and squeezed, the grip firm and almost too-supportive, as though he had a feeling Harry needed it.
"Payment is a proper fry up tomorrow. Could do with your cooking."
Laughter bubbled up like relief. That was something he could do.
"Thanks, Payno."
Liam pulled him into a hug and he sank into it.
"Don't mention it." He pulled back and yawned, shaking his head and pushing the heel of his hand into one eye. "I'm out. Night, Harry."
A few minutes later, with sleep bearing fast down upon him, Liam passed out in bed and Paul long gone back to the club, Harry dragged himself from the kitchen with a glass of water on his way to Liam’s extra bedroom. The pitch black of the night outside Liam’s windows, which wasn’t exactly pitch black because London, was comforting. He sank down onto the halfway-mark of his journey - the sofa in the living room - and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was going to finish this water before he slept, knew better than to skip it. His eyelids were heavy and he fell back into the cool leather, comfortable and soft. Like leather clouds. He liked clouds, soft and fluffy, beautiful no matter what shape. Louis’s hair sometimes reminded him of clouds, especially in the morning, sleep-rumpled or without product or before Lou styled it in the dressing rooms.
Oh.
He pulled out his phone and typed out a quick message to Louis before he forgot, holding it up above his head and trying not to squint at the light emanating from the screen but still keep everything in focus.
Staying at Payno’s. Text me when you’re home.
For a moment his heart tugged, like a little curious creature wondering why he’d stopped here, at Liam’s, why he wasn’t moving, why he wasn’t going home to Louis. Asking questions that seemed so simple but weren’t simple at all. He dropped his phone over his heart as though he could push his confused wee creature back down. He’d stay here a few more minutes and then move to the guest bed.
His mobile dinged a few minutes later, but his eyes were already closed and he didn’t want to move. He knew what it likely said anyway.
Yes mum
It made him smile and he wanted to keep smiling, too exhausted to fight the war with his mind. For just a moment he allowed himself to remember Louis’s body pressed against his own, the unconscious sway of their hips and the heat of Louis' skin under his lips.
*
He came to with his little creature of a heart pounding madly against the cage of his ribs, sweat coating his palms and the lingering pulse of terror, of black tendrils oozing back from his heart and lungs. As though it knew he was awake now, his heart let up, slowly calming back down again.
Harry wasn’t one to really remember his dreams. They left him only with vague impressions in the morning, overwhelming feelings when he opened his eyes that told him whether he’d had a good dream or a nightmare. The faint shake to his limbs told him it had been that nightmare. He’d had it before, the vague sense of familiarity still clinging to his consciousness told him so. He’d been having it for at least a year and a half now, off and on, knew there was running, there was darkness, knew he was alone. Knew that he was always so grateful he was alone and even more grateful for the glow of his eyelids come morning.
Wait.
His eyelids were glowing.
Why were his eyelids glowing.
Right. Sunlight. Way more sunlight than normal.
Harry squinted, peeked one eye open and immediately shut them again, reaching up to try and pull the mess of cotton clogging his ears and brain off his head.
Oh. Nope, that was hair. Hair and a hangover. Only one of those he really wanted to go away.
He tugged at his curls, let the sharp pull drag some of the fuzzy fog out of his mind, and stared at his surroundings. Liam’s living room. Cool tones and grey stones and a wall of windows in a weird blend of modern log cabin that was somehow fit for parties and cold February nights by the fireplace at the same time.
He must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.
Shit.
He didn’t want to move now. If he didn’t move he could pretend that his lower back wasn’t currently a predatory animal crouched, low and growling, waiting to pounce the moment he did.
He twitched.
His back twinged.
He groaned inwardly. He didn’t even have a proper pillow out here. What had he been thinking last night?
Louis. Louis’s body pressed against his chest, Louis’s eyes, too bright and too blue as he turned to face him, lips against his ear, their hips moving-
Shit. Shit shit shit.
In the harsh daylight of reality, his mind fixated on the way Louis had frozen, the way he’d slowly but deliberately pushed Harry away, the way Harry had interrupted his dancing like some bloody unbalanced arsehole. Well, he had been unbalanced.
He squeezed his eyes shut, groaned again, scrubbed his hands over his face and then left them there, covering his eyes to block out the sunlight. He inhaled slowly, focusing on the fill of air into his lungs.
He hadn’t meant to do it, least not consciously, but he hadn’t even thought of apologizing either. Louis was his best mate and he deserved better than that. Instead Harry had all but groped him because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He couldn’t stop himself from trapping Louis against him and rolling their hips, burning an infinity symbol into the air with the sway of their bodies, crushed together in a mess of searing heat where even now he couldn’t remember where he’d ended and Louis began and -
Fucking hell.
He’d been up all of four minutes and he already needed his word for the day. Fuck. He mentally scrolled through the list.
Colonel. C-O-L-O-N-E-L. Kernel. Kernel. Colon. Ker. How did an arsehole turn into ker? Why did the French not know how to spell? Where did this even come from? Why were they naming a serious war leader a colon? If he really thought about it, there was no respect in being a little colon, a colon-el, a—
“I’ve invited the lads over, since you’re cooking.” Liam set down a cup of tea and glass of water on the small table next to the sofa, as though his spidey-senses had known Harry was awake. Then again, the main area of Liam’s flat was an open floor plan, so he probably saw Harry from the kitchen.
No. Liam definitely had spidey-senses, Harry was sure of it. But right now Harry couldn’t tell if Liam was frowning because of a hangover or frowning because of Harry, but frowning while saying he invited the lads over didn’t make much sense.
Liam straightened, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You couldn’t make it to the bed? Really?”
Ah. That’s the frown. Harry at least knew to look proper sorry about it.
“Was sat only for a moment. Wasn’t planning on staying here,” he rasped, finally sitting up and wincing as his back immediately protested, nipping his nerve endings right up his spine into the base of his skull.
Instead of commenting on the fact that Harry wouldn’t be able to sing his way out of a primary school choir, much less into the hearts of millions of fans right now, Liam just shook his head, popping open the bottle of paracetamol and pouring out four.
“Two for your head, two for your back, right?” While Harry nodded and threw back the pills, swallowed them down with the water Liam had also brought, Liam sighed, twisting the cap back on. “Tommo’s gonna kill me.”
Harry finished the entire glass and his voice sounded mildly human now.
“You were drunk and already asleep.”
“Since when has logic ever worked with him?”
“He’s plenty logical.”
“Uh huh. Not with you.” Liam lightly slapped his thigh, motioning to the clothes he’d grabbed from the extra bedroom that were tossed on the back of the sofa. “You forgot to change your kit last night too. Might as well now.”
Ah. The perks of being five blokes all just about the same size. As Liam left the room Harry grabbed his phone and checked the lock screen: two messages from Louis and a string of messages in their group text, presumably Liam inviting the others over. He opened his chat with Louis. Surprisingly, neither one of his responses had used the word mum.
Sat, Feb 16, 3:25 AM:
cheers
Sat, Feb 16, 5:14 AM:
home
Harry blinked, tried to make sense of the first message only to remember how plastered Louis had been when Harry had seen him last. He shook his head and decided to just send a message, before grabbing the clothes and half-shuffling towards the bathroom. A hot shower would do wonders for more than just his back.
Sat, Feb 16, 12:28 PM:
Get your lazy arse up. I’m making breakfast at Liam’s.
*
“Where’s Tommo?” Niall asked 45 minutes later when the four of them were congregated in the kitchen, three of them seated on one side of the island while Harry was stood at the other side, chopping peppers next to the hob. They’d all opted to wear the comfiest clothing, trackies and tees and hoodies. He might be wearing Liam’s, but they may as well all be in the hangover uniform.
“Probably still asleep.” Liam shrugged. “Never answered. He said anything to you, Harry?”
Harry set the knife down, wiped his hands and fished his phone out of his pocket, scanning for notifications on the lock screen before shaking his head.
“He sleeps like it’s going out of business on the days he isn’t so plastered he can’t walk straight,” Zayn pointed out, leaning back in his chair far enough to crack his back. “I’m not surprised he’s still out now.”
Harry frowned, the knife poised over the chopping board as he paused to look at Zayn. The three of them must’ve really filled up after he and Liam left last night if Louis was that wasted. Louis could hold his alcohol. It took a lot to get him to that level of drunk.
“You made sure he got in, right?” Just because Louis had texted that he was home didn’t mean he’d texted once he was inside.
“Course we did, mum.” Zayn arched one fine eyebrow at him, eyes lit up in barely-concealed amusement despite looking as rough around the edges as Harry felt. His eyes were a bit red-rimmed and his hair more mussed than usual. He must’ve showered right before getting here, because the black strands were still damp. “So did Paul. Standard practice and all.”
Of course. Harry knew that. But he brandished the blade towards Zayn anyway, tried to look as stern as possible.
“Don’t sass the one feeding you.”
“Unless your name rhymes with blue,” Niall quipped, entire face lit up with far too much energy for a morning after with only coffee in his stomach. Bloody Irish. Harry turned the knife towards him and just said—
“No.”
“New?” Liam asked Harry curiously.
Harry wrinkled his nose in confusion. Maybe Liam was more hung over than he thought. He looked the most put together, had probably had the most sleep too, but-
Liam continued, “True? Clue? Fondue? Flu?”
Niall burst out laughing and Harry just groaned, shook his head and resumed his chopping.
“I’d rather feed that sass than watch him try and prove you can survive on Coco Pops alone.” He chopped off the stem of a pepper and used the knife to flick it in Liam’s direction.
“He did try to prove it, didn’t he? Made it about a week if I’m remembering right,” Liam mused, idly watching the stem come to rest halfway between them.
“Yea, until Harry filled all the boxes he had left with Weetabix and Muesli,” Niall cackled, tipping his mug towards Harry in a silent cheer.
Harry shrugged, giving in to a smirk. Louis had threatened to replace his collection of romantic comedies with Jason Statham films after that one. He’d yet to follow through on that promise though. After all, it had been in the middle of a long string of threats against Harry’s person, belongings, and pride. Harry wasn’t about to remind him either. He had nothing against Jason Statham, but his undying love for his rom-com collection was, as Louis had once put it, ‘mildly concerning’.
“Hey, just because you declare your undying love for something doesn’t mean you should assume it’ll always be there.”
Hm. Maybe he should consider getting a glass cabinet with a lock for his collection.
“That how you decide all your pranks then?” Zayn tilted his head to the side as he watched Harry. “Some deep philosophical lesson to get Tommo to lay off the cereal?”
Harry barked out a laugh then shook his head.
“Nah, I just pay close attention to whatever he’s fixated on that week. Works a charm. Either way, least you lot know how to appreciate actual food.”
Honestly. Coco Pops. And yet somehow Harry was the alien?
You are an alien, Haz. Heartless bloody alien who doesn’t know the taste of a good thing.
Harry snorted. His mind must be making up for Louis’s absence by filling in for him, because now he was mentally talking like he was born and raised in Doncaster. Great. Besides, just because he’d never get a chance to taste certain things he just knew would be delicious didn’t mean he had no taste at all. His buds worked far better than Louis’s did anyway.
That why you got four instead of two, you heathen? Real humans only have two, you know. And you talk too slow for Donny.
He blinked, paused, stared hard between Liam and Niall at the far windows across the flat. Well that was new. Maybe he was more hung over than he thought.
He really should have slept in the guest bedroom rather than on the sofa.
You bloody tit.
Yea, he probably was. Prat, twat, nutter, daft ... his back had plenty of names to call him right about now, just less intense than ‘arsehole’ because the hot shower he’d taken and pills from Liam were working blissful wonders on the pain.
Still pretty sure the word you’re looking for is tit.
“Hey.” Niall spread his arms out, almost thunking Zayn in the chest. “I’m open for any and all nosh, especially when it’s right in front of me.” He glanced down at the empty space in front of him where food should be.
Harry lobbed a piece of chopped pepper at Niall, grinning when it smacked him in the forehead.
“Keep your pants on, Nialler, quality takes time.”
He'd promised them all a proper fry up, not a bowl of cereal. Besides, cereal would do nothing for the deep-seated need for greasy and substantial that came with being out on the lash the night before. And if it took longer to make that was fine. Maybe it would still be warm by the time Louis woke up and actually checked his mobile.
Mobiles are overrated. You should just go check yourself.
Harry shook his head and pushed the peppers into the fry pan with the blunt edge of the knife, trying to ignore the pang of uncertainty that squiggled through his body and made him want to shake out his limbs. He pulled out his phone, checked for any new messages from Louis. Nothing.
No surprises there.
No, Harry wasn’t surprised, but for some reason he felt like he should be. He scratched at his bicep with the back of the wooden spatula he’d picked up, focusing on the mix of vegetables sizzling in the pan before asking, “Anyone tried calling Lou? This’ll be ready soon.”
Won’t matter. Can’t pick it up.
He jerked.
“I’ll give it a go.” Zayn pulled out his phone. Harry focused on putting the first four pieces of bread in the toaster. A few moments later Zayn shook his head, setting it back down again.
Told you.
Harry set the spatula down and rubbed at his temples, sighing. The last thing he needed right now was to get hung up on Louis. He had absolutely no reason to believe that Louis not answering had to do with anything but sleeping in and sleeping off the alcohol. His mind flashed back to last night, the bright look on Louis’s face when he’d last seen him, how he’d looked so—
Colonel. C-o-l-o-n-e-l. Kernel. A little colon, leader of an army of even littler arseholes. It was the French. It had to be the French. No. Maybe the French say the word the way it sounds. Maybe the Brits were the ones to muck it all up and turn a high-ranking soldier into a piece of corn. Kernel of corn. Popcorn. Corn Pops. Wasn’t that a cereal? Coco Pops were a cereal.
Fuck.
Jesus, Haz. You do talk some shit but I never realized you think it too.
Harry jumped. The spatula flew out of his hand and he fumbled to catch it but it ended up clattering to the floor. He stared down at it in shock.
“You alright, Haz?” Liam asked from somewhere behind him. Harry hadn’t even heard him get up to put the kettle on for more tea. He shook his head quickly to clear it even as he said yes a few too many times to be believable.
“Yea, yea, yes, yea, sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.”
Yea, definitely not all that believable. Might want to try actually acting next time, pumpkin.
He’d lost the plot. He’d officially lost the plot. What the hell did he drink last night? He searched frantically through his memories but couldn’t remember anything suspicious.
Still staring at the spatula, huh. Think your superpowers might be lacking today.
He snatched up the spatula and whirled around, jerking the tap on. Maybe the running water could flush the crazy from his brain.
“You’re looking a bit peaky there, Harry,” Niall supplied, slow and unsure and mildly concerned. Harry turned back and flashed them all a quick smile. He ducked down and shook out his hair so he could push it out of his face, using the moment to hide his face from the other lads.
“I’m fine.”
Or maybe you’re just dreaming? Your head’s always in the clouds anyway, Curly.
Yes. Yes, he must be dreaming still. Some sort of massively mental alcohol-induced fever dream. That was the only explanation for why he kept hearing Louis in his head.
He set the rinsed-off spatula aside and pinched at the sensitive skin right in his inner elbow hard. Nothing happened. Niall, Zayn, and Liam were all still watching him curiously, the vegetables were still sizzling in the pan, he was still in the kitchen at Liam’s flat. He wasn’t dreaming.
Well shit. I really really fucking hoped we were.
Some strange noise must’ve come out of his mouth because he hit the back of his hand against his lips and now the other three were looking really bloody concerned.
“I’ll be right back,” he managed, dashing out of the room and locking himself in the smaller guest toilet off the front hallway of Liam’s flat. He took a few moments to stare at his face in the mirror before splashing it with water, not caring that he wet down half his mostly-dry curls.
Good look, that, if you’re going for drowned frog, of course.
He whirled away from the mirror, grabbed his phone out and immediately dialed Louis, listening to it ring.
Yea, about that.
“Lou, I swear to god, answer your bloody phone,” he mumbled to himself, shoving a hand through his hair again. Maybe his mind just needed to actually hear Louis’s voice and remember that Louis was a real person or something.
I’d love to. Really, really fucking would. But there seems to be a slight problem with that.
The line went to voicemail. Harry hung up, redialed, listened again.
He nearly flew into the opposite wall, leaping off the edge of the sink when someone knocked on the door.
“Harry, you alright, mate?”
Leave it to Liam.
He took a few deep breaths, shoved his phone back in the pocket of his borrowed trackies and fixed his hair the best he could before jerking the door open to reveal Liam’s confused and very concerned face.
“Yea. Yea, just felt a bit sick for a moment there.”
“Maybe you should sit a spell. Nialler can finish the food.”
“No no, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
He’ll eat the lot of it before it even gets plated. Best not.
Harry plastered a smile on his face and tugged Liam back towards the kitchen, saying as he went, “could really do with another cuppa though.”
With too much sugar, of course. Hello, earth to Hazza, wee problem here, remember?
Harry set about checking the tomatoes, the temperature of the baked beans (ugh, bloody awful those), and finishing the omelettes, working perhaps a bit faster than strictly necessary. Anything to make the noises of the kitchen drown out the mess in his mind.
Haz.
He bent down to pull the roasted tomatoes out of the oven, putting them on the plates he’d set out.
Hazza.
“Here, Harry.” Liam stopped him to press a mug into his hand, holding onto it until he was absolutely sure that Harry had a hold on it. Harry leaned back against the worktop and took a grateful sip.
Oh good, well at least one of us can enjoy a cuppa right now.
Harry wasn’t sure what was clenched more: his jaw or his grip on the mug.
“Christ, mate. If it tastes that fucking bad just toss it,” Niall said from where he was watching curiously. Harry just shook his head, took another sip.
“It’s great. Sorry, just—...worried about Lou is all.” And his sanity.
Could’ve fooled me. Worried means you’d talk to me.
“Why? He’s probably still sleeping,” Zayn spoke up cautiously, gauging the best way to handle Harry right now. “He’ll wake up, have some Coco Pops, whinge about the awful shit he feels like, moan that we should have somehow waited for him. The usual.”
You need to go back to ours. And tell Zayn he’s a wanker too.
Harry’s eyes widened at the utter absurdity of that idea. Of both ideas. Yes, that would work out quite well. “Sorry, lads, but I’m having hallucinations and I keep hearing Louis in my head. So I need to go home and make sure he’s fine. Oh and to get you to believe me, Zayn, you’re also a wanker.”
He is a wanker, he’ll believe you.
He snorted. Alright, two could play at this game. Maybe he just needed to acknowledge it and this madness would stop. After all, isn’t that what his brain just said?
“So where are you then? Does this mean you’re just lying around somewhere?” He thought to himself.
Like some sleeping fucking dragon? Waiting for some charming soul to kiss me back to fucking human or kill me and steal all me treasure?
A scowl etched itself onto Harry's face before he could stop it. He was going to kill his mind. None of this was fair. And the moment he saw Louis he was going to kill him too. Or kiss him, since apparently his mind was making veiled threats about that now. He hadn’t decided yet. But right now he was leaning very heavily towards kill.
Purely unbiased standpoint here, but you’d get further with the other option.
“Harry!” He jerked his head up to find Niall actually standing in front of him and Liam pulling the toast out of the toaster. He had no idea how long it’d been sitting there. And he had a feeling this wasn’t the first time Niall had called his name.
“What?”
Zayn rolled his eyes and stood up, catching Harry’s arm and dragging him to the other side of the island where he pushed him down into the middle seat.
“Sit.” He then brought over his tea and plunked it down in front of him. “Drink.” Harry opened his mouth to argue; Zayn held up a hand. “Stop.”
He moved to help Liam finish plating the food as Niall plopped back down next to Harry, a strange mixture of confusion and concern on his face.
“What’s going on with you?”
You need to go home.
He was not going to go home. Whatever misguided insanity his mind was kicking up, he was not making the twenty-minute trip just to wake Louis up. That was a suicide mission. He chose life. He was very much pro-choice and he wanted to live.
Haz, I’m serious. You need to go back to ours.
The voice in his mind was not going to make him do anything. He had more control than that. He was very clearly slipping into some weird-arse hallucinogenic shit, but he still had control over his own insanity. The shit in his mind was not about to come out of his mouth.
The shit in your mind always comes out your mouth. Just go.
No.
Haz, go! ...Don’t make me make you.
Harry took a deep breath, took a sip of his tea, ignored what sounded like an intake of breath echoing through his brain.
The voice in his head suddenly yelled, loud and obnoxious like those times Louis had randomly screamed during their X-factor video diaries, piercing straight through his skull.
Harry choked on the last of the tea he’d almost swallowed and nearly dropped the cup, throwing his hands up to cover his ears.
The moment he did the scream cut off.
Niall, Zayn, and Liam were all frozen, staring at him.
Just go, Haz.
He slumped over in his chair, hiding his face from view, not bothering to take his hands out of his hair.
“Someone please ring Paul for me? Think I need to go back to mine.”
He needed to go and check on Louis and just get this mess sorted. Wake his best mate up, come up with some logical reason why he’d needed to wake him, let Louis call him colourful names until he rolled over and fell back asleep and then go and sleep all of this off himself.
And none of the other lads needed to know.
...I’ll call you colourful names right now if that’s what you need, you white-arsed toad.
Harry groaned and refused to pick his head up from the table until Zayn shoved a plate of food under his arms and insisted that he may as well eat while he waited for the ride.
“Did something happen last night?” he asked quietly as Harry sat up fully so Zayn could push the plate in front of him. They weren’t exactly alone, but Harry assumed he must look rough enough that Zayn felt the need to throw caution and ask anyway.
Louis. Louis pressed against him, warm and searing and burning him up from the inside. Louis’s fingers on his jaw, Louis’s lips against his ear. Louis Louis Louis. He couldn’t get Louis out of his mind.
Literally.
Harry shook his head too quickly.
“Yes.” And then he nodded and added, “no.”
Zayn’s eyebrows arched up and then curved inward in a movement so smooth Harry actually noticed it and felt mildly impressed. He thumped his forehead twice against Zayn’s arm, the one not being used to help Zayn lean against the island.
“Reckon I just need more sleep.”
Zayn’s lips pressed together as he studied him, but in the end he nodded, squeezing Harry’s wrist once before pulling away to take the plate Liam was offering to him.