Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air outside the audition venue was a buzzing, nervous kind of heavy. Laughter and chatter filled the early morning chill as the crowd of hopefuls pressed together in winding lines, scarves pulled tight, coffee cups steaming, hands twitching with nerves and ambition.

Harry barely 16, was standing with his mum and sister, curly hair bouncing as he laughed at something Gemma had said while tugging on his scarf. He was too young for how calm he looked, though there was a nervous bounce in the ball of his foot, like his body hadn’t yet caught up with how determined he felt inside.

“Stop fidgeting, love,” Anne said, smoothing a stray curl from his forehead that fell over his eyes.

“Can’t help it,” Harry smiled, cheeks pink with cold and nerves that were eating away at his composure. “Feels like I’m gonna forget how to sing the second I open my mouth.” He chuckles nervously.

“You’ll be brilliant,” she promised, brushing her thumb over his deep dimple like she had since he was five.

Harry turned his head, his eyes wide and eager, scanning the sea of nervous faces. It was the biggest crowd he’d ever been part of—much less sung in front of. He tugged at the collar of his coat and inhaled like he could pull in courage with the air.

Behind him, a boy was laughing loudly—sharp and unapologetic. Harry glanced back and saw him.

He looked maybe a couple of years older. Confident. His hair was caramel brown, straight and swept to the side, and his eyes—icy blue and electric—flicked over the crowd like he owned it. His laugh was obnoxious, a little annoying, and completely magnetic.

Harry watched him a little too long.

And a couple of minutes later when he gota bit too distracted, as fate and nerves and bad timing would have it, Harry took a step back and right into that boy’s path chest and back colliding.

Their shoulders bumped hard enough to jolt Harry forward.

“Oops!” he gasped, stumbling, green eyes wide as saucers.

The boy caught himself, blinking in surprise. Then he smiled, wide and easy.

“Hi.”

Harry blinked at him, stunned. “Sorry—God, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s alright,” the boy said, eyes glittering like he was laughing on the inside. “Not a bad way to meet someone. Bit dramatic, but hey, it works.”

Harry let out a breathy laugh and tucked a curl behind his ear, his fingers fumbling with the edge of his shirt. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. First audition nerves.”

“Same,” the boy said, rocking back on his heels. “First time too.”

They stood awkwardly for a second, toeing the edges of conversation like neither of them quite knew what to do with it. Around them, the crowd shifted and hummed, but it felt like they were standing just slightly outside of it all.

“I’m Harry,” he said finally, shy but smiling with a clear Cheshire accent lacing around the bowels.

“Louis,” the boy replied, reaching out to shake his hand. His grip was warm. Firm.

Harry’s heart tripped over itself like an idiot.

“I like your curls,” Louis added with a grin that could’ve lit up the whole block.

Harry flushed, ducking his head. “Thanks.”

He wasn’t used to boys saying things like that. Or maybe he wasn’t used to liking it so much when they did.

There was a tug from behind—Gemma calling him back to their spot in the line. Harry turned, then back to Louis.

“I guess I’ll see you inside?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “Don’t go tripping over anyone else before then.”

Harry laughed, still pink in the face, and waved as he walked away into the building.

Louis watched him go, something curious blooming in his chest. He hadn’t expected anything real today. Just nerves and maybe some half-decent voices. But that boy—

“Oops! ”

It echoed in his mind like a pebble dropped in water. He didn’t know why it stuck. It just did.
——

Two years later, it would stick so hard they’d ink it into their skin.

But for now, it was just oops and hi. A collision. A first word. The start of everything.
—-
Louis didn’t expect to think about the curly-haired boy again. He was just another nervous kid in a sea of them, all hopeful eyes and shaky hands. But something about him stuck.

Maybe it was the dimples that adorned his cheeks that were adorned with tiny freckles . Maybe the way he smiled like he hadn’t been hurt yet, touched by the dark side of the world. Or maybe Louis just had a thing for soft boys who looked at people like they were made of music. Even if you asked him? He was totally straight, no discussions.

Yet he didn’t know.

All he knew was that when his name got called and he stepped into the holding room, he scanned for the mop of curls of the stranger before he even realized what he was doing.

And there he was. Sitting with his mum and sister, knees bouncing, a small white paper number pinned to his chest. His leg was jittering with nerves, but he was smiling at something his mum said, soft and warm.

Louis forced himself to look away.

“You alright, mate?” came a voice beside him.

Louis turned and found a tall boy with an impressive jawline and soft brown eyes, offering a hand.

“Zayn,” the boy said.

“Louis,” he replied, shaking it.

Zayn nodded at the cameras and producers bustling around them. “This is mad, innit?”

“Completely,” Louis laughed. “Feels like we’re all pretending to be on telly and someone’s going to tell us to go home.”

“Speak for yourself,” Zayn smirked. “I plan to win this thing.”

Louis liked him immediately.

A few rooms away, Harry clutched his lucky scarf as a producer called his name. He stood up, heart thudding like it wanted to break free of his chest, and turned to Anne and Gemma.

“You’ll be amazing,” Anne whispered, kissing his cheek.

“Knock ‘em dead, superstar,” Gemma added, giving his hand a squeeze.

Harry took one last breath and followed the producer into the audition room.

There were so many lights. Too many cameras. But all Harry could really see were the judges—Simon, Cheryl, Louis Walsh—and the stage. His hands trembled as he gripped the mic, but he managed a shy smile.

“And what’s your name?” Simon asked.

“Harry. Harry Styles.”

“And what do you do, Harry?”

“I work in a bakery,I like…serve” he said, voice a little shaky and stumbling over himself. “But I want to be a singer.”

“And what will you be singing?”

“‘Isn’t She Lovely’ by Stevie Wonder.”

The music started. Harry closed his eyes.

He sang.

And somehow, everything else fell away.

He felt it—felt how his voice steadied, how the melody poured out like a secret he’d been carrying for years. He thought of his mum’s face in the crowd, of his bedroom where he’d practiced over and over in front of the mirror, of the blue eyed boy in the hallway who said hi like he meant it.

When he finished, the room clapped.

He smiled, big and real.

Simon gave a rare grin. “You’ve got something, Harry. Something very… charming.”
He got two positive votes from Simon Cowell and Cheryl and one negative vote from Louis Walsh.
Harry’s knees almost gave out. He nodded, trying not to beam too hard.

He left the stage in a daze, heart racing, and immediately went searching for his mum who had wide open arms waiting for him and tears in her eyes.

——-

Louis had watched it all on a screen backstage. He hadn’t meant to—he was waiting for his own slot—but when Harry Styles appeared on the monitor, Louis stayed rooted to the spot without noticing.

There was something about him on stage. Not just the voice, which was sweet and soulful and a little raw around the edges, but the way he looked like he belonged there.

Louis watched Harry’s eyes flick up toward the crowd. Watched his smile bloom.

He hated how much he liked it.

“He’s good,” Zayn commented beside him.

Louis shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. For a bakery boy.”

But his hands were clenched.
——
After Harry’s audition, he found a spot near the water cooler and sat with his back against the wall, finally letting himself breathe. His palms were sweaty. His throat still buzzed with nerves and adrenaline.

“Mate, that was sick,” a boy with a heavy Irish accent said, plopping down next to him. He had blonde hair and the brightest grin Harry had ever seen. “I’m Niall.”

“Harry,” he said, smiling shyly.

“You smashed it,” said another boy, lean and sharp with brown eyes and a serious expression. “I’m Liam.”

“Thanks, I’m Harry” Harry replied with a grin, still stunned anyone even wanted to talk to him.

They chatted for a while, the three of them. It was easy, light, and for a moment, Harry didn’t feel so much like the youngest person in the room.

Until his eyes flicked up and saw Louis across the room, leaning against the wall beside another boy—dark-haired, cool, almost detached. Louis was laughing again, head thrown back.

Harry looked away.

—-
Hours passed. The energy in the building began to fray at the edges. Some had already been told yes, others no. The rest were stuck in limbo, waiting for their name to be called again—for Boot Camp, or for the end.

Louis hadn’t seen Harry since earlier, but he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

About how he’d looked on stage, all vulnerable and determined.

About how he said oops like he hadn’t meant to crash into Louis’s chest and send his heart into freefall without intending to do so, and for someone heterosexual the feeling wrapped around his chest felt pretty strange.

It was ridiculous.

Louis hadn’t even auditioned yet.

But when he finally stepped into the room, mic in hand, he found himself scanning the shadows backstage—not for the judges, not even for Zayn, but for a pair of green eyes watching from the sidelines.

He didn’t find them.

Still, he sang like they were there. It gained him full positive votes.
——
The waiting was the worst part.

Niall had eaten half a protein bar, a packet of crisps, and someone else’s sandwich by the time a producer told them there were “still a few hours” before results.

“Want the rest?” he asked Harry, holding out the bar like a peace offering.

Harry grinned. “You just offered me the part you didn’t want.”

“Exactly,” Niall said, stuffing it back in his mouth.

They sat cross-legged on the floor near a vending machine, shoulders brushing. Liam was leaning against the wall beside them, glancing at his notes.

“You think it’s better to be memorable or technically good?” he asked.

Niall squinted. “Memorable, definitely. I was loud.”

“You were off-key,” Liam deadpanned.

“You wound me, Payno,” Niall gasped, clutching his chest dramatically.

Harry giggled, tucking a curl behind his ear. He liked them already—Liam with his slightly-too-serious energy, and Niall, who filled silence with laughter and snacks. They made the waiting easier. Less terrifying.

But every now and then, Harry would glance across the crowded room and catch sight of him.

Louis.

He sat stretched out beside the quiet boy with the jawline—Zayn, Harry thought someone had called him. Louis’s straight hair kept falling in his eyes, and he flicked it away like he was born to be watched. Every time he laughed, his whole body leaned into it.

They hadn’t spoken again since the “oops.”

And still, Harry kept looking.

—-

“Why are you staring at bakery boy?” Zayn asked, popping the lid off a water bottle.

Louis blinked, caught. “I’m not.”

“You so are.”

Louis rolled his eyes and shoved Zayn lightly. “You’re imagining things.”

Zayn didn’t press, just smirked and leaned back against the wall, looking effortlessly cool.

They’d only known each other a few hours, but there was something easy about Zayn. He didn’t ask too many questions. He didn’t need to. They shared a look every time someone sang badly. They made sarcastic commentary under their breath. They laughed until their stomachs hurt at a guy named Robbie who nearly tripped walking offstage.

It wasn’t deep yet. But it was something.

Still—Louis’s eyes kept drifting.

Every time Harry laughed too loud, Louis heard it. Every time he smiled, Louis felt it. Like a stupid echo in his chest.

“You should go talk to him,” Zayn said.

Louis shook his head. “No point.”

“Why not?”

Louis didn’t have an answer.

—-

They were all called into a large room that smelled like nerves and cheap deodorant. One by one, names were called, faces dropped or lit up like fireworks.

Harry gripped Niall’s hand without realizing it, the blonde boy had already gone through to bootcamp.

“Harry Styles,” a voice said.

He stood, shaking, and Niall squeezed once before letting go.

“You’re through to Boot Camp.”

Everything went silent in Harry’s head.

Then it all rushed in at once—shouts, claps, someone patting him on the back.

He turned to see Liam who was also through, beaming. “Told ya mate.”

Niall launched into a cheer that was way too loud.

Harry barely noticed. He was too dizzy. Too full of something that might have been hope.

“Louis Tomlinson.”

He stood before he’d fully processed the name.

His heart was in his throat, chest tight.

“You’re through.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“You’re in. Boot Camp.”

Zayn let out a low whistle beside him, they were going together. “Alright, mate!”

Louis grinned without meaning to. The sound of his name paired with the word “in” lit something electric in his chest. He looked over at Zayn, who clapped his back, then turned—

—and locked eyes with Harry across the room.

They were both smiling, still stunned, still vibrating from the shock of it.

Harry took a small step toward him, weaving through people.

Louis did the same.

They met in the middle, bodies buffered by chaos.

“Congrats,” Harry said, breathless.

“You too,” Louis said, cheeks flushed.

They stood there for a beat too long.

Neither reached out. Neither moved away.

“You were great,” Louis added. “I, uh… I saw your audition.”

Harry’s smile softened. “You did?”

Louis nodded, then looked away for a split second like he was suddenly shy. “You’ve got something, Curly.”

Harry blinked. “Curly?”

Louis shrugged. “You’ve got the hair for it.”

Harry looked down, flustered and glowing all at once. “Well… thanks.”

Another beat. Still too close.

A voice in the distance called them back to the group, to paperwork, to cameras, to everything else.

But before they turned away, Louis leaned in, voice just for him.

“I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Harry looked up, green eyes wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They split paths a second later. Louis back to Zayn. Harry to Niall and Liam.

But neither stopped smiling.

And somewhere inside each of them, a tiny invisible red string had been tied to their pinkies.
—-
Boot Camp was chaos.

They were woken up at ungodly hours, handed breakfast on paper plates, and shoved into rehearsal rooms that smelled like nerves and fluorescent lighting. Vocal coaches barked instructions. Choreographers shouted. Cameras never stopped rolling.

Harry loved it.

He hated it too—mostly the way his stomach twisted every time someone hit a better note, or sang louder, or danced without tripping. But he loved the rush of it, the promise. He loved waking up to Niall humming something in the bunk above, and Liam passing him a cup of tea like clockwork.

They weren’t roommates, but they found each other before every challenge. Harry stuck to Niall like glue. Niall stuck to food. And Liam—Liam held them together, somehow. He was the calm in all the noise like a safe space in all the chaos. Encouraging, gentle, always giving pep talks even when no one asked for them.

“You’ve got a star voice, mate,” Liam told Harry once, after a shaky run-through.

Harry had smiled but didn’t believe it.

Not completely.

He still thought about Louis too much.

—-
Louis had been paired with Zayn for choreography and vocal drills, which meant they spent most of their time together arguing about who was worse at dancing. Louis won—barely. Zayn just looked cooler doing it.

“You’ve got the moves of a startled squirrel,” Zayn said, deadpan, as Louis nearly walked into a mirror.

“Thanks for the support, mate.”

“Anytime.”

They had their own rhythm—sarcastic, chill, slow-burning. It kept Louis sane. Mostly.

Except when Harry was in the room.

Harry was always just somewhere nearby. Laughing with Liam. Singing scales with too much emotion. Tucking his curls into a beanie that made Louis irrationally annoyed.

He shouldn’t have been paying attention.

But he was.

They weren’t in the same groups, but they crossed paths in the cafeteria, in the hallways, sometimes waiting for vocal warmups. Their hellos got warmer. Their goodbyes lingered.

One night, they ended up outside the building at the same time—just them and the quiet.

“Can’t sleep?” Louis asked.

Harry shook his head. “Too nervous.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re… you’re good.”

“You said that last time.”

“Well, it’s still true.”

Harry glanced at him, soft. “You’re good too.”

Louis tried to smile, but it felt weirdly like something was catching in his chest. “I know.”

They both laughed.

And then they didn’t say anything else.

They just sat on the concrete steps, cold air brushing their arms, eyes tracing the London skyline in silence.

——

They gave it everything.

Every note. Every breath. Every hour of sleep.

They stood on stage with the lights too bright and Simon Cowell watching like a vulture. His eyes scanned them like numbers, not people.

Harry sang his heart out.

So did Louis.

And still…it wasn’t enough.

“Unfortunately,” Simon’s voice rang out, flat and final, “it’s a no for all you lads.”

Harry didn’t remember blinking. Didn’t remember breathing. Just the way the floor tilted under him and it seemed like it was opening under him.

Liam’s shoulder brushed his. Niall was whispering “shit, shit, shit” under his breath trying to not tear up.

Zayn looked blank. Like he’d already left his body.

And Louis.

Louis was still staring straight ahead. Silent. Still. Gone.

Just like that—it was over.

A dream snapped in half.

—-
The boys gathered their things in an unsettling quietness. No cameras now. No bright lights. Just a cold backstage room that smelled like grieving dreams and crushed hearts.

“I really thought…” Harry whispered, mostly to himself in a quiet broken voice.

Liam put a hand on his back trying to sound tough and not like he was crumbling apart. “You were brilliant.”

“Didn’t matter,” Niall mumbled blue eyes red with tears that silently streamed down his cheeks like all the other boys.

Louis kicked at a chair leg. “They didn’t even say why. They just—”

He stopped.

No one knew what to say.

It was the kind of heartbreak that had no words.

And then—

A tap on the door.

A producer, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Can we get the five of you to come with us?”

They blinked.

“What for?” Liam asked.

“You’ll want to see this, Simon is calling all of you back to the stage.”

The hallway blurred by.

They were shoved back into the main stage, this time with the other judges. With Simon, and Nicole Scherzinger, and cameras suddenly back in their faces capturing every tear streak down their cheeks, every whimper leaving past their lips.

“You didn’t make it as solo artists,” Simon said.

Thanks, Harry thought bitterly.

“But we saw something in you. Something… that could work. Together.”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Then the words that changed everything.

“We’re putting you in a group.”

It didn’t hit at first.

Then Niall started grinning.

Liam blinked in disbelief.

Zayn raised his eyebrows, trying not to smile—but he was.

Harry’s heart skipped so hard he thought it might fall out of his chest.

And Louis.

Louis let out the loudest laugh Harry had ever heard.

“You’re joking,” he said.

“We’re not.”

They looked at each other.

All of them.

The five of them.

And something—everything—clicked.

Like maybe this was the beginning after all.

Harry looked across at Louis.

Louis looked right back.

And that tiny string between them pulled tighter.
—-
Spain was hot. Miserably so.

Their clothes stuck to their backs with sweat, their nerves stayed sharp, and Simon Cowell’s villa looked like it belonged in a Bond film — expensive, empty, and just threatening enough to ruin five boys’ lives.

“This isn’t a house,” Louis had said the first night staring at the ceiling. “It’s a trap.”

“Pretty sunny for a trap,” Niall had pointed out.

They were given one large room to share, mattresses scattered across the floor. Harry laid beside Liam and Niall, but Louis and Zayn claimed the far corners. There wasn’t much privacy, but that didn’t matter. Not yet.

They had bigger things to worry about.

Harry tried not to let the pressure get to him, but it was hard. This was it. The moment. If they didn’t prove themselves now, they’d go home. Not just as soloists — but as a band that barely got a shot.

He watched Zayn pace constantly. Liam perfected their harmonies until midnight. Niall hummed nervously when no one spoke. Louis cracked jokes — always — but Harry could tell he wasn’t sleeping either.

Harry caught him outside once, barefoot, leaning over the balcony railing.

“Hey,” Harry said softly. “You good?”

Louis didn’t turn. “Yeah. Just… thinkin’. S’alright.”

Harry stood beside him in silence, letting the wind brush through his curls. After a beat, Louis nudged his elbow lightly.

“You worried?” Louis asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

Another beat.

Then Louis smirked. “At least we’ve got the best hair here.”

Harry laughed. “Speak for yourself, coconut head.”

“Oi,” Louis said, grinning. “Rude.”

The next morning, it happened.

They were given a few hours to relax before rehearsals. Simon’s assistant told them they could go to the beach — but to be careful.

Louis never listened.

He was in the water within five minutes, wading out further than the others, kicking through the shallows like a restless cat, because he truly felt like one.

Then the scream came.

It was sharp and loud enough to freeze the blood of all of the group.

“Shit!” He cried out in pain.

Harry turned first. “Louis?”

Zayn was already running.

Liam followed, yelling something about the coral.

By the time they got to him, Louis was limping back toward the shore, face twisted in pain, blood pooling in the water. “Fucking sea urchin,” he hissed, nearly falling into Niall as he reached land.

Staff rushed him to a local clinic, every movement getting recorded while Louis had to play down his pain.

The rest of the boys sat in sweaty silence back at the mansion, tension rolling in waves.
Harry was the first one to break down into body shuddering sobs in Niall’s arms.

Louis barely made it back in time.

They had twenty minutes until they were due in front of Simon since the staff had fixed their scheduling, and when Louis hobbled in with a bandaged foot and a grimace, Harry bursted into tears again.

Not theatrical. Not dramatic.

Just relief.

Pure, aching, terrified relief.

“You’re—” Harry choked, running to him. “You idiot, you almost— I thought—”

“I’m fine,” Louis said, eyes wide. He looked stunned by the reaction.

Harry threw his arms around his shoulders, careful not to touch his foot. He didn’t know what came over him. He only knew he’d never been more scared in his life.

Louis, to his credit, didn’t let go either.

Zayn whistled. “Romantic.”

“Shut it,” Louis muttered, hiding his face in Harry’s shoulder.

But he was smiling.

And Harry felt it.

—-

Simon met them on the terrace like a villain about to press a red button.

He wore sunglasses. He smiled thinly. Cameras rolled.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

They sang their hearts out.

Every note. Every blend. Louis gritting through the pain, Harry still red-eyed, Niall with his hand slightly shaking. Liam on pitch, Zayn like velvet.

Afterwards, Simon clapped once.

“We’ll let you know.”

And just like that, it was over.

They waited by the pool. It was colder now, the sun setting with an unsettling breeze. The air felt heavier.

Simon came out and dragged it out, painfully.

And then he said the words.

“You’re going through to live shows lads.”

The screams were immediate.

Niall threw his arms in the air. Liam shouted. Zayn even cracked a grin.

But Harry?

Harry looked right at Louis, eyes wide, heart too big with his devastating green puppy eyes.

Louis winked at him.

Still limping. Still grinning.

Still there.
—-
The house was massive. A mansion, really. Tall ceilings, polished floors, endless mirrors, a gate that kept fans away — and not a single place to be alone.

“You’d think with all this space, we wouldn’t be breathing each other’s air twenty-four seven,” Louis muttered, dragging his suitcase up the stairs behind Harry.

“Still better than the hotel,” Harry said, trying to smile, even though his curls were frizzing from stress and his back ached from sitting on them all day. “I mean… we’re here. This is real now.”

Louis looked back at him. “Yeah. It is.”

They were given a shared bedroom — all five of them — and while it was technically spacious, the bunk beds were crammed close, their suitcases thrown in the middle, clothes already tangled together like some strange forced marriage.

Cameras had been set up around the house. Some subtle. Some blatantly obvious. A small red light blinked in the corner of their room over the nightstand.

“You think they’re watching all the time?” Niall asked, flopping onto his bed and tossing crisps into his mouth like he owned the place while glancing at the little red dot making silly faces .

Zayn smirked. “You planning to wank on camera? Give them a show?”

Niall shrieked in laughter.

Liam groaned.

Harry caught Louis’s eye across the room, and they both grinned.

They were being recorded constantly for “extra footage” — online clips, behind-the-scenes montages, or, more truthfully, Simon’s puppet show. Already they’d been pulled aside separately to talk to producers who asked leading questions like “Which of the boys do you think will crack under pressure first?” and “Would you consider yourself the heartthrob?”

Harry always said no.

But the questions kept coming.

—-
That night, they sat in the lounge, playing cards on the floor with some of the other contestants. A girl named Cher taught Niall a Northern slang phrase that he immediately butchered. Liam and Zayn were shoulder to shoulder, always quietly close, and Harry noticed how Liam’s laugh grew softer around him. He didn’t say anything.

He just watched.

Then Louis dropped down beside him on the rug, holding out a biscuit.

“Didn’t eat much earlier,” Louis said simply, not looking at him.

Harry took it with a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

Louis still wasn’t looking. But his knee pressed softly against Harry’s.

That was enough.

—-
The next morning after breakfast, Harry was called aside by one of Simon’s people.

“We’re gonna shoot a few promo interviews,” they said.

Harry, still sleep-rumpled and confused with a beanie over his messy curls, nodded. “Sure.”

What he wasn’t expecting was the stylist picking out low-cut shirts and telling him to “lean into it — you’re the cheeky one.” He wasn’t expecting the way the producer smiled when he mentioned being single, then asked “Do you like older women Harry?” like it was part of the script and something normal to ask a 16 year old.

He smiled through it.

He hated every second.

When he came back, Louis found him alone in the kitchen, fists clenched by the sink as he took shaky breaths.

“Curly?” Louis asked, carefully.

Harry blinked. His jaw trembled slightly.

“They want me to be…” He trailed off, too ashamed to finish. A womanizer, something he wasn’t.

Louis tilted his head. “You don’t have to be anything you’re not.”

Harry laughed, humorless. “I think I do.”

Louis hesitated — then walked over, bumped their shoulders softly, and whispered, “Well, I think you’re fine just like this.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

But later that night, when they curled into their beds and the red camera light blinked faintly, Louis whispered, “Goodnight, Curly.”

And Harry whispered back, “Night, Lou.”

Meanwhile, Liam and Zayn had grown inseparable in quiet ways, trading jumpers, falling asleep with their heads too close, leaning into each other’s space like gravity made it so. It was unspoken and gentle and somehow more real than any of the performances they’d been told to give.

They all felt it — the way the cameras captured every laugh but never the loneliness that followed. The way the public was already being told who they were before they’d figured it out themselves.

They only had a few days before live shows began. But already the pressure settled like a second skin.

Only with each other did it feel like they could still breathe.
——
The house was loud during the day. Interviews, rehearsals, vocal coaching. A constant buzz of movement and nerves.

But at night? At night it slowed. The cameras didn’t stop, but they blinked quieter.

That’s when the real moments happened.

The kitchen light hummed above in a quiet hum. Harry was crouched by the bottom cupboard, blinking sleepily at the boxes inside, hoodie pulled up covering his ruffled up curls and boxers.

“Cocoa Pops?” he whispered to himself, pulling one out and staring at it through a yawn.

Louis padded in barefoot stretched out old tshirt that was probably Liam’s and joggers. “You really eat chocolate for dinner?”

Harry turned around, a sheepish smile on his face, dimples showing. “It’s technically breakfast.”

Louis grabbed a spoon from the drawer and bumped his hip playfully. “Move over, Curly. Share.”

They sat on the floor, legs crossed, sharing from the same bowl.

A camera blinked above them, but Louis didn’t look.

Harry was just too busy watching the way Louis licked milk off his thumb.
—-
The stairwell had the best acoustics. Someone said it during the second week, and then they never left it alone for practice.

Niall perched on a step, guitar in hand, quietly strumming something soulful. Liam was beside him, tapping his foot, murmuring harmony lines like he couldn’t help himself.

Louis and Harry sat a few steps below, knees touching.

When they sang, Louis watched Harry more than the lyrics.

When Louis sang, he never noticed the way Harry leaned closer.

That night, Liam laughed so hard at something Zayn said he nearly fell backwards down the stairs.

Harry didn’t know what Zayn said, but the way he smiled when Liam caught himself — yeah, that said everything.
—-

One afternoon, the others were off filming something in the garden. Louis came back early from vocal warm-ups and found Harry in the corner of the lounge, curled up with a sketchpad.

He stood there quietly for a moment, watching.

Harry didn’t notice him — too focused, tongue between his teeth, pencil smudging along the page.

“What’re you drawing?” Louis asked, making him jump.

Harry held the pad close to his chest. “Nothing.”

Louis grinned and sat beside him on the couch. “Bet it’s good. You’re always doing something artsy.”

Harry shrugged, pink in the cheeks.

Louis leaned closer. “You’re blushing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

They didn’t talk after that. Louis stayed beside him anyway.
——-
Later that night, Louis reached across the sofa and tugged one of Harry’s curls.

Harry squeaked. “Oi!”

Louis chuckled, letting the strand go. “Curly suits you, y’know.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered too long.

“I mean it,” Louis said, quieter this time.

Harry stared at the TV. “Yeah. Okay.”

Louis kept staring at him, though.

That wasn’t the first time he called him Curly but it felt different, more real, more intimate.

It stuck.
—-
It wasn’t meant to be a sleepover.

It was late. They’d stayed up talking in whispers, knees pressed together on Harry’s bed until the house was still.

“Stay,” Harry had said, just barely audible.

Louis blinked at him.

And nodded.

They shifted awkwardly under the blanket, backs turned, legs brushing sometimes.

Then Louis’s knee bumped against Harry’s.

Harry tensed.

Louis noticed — but didn’t say anything.

He just curled in closer, careful not to press too hard.

And for the first time in weeks, Harry fell asleep with a smile.
—-
The night was one of those that buzzed, thick with energy even after the cameras cut. The lads were too wired from rehearsals, too jittery with anticipation of tomorrow’s live show to sleep. So they gathered in the boys’ lounge — bean bags and duvets piled on the floor, snacks spread like they were children again.

Someone (probably Niall) suggested a game.

“Truth or dare,” he announced grandly, mouth full of popcorn.

Louis grinned wickedly. “Are we twelve?”

“Speak for yourself,” Zayn drawled, cracking open a soda. “I’m fifteen.”

Liam, ever the sweetheart, tried to protest. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Truth,” Louis interrupted, eyes glinting. “Come on, Liam. You scared?”

Liam flushed, and the game began.

It started harmlessly. Silly questions. Dares to sing ridiculous songs or do a handstand. But as it always did, it got bolder.

“Harry,” Louis said after a while, turning toward him on the floor. “Truth or dare?”

Harry blinked, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. He glanced at Liam, then Niall, and finally to Louis. “Dare,” he whispered.

Louis tilted his head. Smiled like he already knew. “I dare you to let me kiss you.”

Everything stopped.

The room didn’t go silent — it just paused. Zayn looked up from the bottle he’d been spinning. Liam’s mouth hung open slightly. Niall made a choking sound around a gummy worm.

Harry didn’t speak.

Louis’s grin faltered, just a little. “Too much?” he asked, playful, like he could pretend it didn’t matter.

Harry shook his head. Slowly. “No,” he breathed. How harmless could it be?

He was already leaning in before Louis even moved.

The kiss was supposed to be funny. Quick. A joke. Something for the game.

But it wasn’t.

Louis’s hand came up to Harry’s cheek — not for show, not for laughs, just to steady him. And Harry — Harry melted into it. Lips soft, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

It was only a second, maybe two. But it cracked something open, something they couldn’t seal back.

When Louis pulled away, his face was unreadable.

Harry’s lips tingled. He felt lit up by fire from the inside.

No one said anything for a beat.

Then Niall barked, “My turn!” and the spell was broken. Yet the tension didn’t truly dissipate.

Zayn ended up kissing Liam that same night. A dare. Quick and bashful — Liam blushed so hard his ears turned red. But Louis didn’t see that.

He was still looking at Harry.
——
Later that night, most of the boys had gone to bed. Harry lingered in the lounge, knees drawn up to his chest, sketchpad balanced on them like always.

Louis sat down beside him without a word.

For a while, the only sound was Harry’s pencil scratching across the page.

“What’re you drawing?” Louis asked softly.

Harry glanced sideways, smiling without showing it. “You ask that a lot.”

“You never show me.”

Harry hesitated, then turned the sketchpad around.

It was Louis. Mid-laugh. Loose-limbed and brilliant, hair straight and messy, eyes alive.

Louis blinked. “You—”

Harry shrugged. “You’ve got a good face, for drawing purposes I mean.”

Louis didn’t know what to say to that.

A pause stretched between them. Louis’s hand brushed against Harry’s knee. It would’ve been nothing — except he didn’t move it.

Harry didn’t either.

“You ever wonder why I kissed you?” Louis asked, staring straight ahead.

Harry’s throat worked, eyes trained on his small leather bound notebook. “It was a dare.”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “But it didn’t feel like a dare.”

That made Harry turn. “Didn’t it?”

Another silence.

Louis reached forward — not to kiss him again, just to touch. Fingers grazing the back of Harry’s hand like a question.

Harry answered by curling his pinky around Louis’s.

“You’re not like the rest of them, are you?” Louis asked quietly.

Harry’s voice was barely a whisper when he said, “I don’t want to be.”

——
The late afternoon sun poured golden light across the sprawling green lawn of the mansion, warming the air and casting soft shadows across the tangle of boys chasing after a half-deflated football. Harry was at the center of it all, cheeks flushed, curls tucked beneath a loose grey beanie, the hem of his oversized hoodie bouncing as he ran. He laughed—loud and bright—and Louis felt the sound like a strike to the ribs.

He couldn’t take his eyes off him. He wasn’t able to do so for a couple of days already.

From his spot by the edge of the garden wall, Louis watched Harry with an intensity he didn’t bother hiding. It was like this every day now—an ache behind his ribs that worsened whenever Harry smiled at someone else. Or when Aiden ruffled his hair. Or when one of the girls on set giggled a bit too loudly after Harry spoke.

It wasn’t fair. Harry was too soft, too good. Too his. Or was he?

Louis sucked in a breath, jaw tight as he followed the boy’s every move. The way Harry’s hoodie clung damply to his back. The way his curls bounced when he threw his head back in laughter. The little way he bit his lip when he was concentrating and poked his tongue out. The sight alone was unbearable. Beautiful. Torturous.

He needed to do something about it before he lost his mind.

“Oi, Styles!” Louis called, voice rougher than he intended, sharp.

Harry turned, startled, his face glowing from the run, flustered cheeks and glowy. “Yeah?”

Louis didn’t say anything—just jerked his head toward the house and started walking. A few boys looked over in curiosity, but Harry didn’t hesitate. He followed.

Inside, the mansion was quiet. Most were still outside or in the kitchen. Louis led him up the stairs, his steps quick and sure. Harry trailed behind, breath still uneven from the game, his cheeks pink and lips parted.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked, confused, almost breathless. There was a flicker of hope in his voice. Maybe fear too.

Louis didn’t answer. He pushed into the shared bedroom, waited for Harry to step in, and then shut the door. He grabbed the nearest chair and jammed it under the handle with a practiced sort of desperation. Harry blinked, watching him.

“Lou?”

Louis didn’t speak. He walked to the dresser, snatched up the small stuffed seal Harry always tucked into bed beside him, and gently set it over the lens of the camera mounted in the corner. The plushie teetered for a second before staying in place. Only then did he turn to Harry.

Harry’s heart was hammering. “What—what’s going on?”

Still silent, Louis stepped closer. The air between them grew tight, heavy with something unspoken. Harry’s wide eyes searched his face, trying to read him, trying to figure out what was happening.

And then Louis kissed him.

Hard. Bruising.

It wasn’t slow or tentative. There was no testing the waters. It was immediate, desperate, the culmination of weeks—months—of pent-up tension. Louis cupped Harry’s face with both hands, dragging him forward until their mouths crashed together. He kissed like he was starving for it, like he was drowning and Harry was the air.

Harry made a shocked sound in the back of his throat, frozen for just a second before his hands clutched at Louis’s waist scrunching the fabric of his tshirt in his fingers, fingers digging in as he kissed him back. He couldn’t believe it. Louis. Louis was kissing him. The boy who made his heart do wild things. The boy who teased and smiled and stayed just out of reach. Now his lips were on his, hungry, bruising, trembling with need.

Louis pulled back for a breath, eyes blazing. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “None.”

Harry stared at him, speechless, lips tingling.

And then Louis pushed him—gently, but with purpose—back toward the bed.

They stumbled together, kissing again, clumsy with urgency. Two teenagers discovering what they felt. Louis’s fingers tugged at the hem of Harry’s hoodie, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside like it burned him without any grace. His hands roamed Harry’s pale chest, like he was trying to memorize the shape of him, like he couldn’t believe he was real.

Harry let him. His mind was spinning, drunk on the feeling of Louis’s hands and mouth and the weight of him. On the touch he had never felt that way before. He didn’t dare to speak, didn’t dare break the moment.

Louis pressed him into the mattress, hovering over him. His fingers fumbled at Harry’s waistband.

And then—

A knock.

Both of them froze. Louis’s head whipped toward the door.

“Lou?” It was Liam’s voice, muffled. “We’re ordering food, mate—what do you want?”

Louis closed his eyes, chest heaving. Harry lay perfectly still beneath him, hands splayed against his ribs. Neither of them moved.

“Give me a sec,” Louis called out, his voice high and tight.

A pause.

“Alright. We’ll wait.”

The footsteps retreated.

Louis exhaled a laugh, disbelieving, and dropped his forehead to Harry’s chest. “Fuck.”

Harry giggled softly, his heart still racing. He threaded his fingers through Louis’s hair, the intimacy of the touch grounding them both.

“We nearly got caught,” he whispered.

“Nearly?” Louis chuckled. “We’re a disaster.”

They lay there, tangled and flushed, the silence between them warm and full. Louis didn’t say anything else. He just stayed close, pressed to Harry like he couldn’t bear to let him go.

That night, they didn’t speak of it. They curled into each other under the covers, Louis’s hand clutching the hem of Harry’s shirt like a lifeline. Harry couldn’t stop smiling into the pillow.

But in the morning, Louis was different.

He got up first, careful not to wake Harry, and dressed quickly. When Harry sat up, eyes still soft with sleep and hope, Louis didn’t meet them.

He made a joke about breakfast. Called him “mate.” Asked if he’d seen his hoodie.

He didn’t mention the kiss. Or the bed. Or the seal still covering the camera lens.

Harry smiled anyway, because he didn’t know what else to do. His chest hurt, like something had cracked open. He told himself it was fine. That maybe Louis was scared.

But the way Louis didn’t look at him that morning?

It stayed with him.

It burned.
——

Two weeks later, the lights in the common room flickered slightly, casting golden reflections on half-finished drinks and paper streamers hastily taped to the walls. The celebration was loud—messy with relief and cheap snacks—and Harry sat on the armrest of a couch, legs curled up awkwardly beneath him, sipping a warm fizzy drink he could barely taste.

They’d made it through another week. The high should’ve been enough to carry him.

It wasn’t.

Not after what Jamie had just said.

“Hanna,” the boy had blurted through a mouthful of crisps, laughing too loudly over a beer. “Isn’t that her name, Lou? Your girl back home? The Doncaster one with the long blonde hair?”

Harry hadn’t looked up right away. He’d just kept smiling. A reflex by now. A perfect, practiced thing. A mask. He even laughed a little, because that’s what you do when you’re sixteen and in love with someone who doesn’t love you back the way you thought—no, hoped—they might.

Louis had waved him off, grinning. “Don’t start, mate,” he’d said, tugging his beanie down over his curls, cheeks flushed, not from shame—but amusement. “You make it sound like we’re getting married.”

Harry had blinked slowly, focusing on the way his cup of soda trembled in his fingers. A girlfriend. Of course. He should’ve known.

He had known. Hadn’t he?

And still, Louis had kissed him that morning. Pushed him into the tiny laundry room and whispered, “Missed you,” like it meant something, like Harry wasn’t just a thing to fill a need, a habit formed in secret corners when no one was looking.

His lips still tingled.

Now, across the room, Louis was sprawled on a couch, laughing loudly, surrounded by the others. He looked so free, so alive, like the weight of the show hadn’t touched him at all. Harry wanted to punch something. Or cry. Or both.

Instead, he smiled again. Made a stupid joke. Pretended to be fine.

And when Louis caught his eye, lips curving into that private smirk—the one he only gave Harry—Harry felt like he was sinking through the floor. Like everything inside him was trying to curl in on itself and hide.

He excused himself quietly and slipped into the hallway, needing air. Silence. Anything.

But it wasn’t long before footsteps echoed behind him.

“Where’re you going?” Louis’s voice, soft and familiar, slid around him like smoke.

Harry didn’t turn. “Just tired.”

“You always say that when you’re moody.”

“I’m not moody.”

Louis stepped closer, close enough that Harry could feel the heat of him. Close enough that his voice dropped. “You don’t wanna kiss me?”

Harry turned his face slightly, jaw tight. “Thought you had a girlfriend for that.”

Silence.

Louis blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly. “Forget it.”

But Louis didn’t. He stepped forward, backed Harry into the wall like he always did. Like this was a game they both signed up for. His hands bracketed either side of Harry’s head. His eyes were serious now. “You jealous?”

The words stabbed. It was all a game for Louis with his breath that smelled like pure alcohol making harry flinch.

Harry gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not allowed to be, am I?”

Louis didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. He just kissed him.

Hard.

And Harry let him. Like always. Because when Louis kissed him, the world got quiet. It was the only time he got to believe just for a moment that it wasn’t all in his head.

Louis pulled away a breath later, his lips pink, breath ragged. “She’s not— It’s not like that,” he murmured.

Harry looked up at him, eyes too wide, too glassy. “Then what is this?”

Louis flinched like he wasn’t expecting the question. Like they never talked about it, so why start now?

“I don’t know,” he said.

And that hurt more than anything else.

Harry nodded slowly, pushing past him. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Louis didn’t follow after him, instead he went back to the party.

Harry went to bed early that night, curling up on his side with the seal clutched against his chest, blinking hard at the ceiling. Louis didn’t come in until later. And when he did, he didn’t say a word. Just slipped into bed across the room, pretending nothing had changed.

But everything had.

And Harry didn’t know how to unfeel it.
——
The dressing room buzzed with pre-show energy—laughter, steam from tea kettles, stylists fluttering like bees—but Harry sat quiet on the leather bench by the mirror, twirling a ring around his finger that wasn’t his. He wasn’t sure when Louis had left it on the nightstand. All he knew was that he’d kept it. That had to mean something.

“You’re doing it again,” Niall said gently, settling beside him with a bag of crisps. “The starey thing.”

Harry blinked. “What thing?”

Niall raised an eyebrow. “The thing where you look like you’re watching your own funeral.”

That got a quiet laugh from Harry, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced across the room where Louis was grinning wide, his arm draped over Liam’s shoulders, mid-story. He was always laughing with them. Always loud. Always light.

Except when he looked at Harry.

Then it was different.

Darker, hungry, possessive then light, friendly and flirty.

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor.

“You wanna talk about it?” Niall asked after a moment, not pushing, just offering.

Harry hesitated, then leaned into him, just a bit. “He kissed me again. Last night.”

Niall nodded, like he’d been expecting it. “And?”

“And then he left. Just like always. Said I should get some sleep. Called me ‘buddy.’”

Niall winced. “That’s cold.”

Harry’s visibly flinched, his lips quirked. “Yeah.”

For a while, neither of them said anything. The bustle continued around them like a current they were both avoiding being dragged into.

“Y’know,” Niall said eventually, “you don’t have to let him treat you like that.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “He doesn’t mean to.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just kept twisting the ring on his finger.

——

The weeks passed, and Harry’s face started showing up more and more. In posters. In teaser trailers. On Simon’s call sheets underlined in red.

He was “The One.” The soft-spoken flirt. The charming pretty boy with a cheeky grin and a low voice that made producers swoon. And he hated it.

Simon sat him down one day, hands clasped like he was doing Harry a favor.

“Lean into it, Harry. The hair. The smile. The mystery. Girls love it. You’re the youngest—let them want you, let them desire you.”

Harry nodded, swallowing the unease. He wasn’t supposed to argue. He was lucky to be here.

And so, the leather jackets got tighter. The shirts unbuttoned lower. The winks choreographed. And every time a female guest was paired with him in interviews, Louis would hover just out of frame, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Harry could feel the tension radiating off him like a second skin.

It was worse during rehearsals. If Liam wrapped an arm around him or Aiden laughed too long at one of his jokes, Louis would find a way to get him alone. Always. Sometimes it was under the stairs. Sometimes it was the back corridor by wardrobe. Once, it was the cramped props closet with dust in the air and wires everywhere.

And every time, it was the same.

Louis pushing him against a wall. Kissing him so hard Harry could barely think. Hands everywhere. Tongues. Frantic, desperate sounds between them. Harry let it happen, let Louis take and take, because it was the only time he felt wanted. Even if it never lasted.

Even if Louis never said anything after.
—-

“Does it feel good?” Niall asked one night, when they were alone, curled up on bean bags in the corner of the green room, everyone else gone.

Harry looked up, startled. “What?”

Niall’s voice was soft, careful. “When he kisses you. When he touches you like that. Does it feel like love?”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. “It feels like I’m the only thing he sees. Just for a second.”

“That’s not love, mate,” Niall said. “That’s possession.”

Harry blinked hard. “I don’t want to stop.”

“I know,” Niall said gently. “But I’ll be here when it breaks you.”

Harry couldn’t speak. He leaned his head against Niall’s shoulder instead, silent tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t cry. Not really. But he was starting to feel like he might.

Because being Louis’s secret felt like both a blessing and a curse. Like something beautiful he was ruining by loving too much, while Louis pretended it didn’t exist at all.

And Harry was starting to break—quietly, invisibly—in all the places no one but Niall could see.
——
Harry was learning to smile through everything.

The blinding lights. The headlines that never sounded like him. The rehearsed flirty lines he delivered like he believed them. The hand Simon rested on his shoulder just a second too long. It was all part of the job now—being wanted, being desirable, being shaped into something marketable, a fantasy.

He felt hollow most of the time. Like a wax figure of himself. Beautiful and soft and posed just right. But still, when Simon pulled him aside after interviews or whispered compliments into his ear about “good camera work, Harry” or “you’ve got it, you know,” something fluttered in his chest.

Approval. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

Because it was the only affection he was allowed in public. And Louis—Louis only gave it when no one else was watching.

And even then, it wasn’t love. Not really. It was hands and mouths and breathing too hard, like they were both on the verge of drowning.

Harry leaned into it anyway. Into all of it.

—-
It started one afternoon, after an interview where the host had jokingly asked if Harry had a thing for older women. Harry laughed along, tilted his head, gave his best charming smile. It was rehearsed. Easy.

Simon clapped him on the back after. “Brilliant. Keep it cheeky. Mysterious. They eat it up.”

Harry nodded, because what else was he going to do?

Later that night, Simon found him alone in the corridor by the sound booth.

“You’re a star, Harry,” he said. His voice was smooth. Dangerous. “You could have anything you wanted. But you have to want it badly enough. Do you?”

Harry looked up, heart in his throat. “Yes.”

Simon smiled, slow and knowing. “Good. Because if you don’t want it badly enough, maybe I’ll have to find someone else who will. Maybe Louis.”

The words hit him like ice down his spine.

Harry barely nodded before slipping away, breath caught in his chest. That night, he didn’t sleep. He couldn’t.
——

Louis was waiting in their room. Pacing. He stopped when Harry came in, storm in his eyes already brewing.

“Why did he touch your back like that?” Louis asked.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Simon. Earlier. He touched you. You didn’t even flinch.”

Harry’s heart cracked in the silence that followed. “What was I supposed to do? Slap him?”

“You could’ve looked at me,” Louis snapped. “Done something.”

“You don’t want me to look at you when anyone else is watching,” Harry said quietly, the words slipping like glass from his lips.

Louis froze.

“Only when we’re hidden,” Harry continued. “Only when you want to remind me I’m yours. But I’m not. Am I?”

Louis looked like he’d been punched.

He stepped forward anyway. “You are,” he whispered, voice raw. “You are mine. I can’t—fuck, Harry—I can’t breathe when someone else touches you. When they talk to you like you’re theirs.”

“You have someone else,” Harry said, hollow.

“I don’t want her.”

“Then why—”

“Because you’re not allowed to be mine!” Louis shouted, even if he knew it was an excuse. Then lowered his voice, running a hand through his hair. “Because if people find out, if Simon finds out… he’ll ruin you…the band”

Harry’s breath hitched. “You think I’m not already ruined?”

Louis reached for him. Harry let him.

They didn’t kiss that night. Louis just held him too tightly, muttering things like “mine” and “I’m sorry” into the space between Harry’s neck and shoulder like a mantra.

But it didn’t stop the next time Simon called Harry in for a solo shoot.
——

Didn’t stop him from wearing the button-down they gave him, the one that clung too tight across his chest, his curls styled just-so, eyes lined faintly to make him look older. More seductive. More sellable.

He gave the camera what they wanted. Bit his lip. Smirked. Let himself be carved into a fantasy.

All for the half-smile Simon gave him after.

“You’re doing well,” Simon murmured. “Keep this up, and you’ll be bigger than the band itself.”

Harry nodded even if he didn’t want any of it, he wanted to be himself…to be loved for being himself…out loud. He wanted to make music with his best mates, his band.

Then went to the bathroom and threw up.

—-
Later, when Louis kissed him again—hard, angry, almost bruising—Harry didn’t pull away. Not even when Louis whispered, “I hate him,” like a confession. Not even when his hands roamed like they were searching for something he’d already lost.

Harry kissed back. Harder. Because if this was all he had, he was going to make Louis feel it.

Even if it broke him.

Especially if it broke him.
——

There were moments when Harry forgot to protect himself.

Like when Louis came into his room at night just to talk. When they’d lie side by side, whispering about nothing—crap telly, old school stories, which of the dancers had the worst rhythm. Those nights Louis would touch Harry’s wrist absentmindedly, run fingers along his knuckles like it meant nothing. Like they weren’t touching a fault line.

“You ever think about what happens after all this?” Harry would ask, soft.

Louis would shrug, eyes on the ceiling. “Not really. Doesn’t feel real enough to think past it.”

But then he’d roll onto his side and press their foreheads together. And Harry would close his eyes and let himself believe—just for that moment—that maybe it meant something to him too.

Only for it all to disappear the next day, like it had been scrubbed clean.

—-

Harry wasn’t good at pretending anymore.

The interviewers were always the same. Prying. Laughing. “So, Harry,” one of them said, “what’s your type? Are the rumors true about you and the guest stylist?”

He laughed along, all dimples and forced charm. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Louis was across the room, fiddling with a mic wire. His head snapped up like someone had tugged a string inside him. His eyes narrowed, lingered.

Later, in the hallway, Louis cornered him, eyes sharp. “You do kiss and tell, apparently.”

Harry’s heart dropped. “It was a joke.”

“Didn’t sound like one.”

“Why do you care?”

Louis didn’t answer. Just stepped close, too close. “You’re not hers.”

“And I’m not yours either,” Harry whispered.

Louis flinched.

Then kissed him hard, like punishment. Like a secret he didn’t want to admit even to himself. It was the kind of kiss that left Harry dizzy and ashamed.

He didn’t even say goodbye after. Just walked away, like it never happened.

Again.

—-

Liam started noticing.

He wasn’t loud about it—wasn’t the kind to call attention to cracks in the foundation—but he started standing closer. Stepping in when interviewers got too flirty. Always steering Harry away from Simon when he lingered too long, offering him a towel, a water bottle, a distraction.

“You alright?” he asked one evening, as Harry sat too quietly during warm-ups.

Harry smiled, too soft. “Yeah.”

Liam didn’t believe it. But he nodded anyway. “If you ever want to talk… I’m here.”

Harry looked away. “It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong.”

Liam didn’t say Louis’s name.

But Harry didn’t need him to.

—-

There were still good days. That was the worst part.

Like when Louis stole a cupcake from catering and smushed it into Harry’s cheek, laughing so hard he nearly fell over. Or when they played FIFA until two in the morning, Harry draped over Louis’s back, cheering him on even though Louis kept losing.

Or when Louis sang along with him during rehearsals, eyes locked, harmonies tight, grins wide. Sometimes, in those moments, Harry could almost forget the rest. Forget the girls Louis texted when he thought Harry was asleep. Forget Simon’s eyes watching him like a producer watching a prize racehorse. Forget the fact that it was only ever real when they were alone, and even then—not really.

—-

One night, after a particularly long taping, Harry was slow getting off stage.

Simon came up behind him, hands on his shoulders. “You’re glowing, Harry. That smile—it’s magic. Don’t lose it.”

Harry forced a laugh. “Thanks.”

He didn’t notice Louis watching from the wings.

Didn’t notice the way Louis’s jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists.

But Liam did.

He stepped between them, pulling Harry away smoothly, like it was nothing. “C’mon, Haz. Bus is leaving.”

Later, Harry sat beside him in the van, staring out the window. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

——

Louis came to his room that night, full of nervous energy and unreadable eyes.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stood by the door, shifting from foot to foot.

“Do you ever think maybe… this is just what it is?” he asked.

Harry sat up in bed. “What?”

“This. Us. It doesn’t have to be… heavy. Maybe we’re just… close, you know? Like brothers, sort of.”

Harry blinked. “You kiss your brothers like that?”

Louis flinched. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Harry whispered. “Because every time I think it means something, you act like it doesn’t.”

Louis looked down. “It’s not fair.”

“Then stop.”

“I can’t.”

Harry swallowed. “Then say it. Say it’s not casual. Say it’s not just about touching me when you’re jealous.”

Louis opened his mouth. Closed it. “I… can’t.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, voice breaking. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”

Still, he let Louis crawl into bed beside him that night. Let him hold his hand under the covers. Let him breathe against his neck like he was scared of waking up without him.

Because Harry wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.

But he was getting closer.
——
Then it all went to absolute shit, with just a grin Louis was able to crush all his walls down.

It started with Louis laughing too loud.

They were in the boys’ lounge, a day before the semifinals, music playing low, a couple of beers passed around even though they all knew they weren’t supposed to. Louis had more than a couple. His words were slow, his smile crooked, and he kept leaning too close to Harry like gravity was tilted toward him.

Harry was quiet. Nervous. Sixteen and jittery with the pressure of tomorrow. But Louis—Louis looked at him like nothing mattered more than the exact way Harry’s curls were pushed back by the beanie he wore.

“You’re too pretty,” Louis slurred, slinging an arm around his shoulder lazily, too loud, too close.

Niall barked a laugh as if he wasn’t just seventeen as well. “He’s sixteen, mate.”

Louis didn’t seem to hear.

“Seriously, Haz,” Louis mumbled, pressing his cheek against Harry’s temple, “you’ve got… like… lips made for sin, haven’t you?”

The whole room laughed.

Harry didn’t.

He tried to hide the way his heart leapt—stupid, stubborn thing.

Louis pulled away, only to tap a knuckle under Harry’s chin. “You’re mine, yeah?”

It was soft. Quiet. Like an accident that slipped out.

Harry looked at him, wide-eyed.

And Louis smiled.

That was all it took to set the rest of the night on fire.

—-
The spare room smelled like dust and lavender spray. It had belonged to one of the girls who’d been eliminated weeks ago—her things still faintly in the corners, like ghosts. The door was locked now, a chair pushed up against the knob.

Louis was on top of him.

They’d gotten here too fast—hands fumbling, mouths colliding, Harry breathless and dizzy. His shirt somewhere on the floor, jeans half-shoved down pooling around his ankles. Louis kissing his throat, his chest, his ribs like he was trying to memorize the shape of him and harry felt helpless because he wanted more of him.

“Wait—” Harry turned his head as Louis leaned in again. “You’re drunk.”

Louis blinked down at him. “Not that drunk, just happy.”

Harry shook his head. “You smell like it.”

Louis hovered there, eyes flicking between Harry’s lips and eyes. “I really want you Hazza, that’s all I know.”

And Harry—foolish, aching, desperate—nodded.

Their bodies moved like they knew each other, even if this was the first time anyone had ever touched him like that. Like the months of secret touches and late-night confessions had led to this, like their skin had been waiting to burn together into one being.

Louis’s hands held Harry’s hips like they were made of glass, he as careful and caring, like he didn’t trust them to stay. Harrys forehead pressed against the duvet under him as his thighs trembled in anticipation. He slid in slowly, forehead pressed to Harry’s shoulder, breath shaking.

Harry made a sound he couldn’t contain, eyes fluttering shut. The stretch was overly uncomfortable yet he could endure it.

Every time Louis moved, Harry felt something fracture and realign inside of him. He couldn’t even look at Louis’s face as he took something special from him. Yet Louis reassured him every step of the way.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis whispered against his nape. “You’re perfect. You’re—”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it…please” Harry cut in, voice cracking as Louis’s weight pressed him into the duvet.

Louis paused. Stilled.

Harry looked back up at him, pupils blown wide, curls sticking to his forehead. “Don’t make this worse.”

Louis swallowed. His face was different now—like the haze had lifted a little. His brows drew together, lips parting slightly.

“Look at me,” Harry said, quiet. “Please.”

Louis looked.

Something flickered between them.

And then he started moving again—slow, steady, his hand finding Harry’s and lacing their fingers together.

Harry gasped, held on. Let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—this time was different. That maybe the way Louis touched him now meant something more like the hopeless romantic he had always been.

He tried not to think about the taste of beer still lingering on Louis’s breath, the way he still hadn’t said anything that changed their situation. He let the way Louis stared at him, sober and wanting, carry the weight of all the things he couldn’t say.

“I’m yours,” Harry whispered.

Louis didn’t say it back.

But he gripped his hand tighter. Thrust deeper. Groaned like Harry was the only thing in the world that could keep him upright.

And Harry—Harry gave him everything.

Because he wanted to believe.

Because he had to.

—-

Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden and much too gentle for how Harry’s heart felt. He blinked against the brightness, the chill in the air settling over his skin. For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then he realized: he was dressed.

Fully clothed. In his own bed with his little seal tucked besides him. His jeans were uncomfortable against his legs, and the collar of his t-shirt was stretched out, ripped just a bit by the corner—but he was dry, clean, and alone.

The room was empty. Zayn’s bed unmade. Niall’s jacket gone. Liam’s workout water bottle missing from the nightstand. The rest of the boys were already up.

And Louis wasn’t there.

A second passed. Then another.

Had he dreamed it?

No—he could still feel it. The ache in his thighs, in his arse, the ghost of Louis’s hand in his, the raw tightness in his chest.

But it was like none of it had happened.

He sat up slowly, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye, willing himself not to cry.

Instead, he stood. Walked to the wardrobe and pulled out one of Louis’s hoodies—a soft navy one with a faint bleach stain near the cuff. He slipped it on over his shirt, buried his hands in the sleeves. It still smelled like him.

It made his heart hurt worse, or was the pain good? He didn’t know.

He padded quietly down the stairs, socks muffling the sound. The laughter hit him before he made it to the bottom.

Voices in the kitchen. Familiar ones. Louis among them, loud and bright and easy.

Harry slowed, hovering just before the corner. Something in his chest told him not to go further.

“So, Louis,” someone said through a laugh, “you seeing that girl still? What was her name—Hanna?”

“Yeah, Hanna,” Louis said, voice cocky, full of that teasing grin he always wore in a crowd. “Course I am. She’s fit. Mum likes her.”

The boys laughed.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

Then another voice, amused and sharp: “What about Harry, though? He’s like your little lovesick puppy. Always following you around.”

The laughter doubled. Harry could hear the grin in Louis’s voice.

“Don’t be daft,” he said, too fast. “He’s just a kid. He’s clingy like that with everyone.”

A few whistles and whoops followed.

“Bet he’d let you do anything though,” someone muttered.

Louis laughed. “He’s just friendly. It’s not like that. Let’s not make it weird”

Harry couldn’t move.

Something inside him fractured quietly, too cleanly to scream.

He turned before they could see him. Walked back up the stairs with his hands shaking in the sleeves of the hoodie, every step heavier than the last. His throat burned. His face was numb.

In the room, he stripped the hoodie off like it had burned him. Changed into something cleaner—something that didn’t smell like Louis—and grabbed his beanie from the bedpost.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t leave a note.

He slipped out the front door, hoodie tucked under his arm like a broken promise, the morning wind sharp against his cheeks.

And as he walked down the street, heart thudding against cracked ribs, he blinked hard against the tears threatening to fall.

Because last night, he had given Louis everything.

And this morning, Louis had laughed like none of it mattered.
——

The announcement came like a punch.

They didn’t make it through the semifinals.

Harry stood under the harsh lights, the crowd screaming their names anyway—“One Direction! Harry! Louis!”—and all he could do was stare at the confetti falling like dust around them. It was surreal. It didn’t feel like losing. Not with how the room shook with their names. Not with how the teenage girls cried and chanted and reached out like they were something golden.

Simon smiled from the sidelines. Not disappointed. Not even surprised.

Just calculating.

The contract came two days later. Niall had to nudge Harry to even look at it.

“Mate,” he said softly, “this is a big deal.”

Harry blinked down at the thick stack of papers. His name printed on the front, right under the bold SYCO header. But his version was heavier than the others—he could see it right away. More pages. More clauses. A whole paragraph outlining public image.

Simon caught his eye across the room and smiled—warm, like an uncle. Like someone who owned him.

“You’ve got that look, Harry,” he’d said earlier, voice smooth as butter. “The crowd loves you. My friends love you. Even Caroline can’t stop asking about you.”

Caroline.

Harry had nodded. Said thank you. Said he was excited.

Then he walked straight to Niall’s room, crawled into bed without a word, and curled around his little seal like he used to at home when he was sick.

Louis never came to find him.

He barely spoke to Louis at all.

He stayed near Niall now, a quiet shadow with too-big hoodies and sad eyes. He laughed sometimes, even smiled in group rehearsals, but it never reached all the way to his eyes.

Louis noticed.

He watched from doorways. Watched when Harry wouldn’t meet his eyes. Watched when he left the room the moment Louis entered.

He watched and said nothing.

Maybe he didn’t know how to fix what he broke.

Maybe he thought Harry had finally let go.

The night before their first official band meeting as a signed act, Harry sat on the floor of the shared bedroom, knees pulled to his chest, reading over the final page of the contract.

Image development. Public relationships. Media compliance.

He didn’t cry.

He just nodded to himself, then folded the papers neatly.

Across the room, Niall stirred in his sleep.

Harry looked over at the little seal on the pillow beside him.

They were just kids.

But no one seemed to care.

—-

The next morning, he signed his name at the bottom of the contract. Pressed the pen hard enough for the ink to bleed.

He didn’t flinch when Simon clapped him on the back.

Didn’t react when Caroline Flack walked past and winked, waiting for him to be 17, for him to be famous enough it benefited her dating him.

Louis was silent beside him. Like he wanted to say something. Like he didn’t know how.

Harry didn’t give him the chance.

And as the cameras started flashing, the world beginning to scream their name louder than ever before, Harry Styles stood under the spotlight and smiled like a star.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if anyone would ever see the boy underneath again.
One Direction was just beginning,
but the world was already screaming for the boy Simon had invented
not the quiet, aching heart still learning how to beat beneath it all.

Chapter Text

January 2011 came, the ink had barely dried on the contract when they were ushered into a soundproof room that didn’t soundproof anything important.

Five boys. Three producers. Two assistants in tight jeans with clipboards and the producers coffee orders memorized before their names.

Simon hadn’t come himself, but his presence lingered in the air like a black cloud . The smell of control.

“This is where the real work begins,” a producer said, cheerful like they weren’t about to build a cage around the boys. “This isn’t The X Factor anymore.”

Harry sat on the edge of the couch with his fingers twisting the strings of his hoodie. He smiled when people looked at him. That’s what they said he was good at. That’s what all they needed him to do.

Across the room, Louis laughed loudly at something Liam said. The laugh used to be Harry’s favorite sound. Now it just made his throat ache.

They weren’t allowed to write anything or explore creative liberties yet. That’s what the team explained gently, as if they were being protected from a massive failure.

Seasoned songwriters were already in place, working on “hooks that stick” and “lines girls will never forget ”

They passed around a chorus on paper like it was sacred. Something about being beautiful and not knowing it. Zayn said it sounded a bit creepy. Louis grimaced at the words on the paper, Niall just hummed it under his breath, distracted as he tried coming up with his own melody.

Harry didn’t say much at all.

“You okay, Haz?” Niall asked as they waited for the car. It was cold outside. Harry hadn’t brought a jacket, too focused on making a good first impression.

“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling trying to hide he was visibly shivering. “Just tired.”

Niall looked at him for a long moment, then pulled off his beanie and shoved it onto Harry’s head without a word.

They were driven back to their temporary housing. A long-stay flat in London, until more “permanent arrangements” were figured out. Each of them with their own rooms. Simon’s assistant had mentioned something about getting a nicer place for Louis and Harry, since they got on the best. Or used to.

Louis said something about it being like a “married couple’s suite.” Everyone laughed. Harry forced a chuckle and looked out the window.

In the hallway outside their rooms, Louis slung an arm lazily around Harry’s shoulders, just for a second. Like nothing had ever changed. Like there wasn’t something broken between them that only Harry could feel.

“Don’t go brooding on me, Styles. We’ve got studio again at ten,” Louis said with a grin. “And you still owe me breakfast.”

Harry shrugged him off gently. “Not hungry.”

Louis blinked at him, his grin flattering. “You alright?”

“I said I’m fine.”

The door clicked shut behind Harry, and that was that.

Harry lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling until his eyes blurred.

The flat was alien to him, and he missed home more than ever. White walls, impersonal decoration and lack of life, the kind of silence that didn’t settle but hovered. He hadn’t unpacked properly. A half-open suitcase sat at the foot of the bed like a reminder that this wasn’t home. Not really.

He reached across the mattress and pulled his little seal plushie into his chest. It was soft, a bit worn, something Gemma had given him years ago for Christmas. She called it “Seal Paul” like the Beatle. Harry had rolled his eyes and grinned and kept it anyway.

He curled around it now and tried not to think about the way Louis had looked at him in the studio. Like a friend. Like someone who hadn’t once held Harry’s face and kissed him until he forgot his own damn name. He wondered if Louis even remembered that night.

The ache hadn’t gone away. It just got quieter. More manageable.

X factor Tour rehearsals were starting soon. There’d be less time to feel. Maybe that was good. Maybe if he filled his days with enough activities, he wouldn’t miss Louis so much.

Maybe…but it seemed like the most impossible task.

He sat up slowly, hugging the plush tight to his chest for one more second before setting it gently on the pillow.

His fingers hovered on the doorknob for a moment before he opened it.

From down the hallway, he heard Louis’s voice. Light, playful. The one he used when he wanted to be charming. The one Harry used to love most when they met.

“Come on, babe, you know I’d rather be with you than stuck in a room with Zayn snoring in my ear through the wall” Louis was saying, laughter warm in his throat. “Maybe I’ll sneak out later. Don’t tell anyone.”

Harry stood frozen just outside the doorway.

“I know,” Louis said, voice lower now. “I miss you too.”

Harry turned and walked slowly toward the kitchen. Every step made it harder to breathe.

He thought maybe he could’ve talked to Louis, he was again proven wrong.

The room smelled like burnt toast and instant coffee with an absurd amount of espresso shots for someone that had endless energy. Niall was sitting on the counter, feet swinging slightly, butter knife in hand, humming a melody to himself.

He looked up the moment Harry stepped inside.

Harry tried to smile. It didn’t land.

Without saying a word, Niall hopped down and opened his arms.

Harry didn’t think. He just walked into them.

Niall held him tight, hand smoothing over the back of his curls. No questions, no judgment. Just warmth. Just stillness. That’s who Niall is.

“I’m alright,” Harry mumbled, voice cracking.

“I know,” Niall whispered. “But you don’t have to be.”

Harry didn’t know how long he stood there, held tight against Niall’s chest.

The kitchen lights buzzed faintly, a dull hum above them, and Niall’s jumper smelled like his shampoo and the atrocity of toast he made.

He wasn’t crying, not exactly. His eyes just wouldn’t stop burning.

“I didn’t mean to hear it,” Harry whispered, voice muffled. “I didn’t want to hear it.”

Niall just rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades. “I know, Haz. I know.”

Down the hallway, Louis ended the call with a grin still tugging at the edge of his mouth. Hanna had made some joke about moving in together someday. He hadn’t answered.

He never took her that seriously, not really, but it was comfortable. Familiar. Safe.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

Then stopped.

From the doorway, unseen, he saw Harry wrapped in Niall’s arms. It wasn’t a casual hug. It wasn’t one of those quick side squeezes the boys gave each other in interviews.

This was something quiet and intimate, the kind of closeness that made Louis’s throat tighten without warning.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he didn’t need to.

Niall’s hand curled protectively over the nape of Harry’s neck, fingers tangling slightly in the curls Louis had once kissed his way through.

The memory coming vividly to the tips of his fingers. Harry was gripping Niall’s hoodie like he might fall without it.

Louis blinked once.

Twice.

Turned on his heel.

By the time Niall looked up, the hallway was empty.

—

The pub wasn’t crowded, not properly. A low profile place in Camden, with enough noise and ale to make anyone forget the time.

Zayn sat across from Louis in their booth, sipping lazily at his drink while Louis stared into his own, unreadable.

“She’s been texting all week,” Louis said suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Zayn raised a brow. “Who?”

“Hanna. Said she misses me.”

Zayn leaned back, studying him. “And?”

Louis shrugged. “Thought I might go see her tonight.”

Zayn sipped again, waiting.

“Figured we could go out after. Somewhere lowkey. Just us.”

Zayn smirked faintly. “Right. Just two lads going for a pint.”

Louis didn’t answer. His fingers tightened around his glass.

Outside, the city shimmered with winter fog. Inside, Louis tried not to think about how Harry hadn’t looked at him properly in weeks.

Or how he’d looked at Niall like that in one night.

—

The flat was still. Too still.

After a while, Harry peeled himself gently away from Niall’s hug, mumbling something about needing sleep. Niall didn’t stop him, just gave a small nod and reached up to muss his curls softly as he went.

Harry padded barefoot through the corridor, eyes half lidded, exhaustion sitting heavy on his chest. He didn’t turn the lights on.

In his room, he crawled under the covers and curled around Seal Paul like it was the only thing in the world that hadn’t betrayed him. The plush was warm from his earlier grip. He clutched it now like a lifeline and buried his face into the pillow, letting the silence press in.

He didn’t cry. He promised himself he wouldn’t cry again over Louis. He just blinked a lot and swallowed even more.

Somewhere in another room, a door opened. Closed again. Footsteps he didn’t want to recognize creaked down the hall. Laughter echoed faintly from Louis’s room earlier but now there was only quiet.

He must’ve dozed off.

Because the next thing he knew, his door was sliding open with a soft thud. He sat up fast, breath catching in his throat.

Louis stood in the doorway.

Hair messy, eyes glassy, mouth swollen. There was a red smear on the side of his jaw, blurred like the imprint of someone else’s lipstick. His shirt was untucked and smelled of beer, and he leaned against the frame like the room had started spinning without him.

“Harry,” he mumbled, voice low and thick. “Harry, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Harry didn’t answer. He gripped Seal Paul tighter.

Louis stumbled in, one hand dragging along the wall until he reached the bed. He dropped onto it without asking. Didn’t look at Harry. Just pressed his face into the mattress where Harry’s scent was the strongest and groaned.

Then he turned over, eyes finding Harry’s face. He reached up like it was instinct, fingers brushing Harry’s cheek.

“Missed your face,” he whispered, almost fond. “Missed everything.”

Harry’s heart punched hard against his ribs. “You’re drunk.”

Louis ignored that. Sat up a little and leaned in. “I thought about you the whole time, you know. I wanted to go home with you.”

And then he kissed him.

Messy, deep, searching. Lips that tasted like alcohol and girls lip gloss. Louis’s hands that trembled with want but no care. He kissed Harry like he owned him.

Harry didn’t kiss him back.

He couldn’t.

He sat frozen, eyes wide, mouth still, pulse roaring. Louis didn’t notice. Didn’t slow. Didn’t see the way Harry’s fingers were clenched in the sheets, or how his eyes shone wet in the dark.

Eventually, Louis fell against him with a heavy exhale, face nuzzled into the side of Harry’s neck.

“Warm,” he mumbled. “You’re always warm.”

He wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing. Like this wasn’t tearing Harry apart.

Then he passed out.

Harry lay there, stiff and shaking, still holding Seal Paul against his chest with one hand and Louis with the other. His eyes stayed open until morning.

—

The sun hadn’t even risen when Harry opened his eyes again.

Louis was still asleep behind him, snoring faintly, arm slack across Harry’s waist. His breath smelled like stale alcohol and sugar, and his fingers twitched in his sleep as if he owned his spot next to Harry.

Harry moved slowly, careful not to wake him. He peeled Louis’s arm from around his waist and sat up, heart pounding. His shirt had ridden up in the night, and on his skin, just above his collarbone, a smudge of red lipstick bloomed like a bruise.

It came from Louis kissing him.

He didn’t cry. He just stared at it for a moment, eyes dry, jaw set.

Then he grabbed his phone, his hoodie, and Seal Paul, and padded barefoot down the hallway to Liam’s room.

He knocked once. It was barely past six.

The door opened a crack, then wider.

Liam blinked sleepily, hair sticking up at odd angles. “Haz?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Liam stepped aside.

—

Harry showered in Liam’s en suite, scrubbing at the lipstick marks until his skin turned pink. He changed into fresh clothes Liam lent him, an oversized tee and soft track pants, and sat curled at the end of the bed while Liam made him tea without asking.

He looked vulnerable like that. Fragile and soft around the edges.

Liam sat beside him, their knees touching. He didn’t ask what happened.

Instead, he nudged the mug into Harry’s hands and said gently, “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to, I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry blinked down at the steam rising from the mug. He didn’t speak for a while.

Then he said, “He kissed me last night.”

Liam was quiet.

Harry’s voice was a whisper, raw as if he talked louder he would break something precious. “He was drunk. Smelled like perfume. A woman. I think he thought I was her...”

Liam reached out and tucked a damp curl behind Harry’s ear.

“I don’t think he meant to hurt me,” Harry added, as if that excused it. “He just doesn’t… see me.”

“He should,” Liam said. “He should’ve from the start.”

—

They left for rehearsals together.

Liam kept close, one step behind as they filed into the venue. Niall shot Harry a look that he said he knew what happened, but didn’t say a word. Zayn was still yawning. Management buzzed in the background, already calling for soundcheck.

Louis was late.

He arrived ten minutes after the rest of them, hair messy, sunglasses on, grinning like nothing had changed.

He clapped Niall on the back, nudged Zayn, tossed Liam a wrapped protein bar. Then turned to Harry.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, bumping Harry’s shoulder lightly.

Harry flinched before he could realize.

It was so quick no one else might’ve noticed. But Louis did. His brows drew together, confused.

“Hey,” he added, still light, “don’t be in a mood. I didn’t snore that loud.”

Harry didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

He walked past him onto the stage.

Louis stood there, frowning.

Liam gave him a pointed look as he followed Harry up the steps. “Don’t push him today,” he said under his breath. “He’s not made of steel.”

Louis scoffed. “He’s just sulking. He’ll get over it.”

From center stage, Harry stood under the bright rehearsal lights, eyes trained on the mic stand ahead.

He didn’t look back.

And when Louis reached for his waist during the choreo walkthrough something playful, something that used to make Harry laugh—Harry shifted just out of reach.

For the first time, Louis noticed.

He just didn’t understand why Harry acted like that.

—

The rhythm of touring dulled everything sharp.

Mornings started with cold tea and vocal warmups. Afternoons blurred into venues, meet and greets, soundchecks, studio sessions. Nights meant adrenaline soaked stages, flashing lights, the high of thousands of screaming voices. Harry felt like a balloon half tied to a string floating, but never fully gone.

It helped.

Being with the boys helped, too. They made him laugh again. Zayn sang to him and helped him practice. Niall kept hiding snacks in Harry’s bag like it was a game. Even Liam had a way of gently steering the world off Harry’s shoulders when it got too heavy.

Louis was still Louis. Loud. Reckless. Funny in all the ways that used to make Harry fall. That still made him fall.

Harry had learned how to smile through it now.

His birthday was a week away. He’d be seventeen. He kept thinking about it in quiet moments—how last year he’d spent it at home, with his mum and Gemma, singing in the car, eating cake. Everything had felt simple then. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel that way again.

They had a day off in London between shows. Simon had called it a “media touchpoint.” The boys called it a break.

The meeting was held in an office too modern to feel real. Glass walls, leather chairs, a table full of untouched pastries they weren’t probably supposed to touch. Harry sat between Liam and Louis, legs bouncing slightly under the table. Zayn was half asleep already and Niall was chewing with exaggerated innocence through a croissant.

Simon entered with a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

“I want to introduce someone very special,” he said, looking directly at Harry. “Caroline Flack.”

She walked in behind him, bright smile, long legs, confident steps. She was beautiful in the way that older women on TV were poised, self aware, practiced.

Harry stood politely and shook her hand. She smelled like expensive perfume and something floral underneath.

“Lovely to finally meet you,” she said with a wink. “Simon’s told me all about you.”

Harry blinked. “Good things, I hope.”

She laughed. “Only the best.”

Simon clapped him on the back as he sat again. “We’re planning ahead, Harry. You’re the face, you know that. The frontman. And part of that role is… appeal.”

Harry looked at him slowly, unsure at what he was hinting to. “Appeal.”

“You’re young. You’re charming. You’ve got the look. The fans eat you up.” Simon’s smile widened. “We want to give them a story.”

Caroline’s hand brushed his forearm lightly, long red nails dragging through his skin. “Just a few appearances together. Some parties. A couple of interviews. Nothing serious.”

Harry swallowed hard, feeling slight lightheaded. “You mean… pretend we’re dating?”

“Public image,” Simon said simply. “You’ll be seventeen soon. Time to step up.”

Liam shifted uncomfortably beside him. Niall had stopped chewing. Louis didn’t say a word.

Harry nodded, jaw tight. “Right.”

—

Later that day, Anne arrived at the office to meet them. Simon had solicited Harry to reside in London for band activities, Anne accepted making louis Harry’s legal guardian.

She’d brought Harry a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and a kiss on the forehead.

“Hi, love,” she whispered. “You look tired.”

He smiled for her. “I’m alright.”

They sat in a quiet lounge with Simon’s legal assistant, papers on the table between them. Housing contracts. Tour schedules. Documents to establish Harry’s legal status in London while still underage.

Anne signed slowly, looking at Louis with kind eyes.

“Take care of him,” she said softly. “He trusts you.”

Louis grinned. “Course I will.”

Harry watched the pen move across the paper like it was sealing something inside of him.

He was officially under Louis’s care now.

That night, back at the hotel, Harry stood in front of the mirror, brushing his curls out of his face.

There was still the faintest trace of a lipstick mark on his neck.

—

Harry didn’t want a party.

He’d said it twice to the label, once to Simon, and quietly to Liam the week before. He didn’t want confetti or headlines or strangers pretending to know his name.

But Laser Quest? That was different.

It was Niall’s idea. “You’re still a kid, Haz. Let’s do something stupid.”

And stupid turned out to be perfect.

They rented the entire place out. Colored lights. Neon signs. Cheap arcade games that made them all laugh. A cake shaped like a microphone, courtesy of Liam, who proudly said he’d designed it himself and then immediately blushed when Harry hugged him tightly.

There was music. There was shouting. There was the kind of laughter that left the group aching.

For a few hours, Harry felt seventeen again. Just seventeen. Not a product. Not someone’s PR plan.

—

They gathered in the party room after their last round. Everyone was sweaty, tired and red-faced from running.

The gifts came next.

Zayn handed over a sketchbook filled with little drawings of the five of them some funny, some unflattering, all deeply personal. “Don’t look at page twelve,” he said. “Unless you want to see you with a giraffe neck.”

Harry laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench.

Niall gave him a custom guitar strap with Hazza stitched into the leather. “I figured you’d be on stage more than your own bed soon,” he joked.

Harry ran his hand over the stitching, eyes glassy.

Liam’s gift was a small framed photo of the five of them, taken backstage on their first tour night. But more than that, he’d written a note tucked behind it. Harry read it in silence. Smiled until his cheeks hurt. Hugged Liam again, longer this time.

Then Louis stepped forward.

He looked smug. Excited. Like he’d won a prize.

“Didn’t wrap it,” he said with a grin. “Figured you’d like it more this way.”

He held out a hoodie.

Harry blinked at it. It was navy, oversized, soft from too many washes. He recognized it immediately from his time in the X factor house. It was one Louis used to wear all the time when they first met. It smelled faintly like his cologne.

“I remembered you used to steal it all the time,” Louis added. “Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

Harry took it, nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

That was it.

No card. No note. Nothing new. Just a memory. Something he used to cling to when Louis still held him at night.

Louis didn’t notice the quiet.

He ruffled Harry’s curls and flopped down next to him, stealing a bite of cake like he hadn’t just missed the mark completely.

Across the table, Niall was watching him. Eyes narrowed.

Liam, too.

Neither of them said anything, but their stares were disappointed.

Harry pulled the hoodie into his lap and held it there, fingers curling into the fabric like he could wring something out of it.

It smelled like Louis.

But it didn’t feel like before.

—

The flat wasn’t silent.

Laughter filtered down the hallway low, muffled. Zayn’s voice, then Louis’s. Something about a girl on Instagram. Something about her “fit little waist.” The sound of a bottle opening. Another round of laughter, louder this time.

It made Harry’s skin itch.

He curled further into his bed, pressing Seal Paul against his chest like a barrier. The hoodie clung to him like a second skin, soft and worn still soaked with memory. Louis’s scent hadn’t faded. That same clean cologne, something citrusy underneath, and the barest hint of pub sweat and aftershave.

It used to make Harry feel safe. Now it just made him feel sick.

His wrist still throbbed from Laser Quest. He’d landed hard against the corner of one of the walls after Louis shoved him playfully mid round.

The bruise was blooming now, a dull ache that pulsed under the surface. Soft red darkening into purple. Harry hadn’t said anything. He didn’t want Louis to think he was fragile.

But in this room alone he felt like he might break in half.

The hoodie sleeves were too long. They covered his fingers. He gripped the edge curled his fist into it and pulled. Just for something to hold. Just to feel like he could still control something.

He wanted to cry.

He didn’t.

He bit the inside of his cheek and focused on the ceiling. On the outline of shadows cast by his bedside lamp. On the sound of Liam and Niall laughing faintly in the practice room. Safe laughter. Warm laughter.

The kind he used to laugh with Louis.

The kind Louis now saved for others.

Harry’s throat tightened.

He turned onto his side and tucked the plush seal beneath his chin, trying to breathe evenly.

Inhale. Exhale. Don’t sob.

He was seventeen now. He was living in London. He was in one of the biggest raising bands.

And he felt more alone than he ever had in his life.

Out in the hallway, Louis’s voice rose again louder, teasing.

Something about “taking her out if we weren’t on tour.”

Harry pressed his face deeper into the hoodie sleeve.

It smelled like Louis.

—

Louis didn’t notice at first.

He was still buzzed from the beer and the stupid meme Zayn had shown him, laughing half into his sleeve as they stumbled back into the flat around midnight. Zayn went straight to his room, muttering something about needing to draw, and Louis wandered into the kitchen for water.

The flat had gone eerily quiet.

No music from Niall’s phone. No late night hum of Harry’s voice singing in his room. Just stillness.

He passed Harry’s room on the way to his own. The door was open. That alone felt strange.

Inside, the bed was made. Empty.

And there, placed carefully in the center of the pillow, was the hoodie.

His hoodie.

The one he’d given Harry that afternoon at laser quest. The one that had once lived on Harry’s shoulders, the one that made him look like home.

Now it lay folded like a returned apology.

Louis blinked, stepping inside.

He picked it up slowly. Held it in his hands. It was warm. It smelled faintly like Harry now. Like coconut shampoo and soft detergent.

Something pressed sharp and sudden against his chest.

Before he could stop himself, he turned and walked to Liam’s room.

The door was mostly closed. Not fully.

Through the gap, he could see it just enough to freeze him in place.

Harry. Curled up on the far side of Liam’s bed. One leg half bent, cheek pressed into the pillow, curls mussed like he’d finally fallen asleep after holding himself together all day.

He was wearing a hoodie.

But it wasn’t Louis’s.

It was Liam’s huge on him, sleeves past his hands. Swallowed him whole. The fabric fell just above the curve of his thighs, and his bare legs stretched out across the comforter, toes curled slightly in his sleep.

Liam was beside him, on his back, fully clothed and barely touching Harry, but close enough that Louis felt something twist.

He couldn’t explain it. Not really.

It wasn’t jealousy. He didn’t want Harry. Not like that. Harry was young. Naive. Sensitive.

Too sensitive.

But seeing him like that curled into someone else’s space, wrapped in someone else’s warmth made Louis’s blood thrum like it had nowhere to go.

He gripped the hoodie in his hand tighter.

And left without a sound.

In his room, he threw it onto the floor like it had burned him.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t sleep easy.

—

The studio lights were dim, casting a soft glow against the glass wall that separated the booth from the lounge. Soundproofing panels lined the walls, but the occasional laugh or high note still filtered through.

The room smelled like tea, vinyl, and something sweet from the candle he had insisted on lighting.

Harry had finished his vocals an hour ago. He’d nailed his solo in two takes, voice low and raspy in the bridge, that subtle sadness he always carried slipping perfectly into the melody. The producers praised him, but Harry just nodded, slipping his headphones off before walking out of the booth and plopping into the couch.

Now, he was nestled between Liam and Niall on the wide studio couch. His cheek rested against Liam’s chest, eyes fluttering closed. One hand still held Seal Paul against his stomach, the other tucked beneath the hem of Liam’s hoodie that he hadn’t returned.

His legs were stretched across Niall’s lap, hollister sweatpants with soft socks with little stars on the toes.

Niall strummed lazily on his acoustic guitar, one eye on Harry’s face as he hummed under his breath.

“He’s so bloody cute,” Niall whispered. “Like a little baby seal himself.”

Liam chuckled softly, brushing a stray curl from Harry’s forehead. “He just needed rest. I think everything’s finally catching up to him.”

Harry stirred slightly, sighing, then went still again.

It had been this way for the past week Liam and Niall keeping him close, sheltering him in the quiet corners of their shared life.

Harry hadn’t asked for it. But he also hadn’t let go of Liam’s hand since the night of his birthday.

Inside the booth, Louis was halfway through his bridge.

His voice filled the headphones, smooth and controlled. He cracked a grin at something Zayn said through the intercom, then looked up.

And froze.

Through the glass, he could see them.

Harry, asleep in Liam’s arms, face peaceful in a way Louis hadn’t seen in a long time.

His legs were tangled over Niall, who kept strumming without missing a beat. Seal Paul was tucked close to Harry’s chest, its little face squashed against the fabric of Liam’s hoodie.

Louis blinked.

Something inside his chest twisted sharply, without warning.

Jealousy wasn’t the right word. Not really.

But something…something hot and irrational…flared to life in his throat.

He stared for a second longer. Then cleared his throat and turned back to the mic.

“Can we run that back?” he said, voice clipped. “I can do it better.”

—

The dressing room was chaos in the usual way, half zipped bags, water bottles, mismatched socks, and Liam shouting reminders about the mic packs and the pre set playlist.

Harry sat on the couch in the corner, bent forward slightly, tugging at the sleeves of the navy jacket he was wearing. His curls were extra fluffy from a rushed blow dry, and Seal Paul peeked out of his open duffle, watching from beside a folded towel.

He was quiet today.

Niall noticed first. Then Liam.

Zayn was focused on his phone, scrolling through fan tweets. Louis was pacing.

“Five minutes!” a tech shouted from the hallway.

Louis turned to the others with a smirk. “Oi, Styles, you awake over there? Or do we need to get Caroline in here to perk you up a bit?”

The room stilled, just slightly.

Harry looked up slowly, lips parted like he might say something, but didn’t.

Louis didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“Maybe give him a little kiss on the cheek, yeah?” Louis added, grinning. “Might even make him sing on key for once.”

Zayn let out a forced chuckle. Niall’s smile dropped.

Liam stood up.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low but firm.

Louis blinked. “What? I’m joking.”

“No, you’re being a dick,” Niall muttered.

Harry stood quietly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “It’s fine.”

But his voice wobbled and he looked like he was about to cry.

Liam turned to him immediately. “It’s not fine.”

He placed a hand gently on Harry’s back, guiding him out of the room. Niall followed, shooting Louis a glare as he passed.

Louis stood there, the taste of his own words suddenly sour in his mouth.

⸻

Thirty minutes later they were on stage.

The crowd screamed so loud the floor buzzed beneath their feet. Lights flashed. Confetti drifted from the rafters. But even through all of it, Liam kept one eye on Harry.

He stood close during every transition, let Harry steal his mic for the high notes when his voice cracked, even played around with him for a bit which was uncharacteristic of him considering he used to be quite serious on stage in following orders.

When Harry finally smiled, really smiled, it was in the middle of forever young after Niall danced over and sang the wrong line into his mic just to make him laugh.

Louis saw it all.

—

Later that night back in their hotel room, the suite smelled like takeout and shampoo. The boys had ordered chips and hot chocolate, but most of it went untouched.

Harry lay across the bed, half asleep, head resting on Liam’s shoulder. Niall’s legs were tangled with his, their feet warm beneath the covers. Liam had one arm loosely around Harry’s back, fingers idly stroking his hair, the same way Anne used to when he was small.

They hadn’t talked about Louis.

They didn’t need to.

“You alright, Hazza?” Niall whispered sleepily, hand tapping Harry’s shin under the duvet.

Harry nodded against Liam’s chest. “Mhm.”

Safe.

Finally.

He fell asleep like that heart still sore, but held, his seal tucked between them, and the hoodie he wore no longer smelling like Louis.

—

The cameras were already waiting.

Harry had known they would be the minute stylists arrived with a bag of clothes and ushered him out of the apartment. Simon had made it clear. “We’ve planned this moment,” he’d said, voice even. “You’ll walk her to her door. She’ll kiss you goodnight. You smile. Hold her hand.”

“But she’s—” Harry had started, mouth dry.

Simon cut him off. “You want to keep singing? Touring? Then you do this.”

So here he was.

Dressed in a collared shirt stiff at the neck, fingers sweating in Caroline’s smooth, cold grip. Her nails were manicured and digging into his hand as they stepped out of the black car.

Flashes popped like lightning. Reporters shouted his name. The front porch of her flat felt like a film set.

“Go on, darling,” Caroline whispered through her teeth and Harry swore he could smell the poison in her breath. “Just one second.”

She leaned in. Her lips touched his. Soft, practiced.

Harry didn’t kiss back.

He froze, again, just like that night in his bed with Louis.

But the cameras clicked, and the angle was right, and somewhere behind them a paparazzo said, “Got it!”

Caroline pulled away with a dazzling smile. Harry stared blankly.

“Good boy,” she murmured, and disappeared inside.

⸻

Hours later he was able to go back to princess park.

It was past midnight when he got home.

The door closed behind him with a soft click. The flat was dark except for the hallway light left on, probably by Liam.

Harry walked in slowly, head bowed, hands shaking.

He still felt her lipstick on his mouth.

Still heard Simon’s voice in his head, like a trap he’d willingly stepped into.

The moment he stepped into the lounge, Louis sat up on the couch, eyes wide. “Hey,” he said, standing quickly. “I saw the photos. Are you—?”

Harry walked right past him. And to Liam’s apartment door.

His eyes were glassy. Red rimmed.

“Harry, come on,” Louis tried again, softer now. “You don’t have to—”

But Harry’s lip quivered.

He turned away.

“Liam?” he called quietly, voice cracking.

The door opened almost instantly. Liam appeared, hair mussed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. He took one look at Harry’s face and opened his arms without a word.

Harry crashed into him.

The sob that escaped was small, broken, helpless. Liam wrapped both arms around him, pulled him into his chest, and rocked gently side to side like it was second nature.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.” Then he closed the door behind them.

Behind them, Louis stood frozen in the doorway.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

He’d never heard Harry cry like that before.

He’d never heard anyone cry like that before.

But worst of all Harry hadn’t looked at him. Not once.

—

The main lobby was a mess of half zipped duffel bags, snacks for the flight, tangled headphone cords, and shirts tossed across every surface. Zayn had given up folding entirely and just shoved everything into a suitcase with the precision of a five year old kid . Niall had packed a bag of food and labeled it “NOT FOR AIRPORT SECURITY.”

They’d just gotten the news: What Makes You Beautiful would be filmed on a beach in California.

Harry tried to focus on the excitement. On the idea of sand between his toes and a soft sun that might finally give him the space to breathe.

It helped that the boys were all buzzing with energy.

“It’s gonna be like a bloody movie,” Niall said, stuffing three packs of sour gummies into Harry’s backpack when he wasn’t looking.

Harry caught him, lips curving. “Are you trying to give me cavities?”

Niall grinned. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

Across the room, Liam held up a pair of board shorts. “You bringing these?”

Harry scrunched his nose. “They have sharks on them.”

“Exactly. Beach vibes.”

“Absolutely not.”

Niall snorted and reached for Seal Paul, who had taken up temporary residence on the armrest of the couch. “Is this little lad coming, then?”

Harry swooped in protectively. “He doesn’t travel in cargo. First class only.”

“Aww,” Liam cooed dramatically. “Little baby Hazza and his emotional support seal.”

Harry laughed and lightly smacked his arm. “Shut up.”

But he was smiling really smiling and that was enough for Liam and Niall to exchange a glance. A small win.

On the other side of the room, Zayn and Louis were deep in a conversation about sunblock, sunglasses, and “how long before Niall gets heatstroke from being in the pool”

“She’s gonna be hot, mate,” Louis was saying, half distracted. “The model. The one playing the girl in the video.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “You’re a mess, lad.”

“Am not,” Louis grinned. “I’m just… professionally observant.”

His voice was light, but his eyes flickered to Harry across the room.

Harry didn’t notice. He was busy zipping up his bag and fussing with Seal Paul’s placement on top. Liam leaned down beside him to help, pushing Harry’s curls out of his eyes.

Louis looked away.

—

The van pulled up to the terminal just as the sun broke the horizon, casting gold over the crowds already gathered outside. The boys blinked at the flashes of phones, a wall of voices calling their names before the doors had even opened.

“Bloody hell,” Zayn muttered, peeking through the window. “Are we famous now?”

Niall laughed, nerves and pride mixing in his chest. “Feels like it.”

Security ushered them through quickly, and Harry clung to the sleeve of Liam’s hoodie, ducking his head as girls screamed his name like it belonged to them. It wasn’t fear, it was something else. Uncertainty. Still not used to being seen.

Louis was two steps behind him, grinning, waving, shouting something cheeky to a girl holding a handmade sign that read Harry Styles, marry me!

Harry didn’t look back.

Inside the terminal, they finally breathed.

Everyone was wide-eyed. Adrenaline. Laughter. Even Zayn cracked a smile.

“I still don’t believe this is real,” Harry whispered to Liam as they moved through the boarding gate.

Liam slung an arm over his shoulder. “Me neither, H.”

—

The seats were wide, plush, and foreign in first class. Harry ran his fingers along the armrest, unsure whether to feel awed or uncomfortable.

Louis had just started to say, “Hey, Haz, wanna sit by—” when Liam cleared his throat and nodded toward the seat beside Harry instead.

“I’ll take this one,” Liam said, voice calm but firm.

Louis hesitated.

Then shrugged like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

It mattered a lot.

He ended up across the aisle, stuck next to a snoring businessman with a bad tie and Zayn, pretending not to glance at Harry every five minutes.

Because Harry was curled in his seat now, socks tucked up, Seal Paul in his lap. Liam sat beside him, blanket already draped over both of them. Niall had taken the window seat and immediately turned around to give Harry snacks while they talked softly.

They giggled over something Harry mumbled in his sleepy haze. Within minutes, his head dropped to Liam’s shoulder, legs bent and feet tucked against Niall’s knee.

Liam adjusted him gently.

Niall patted his leg.

They stayed like that for most of the flight Liam reading, Niall humming melodies from their album and Harry fast asleep, safe between the two people who became his support system.

Louis watched from across the aisle, the hum of the engines drowning out the dull ache behind his ribs.

He wanted to be angry.

But all he felt was tired.

—

The beach shoot was tomorrow.

The city was warm even at night, thick with salt and sound. Palm trees swayed just beyond the balcony, and the glowing skyline buzzed with life. Inside the boys’ hotel suite, the energy was uneven, tired, soft.

Harry was curled on the sofa, one leg tucked under him, Liam beside him with a laptop open and a playlist running low. They’d gone quiet again—Harry humming under his breath, Liam tapping his fingers against the cushions, brushing shoulders like they had always fit that way.

Louis stood in the doorway, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“He’s always in Liam’s bed, yeah?” he muttered to Zayn without really thinking. “Like… always.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Louis crossed his arms, looking back at them like it explained itself. “I dunno. Don’t you think Liam’s… into him?”

Zayn blinked once. Slowly.

Then he smirked. “Nah, mate. Liam’s just not a twat.”

Louis scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayn shrugged. “It means you’re a bloody idiot.”

Louis turned away with a scoff, but his eyes lingered.

Harry was laughing at something now, chin tilted toward Liam, that soft dimple showing in his left cheek. He looked so soft like that. So happy. It hit Louis in the gut.

He remembered the first time Harry smiled at him like that. Right after their first kiss, nerves bubbling in Harry’s chest like champagne.

“Did that mean something?” Harry had whispered, hopeful.

Louis hadn’t known what to say then.

He still didn’t.

But now Harry called him pal. Lad. Slapped his shoulder lightly when they crossed paths in the hotel kitchen. He was kind. Polite. Guarded in his own way.

It was unbearable.

⸻

Later that night, Louis found Harry in the hallway, barefoot and hugging Seal Paul like a sleepy child. His curls were messy, and his lips were slightly chapped. He looked like home.

“Hey, Haz,” Louis said softly, stepping in front of him. “Can’t sleep?”

Harry blinked up at him, then gave a small smile. “Was gonna find Liam. He said he’d help me pick an outfit for tomorrow.”

Louis swallowed.

“Oh,” Harry added brightly, “you looked nice earlier. That shirt suits you, lad.”

Lad.

Louis smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

Harry reached out, gentle as ever, and touched his arm. “Night, Lou.”

Then he padded down the hall, hoodie sleeves covering his hands, the little seal tucked under his arm.

Louis stood alone, listening to the door click shut behind him.

Zayn’s voice echoed in his head.

Liam’s just not a twat.

—

The air was crisp with salt and sea.

The boys arrived just as the sun crested the horizon, casting long shadows on the sand. Stylists bustled around them with sunscreen, hair spray, and open suitcases of button-ups and colorful pants.

Harry wore light blue, sleeves rolled up. His curls bounced freely in the breeze, eyes still glassy from sleep, Seal Paul peeking out of his backpack where Liam had slipped him in as a joke.

“You look like a cartoon prince,” Niall told him, grinning.

“I look like a beach dad,” Harry muttered, trying to do up his buttons.

Louis turned, mouth opening with something quick and snappy then stopped.

He looked beautiful. Barefoot in the sand, squinting against the sun. His eyes were still soft, still innocent, still not looking at him the way they used to.

But he smiled. At Louis. Just a little.

“Oi,” Harry said. “You’re actually matching me.”

Louis blinked.

Harry tugged at the hem of his own shirt, then gestured toward Louis’s pants. “I don’t know which of us got the worst luck.”

Louis chuckled. “Hate it more that it looks good on you.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was grinning now, bumping shoulders with Liam before jogging toward the water.

They started shooting candid footage first goofing off, running into the waves, Liam and Harry tossing a frisbee while Zayn tried not to get wet. It felt real. Light. Almost normal.

For a few hours, Harry forgot that they were still under control.

⸻

Then came the solos.

The director called Harry over, pointing to the model they’d flown in for the mv. “You’re gonna sing to her, alright? Just look into her eyes. Really perform it. We want romance and we need it fast because we only have one take before the sun disappears.”

Harry froze.

His stomach twisted.

He walked to his mark slowly, feet sinking in the sand. She smiled at him. She was older, beautiful, kind in the eyes but not who he wanted to look at. Not at all.

Music started to play from a speaker. He opened his mouth, tried the first line.

It came out thin. Hollow.

Louis, sitting a few feet behind with the others, whistled low. “Someone’s catching feelings already.”

Zayn elbowed him. “Shut up.”

But Louis grinned, half choking on his own words. “What? I’m just saying- look at his face! Our Hazza’s in love!”

Harry blinked. Looked away. Tried again.

The camera rolled.

He didn’t get past the second line.

Liam stood from the shade instantly. Walked straight onto the set.

“Hold on,” he told the director. Then turned to Harry, voice low. “You alright?”

Harry shook his head, voice tight. “Can’t do it.”

“Come on.” Liam wrapped an arm around him gently, guiding him toward the dunes. “Just for a second.”

Louis watched them go. Watched Harry crumble again but this time, not towards him.

—

Harry sat in the sand, arms around his knees, chin tucked low. Liam crouched beside him, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered.

“Don’t you dare apologize.”

Harry sniffled, still refusing to cry. “He always says it like it’s funny.”

Liam didn’t ask who.

“He knows it’s not,” Harry added.

And that was the worst part. Louis knew. Or maybe he didn’t. But Harry had cracked in front of him enough times now that it didn’t matter anymore.

“He doesn’t mean it to hurt,” Liam said gently. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t.”

Harry pressed his forehead to his knees. “I’m trying to be okay.”

“You are okay,” Liam said. “You’re just hurting. That’s allowed.”

Behind the dunes, the sound of waves covered everything else.

Harry stood at the edge of the dunes, sand stuck to his curls, salt in his lashes. Liam’s words still hummed somewhere in his chest warm and grounding. You don’t have to feel it, Haz. Just show them what they want. Protect your heart, yeah?

So he did.

He exhaled once, shoulders rolled back, lips relaxed into that charming, lopsided grin Simon loved to coach into him. His white sneakers sank slightly as he stepped onto the set again, eyes fixed ahead. The others paused to watch even Louis but Harry didn’t look at them. He walked right past.

The model was already waiting near the same spot she was earlier, twisting a strand of hair from her ponytail around her finger and nervously glancing around. She looked so sweet. So real. Harry softened instinctively. Not for her. For her nerves. Because he knew what it felt like to not belong.

“Hi,” he said, voice light. “I’m Harry. I promise I don’t bite.”

She laughed, cheeks tinged pink. “Hi. I know who you are.”

Of course she did. They all did now.

“Let’s make this good, yeah?” he added, slipping his hand gently onto her arm just as the director called action.

The music played. The waves crashed. The camera rolled.

And Harry turned it on.

He looked into the model’s eyes and turned every shattered part of himself into something dazzling. He let his mouth curve, let his lashes flutter as if the wind had caught them, let his eyes drink her in like she was the only girl in the world.

He didn’t feel it. Not even a little.

But he was magic.

And she fell for it.

By the time he sang his solo “baby you light up my world like nobody else…” she looked like she might cry. Her breath hitched when he leaned closer, brushing a curl from her face with practiced ease. She didn’t know it was because it reminded him of someone else. Of a boy with sunburned cheeks and blue eyes who once kissed him like they were the only two left on earth.

The final note landed like a wave breaking. Quiet. Powerful. Perfect.

The camera stopped.

The director froze. “That’s it,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “That’s the one. That was beautiful. Jesus, Styles.”

Harry stepped back with a small smile, nodding politely as the model blinked hard and looked away, flustered and smiling in that breathless, stunned kind of way.

“Nice work,” he told her, all soft charm.

She nodded too quickly, biting her lip. “You… you’re really good at that.”

He laughed gently, his dimples cutting in like wounds. “Yeah. I’ve had some practice.”

He turned before she could say more, jogging back across the sand toward the others.

Liam clapped him on the back when he got close. Niall whistled low. Even Zayn muttered something impressed under his breath.

Louis tried complimenting him as well even if Harry didn’t smile towards him.

—

The sun dipped low behind the hills, casting everything in that soft golden haze directors loved. The last shots of the day were Liam’s solo, followed by final wide footage of them running along the shoreline with sparklers, all five boys laughing like they hadn’t already worked twelve hours straight.

But for now, it was just Liam and Harry off to the side of the set barefoot in the sand, working through notes while the crew reset lights.

“You’ve got it,” Liam said, bouncing slightly on his heels. “You just need to push from your chest more on the high note. Like this—” he demonstrated, half singing, voice steady.

Harry followed him, eyes wide, tongue between his teeth in concentration.

He tried again.

Perfect.

Liam smiled wide, clapping his shoulder. “See? Told you.”

They high fived. Harry giggled, cheeks pink, curls bouncing. And he did it again. And again. Each take better than the last.

Louis watched from further down the beach, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

He could hear Harry laughing.

Could see how Liam touched himgently, encouraging, warm. It was everything he used to be.

Before he even realized he was moving, Louis was walking into the waves.

They crashed against his ankles, cold and bracing. He kept going, up to his knees, jeans soaked through. A few crew members called out but he ignored them. Just needed space. Needed the sound of the ocean louder than his own thoughts.

He dug his toes into the sand under the water and watched the sun melt into the horizon.

—

The director called it.

“That’s a wrap!”

Cheers erupted across the beach. Crew members clapped. One of the lighting assistants popped a bottle of Coke like it was champagne. The mood was electric.

“We’ve got a hit on our hands,” one of the producers said, shaking Simon’s hand.

“Massive,” someone else added. “Harry’s solo? Nailed it. That kid’s gonna be the face of everything.”

Harry smiled shyly, ducking his head. Niall practically tackled him into the sand, laughing.

Louis walked up just in time to hear it. Just in time to see the producer tousle Harry’s curls and say, “That shot of you looking into the models eyes. That’ll melt half of England.”

Louis forced a laugh. “He’s not that cute.”

Harry glanced at him. “You’re just jealous they didn’t film your ‘fit girls’ solo.”

Zayn snorted. “Please don’t bring that back.”

Everyone laughed except Louis.

He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

—

The fire crackled low, embers glowing orange and red against the cool dusk. Waves crashed gently behind them, the stars barely peeking out above. Someone had dragged logs and blankets into a half circle. Crew members were packing up nearby, but the boys had begged for one last moment to celebrate the shoot. To be boys again, just for a second.

Liam sat on an old driftwood trunk, long legs stretched out, Harry tucked between them with his back to Liam’s chest. Niall was curled to Harry’s left, laughing every time Liam handed him a perfectly toasted marshmallow. Harry’s giggle was sleep soft and open.

Seal Paul was sitting proudly beside Harry’s feet, watching the fire like a bodyguard.

Louis sat opposite them, cross legged on a blanket, eyes fixed on the flame. He held a marshmallow on a stick but hadn’t touched it. Zayn sat nearby, occasionally throwing him side eyes but saying nothing.

For a while, everything was light. Jokes. Firelight. Sugar. A song hummed softly under Niall’s breath.

Then Harry stood.

“I’m gonna walk for a bit,” he said, stretching. “Too much sugar.”

Liam gave his hand a small squeeze. “Don’t go too far.”

“I won’t,” Harry said, smiling. “Promise.”

He walked toward the edge of the dunes, curls bouncing, hoodie sleeves too long over his fingers.

Louis followed.

—

They stood in the dark, ocean roaring behind them, the fire casting their shadows long on the sand.

Harry didn’t look at Louis right away.

He just stared at the waves, hands in his hoodie pockets.

“I miss this,” Louis said quietly.

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “Miss what?”

“Us. When it was simple. When we were… closer.”

Harry turned to him, eyes soft. Not angry. Not cold. Just tired.

“I still care about you, Lou,” he said. “I always will.”

Louis’s jaw clenched. “Then why does it feel like you hate me?”

“I don’t,” Harry said instantly. “I don’t hate you. But I needed to stop hurting.”

Louis looked away.

“I know I messed up.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Harry said. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t break me.”

Silence. The waves filled the space between them.

Then Harry took a slow breath. “I wanted to say something. Before we go back.”

Louis glanced at him.

“Please don’t kiss me again,” Harry said, voice barely above the wind. “Or touch me like you used to. I know sometimes you don’t think, it just happens. But I can’t take it anymore.”

Louis felt the words like a gut punch. Not cruel. Not sharp. But final.

“I’m not angry,” Harry added quickly. “I just… I need to be okay.”

Louis swallowed hard. “So what are we now?”

Harry smiled small, but sincere. “We’re friends. Like we were in the beginning.”

Then, with a soft squeeze to Louis’s arm, he turned and walked back to the fire.

—

Harry sat between Liam’s legs again, leaning back without a second thought. His cheeks were pink from the wind, lips sugar sweet from marshmallows. He rested his head on Liam’s shoulder, and Liam wrapped an arm casually around his middle, pressing another roasted marshmallow into his hand.

“Perfect timing,” Liam whispered. “Best one yet.”

Harry smiled. “Thanks, Li.”

Louis sat back down across the fire, legs stiff.

Zayn passed him a stick.

He didn’t move.

He just stared into the flame, jaw tight, watching the boy he used to kiss fall asleep wrapped in someone else’s arms even if it was all platonic and he knew it.

—

The club was low-lit, crowded, humming with bass and celebration. It had been a long tour sleepless nights, tiny dressing rooms, stale sandwiches and screaming fans. But they’d done it. They’d finished their first tour and were heading straight into their up all night tour through England.

The boys had earned this.

And Harry… Harry had never looked more like a star.

Curled hair pushed back off his forehead, a loose button down clinging to his collarbones, cheeks already pink from the heat and the vodka cranberry in his hand. He’d done three red appearances with Caroline in the past month. Their fake relationship was plastered over every gossip site. The fans hated it, but the press loved it.

He laughed when Liam spun him around. They danced like idiots in the corner of the club, Harry clinging to Liam’s hoodie, giggling into his shoulder.

Niall joined them. They cheered. Someone passed Harry another drink. It was sticky and fruity. He didn’t ask what was in it.

Across the room, Louis leaned against the bar.

Watched him.

He was trying to have fun really. Zayn was at his side, drink in hand, murmuring something about the producer who’d just called the album “a rocket.”

But Louis wasn’t listening.

He only saw Harry.

He only ever saw Harry.

—

At some point, Harry wandered outside.

The alley behind the club was cold, damp, quieter than the pounding bass inside. He sat down on an old bench.

Louis followed him ten minutes later, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

“Hey,” he said.

Harry looked up, eyes glassy. He smiled. Small. Tired.

“Hi, Lou.”

They sat in silence for a while, city lights buzzing in the distance.

“Everyone’s in love with you, you know,” Louis said eventually. His voice wasn’t teasing. It was hoarse. Honest.

Harry didn’t answer.

“I saw that photo of you and Caroline last week,” Louis added. “She kissed your cheek like she meant it.”

Harry flinched. Looked down.

“It’s not real,” he whispered.

Louis turned to him. “I know.”

Another silence. And then-

“I miss you.”

Harry’s breath caught.

“I know I don’t have the right,” Louis said, voice lower now. “But I do. I miss you every day.”

Harry didn’t move. He just stared ahead. “You always miss me when you’re drunk.”

Louis laughed bitterly. “Because that’s the only time I let myself.”

Their eyes met.

Something inside Harry cracked.

He stood first. Louis followed. Neither said a word as they slipped through the back entrance, past the bathrooms, into a private hallway reserved for guests of guests.

⸻

They didn’t make it to Harry’s room. Louis pushed him up against the wall of the suite’s hallway, mouths crashing like an old memory. Harry’s hands were in his hair, his breath warm and desperate.

Neither of them said his name.

They didn’t say anything.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was everything they’d been pretending not to feel.

And when it was over, Harry curled on his side of the bed without a word, hoodie tugged up to his nose the moment he saw Louis starting to put his clothes back on.

Louis turned to look at him.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But all he said was, “Night.”

Harry didn’t answer.

—

The light hurt.

Harry blinked against it, blinking slowly, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The room smelled like sweat, cologne, and stale alcohol. The sheets were tangled around his hips…Louis’s sheets.

The ache between his legs was dull but unmistakable. His thighs were bruised where hands had held him tight. There were marks on his neck, his ribs, one on his hip shaped like a mouth that had once kissed him gently.

But not last night.

Not this time.

Harry swallowed, throat dry. His curls stuck to his forehead. Louis was fast asleep, face buried in the pillow, one arm draped where Harry had been.

He didn’t look peaceful. He looked oblivious.

Harry sat up slowly, wrapping the sheets tightly around his body like armor. His limbs shook. His lip trembled, but no tears came. Not yet.

He didn’t take his clothes.

He just slipped out barefoot, wrapped in expensive white linen, and made the long, shameful walk back to his room.

—

He closed the door behind him with trembling hands.

The sheets pooled around his ankles. He crawled into bed still naked, still aching, still shaking. He curled up around nothing, eyes staring blankly at the pillow. His skin burned everywhere Louis had touched him.

And then…a knock.

“Haz?” Liam’s voice, low and warm. “It’s just me.”

Harry didn’t answer, but Liam opened the door anyway, knowing better by now.

He stepped inside. Took one look at the bed.

Harry, curled like a child, eyes wet but stubbornly refusing to cry.

And the bruises.

The silence.

Liam’s whole body went still.

“Oh, darling” he whispered, crossing the room in two steps.

Harry broke.

No sound at first. Just a sharp inhale and the kind of sob that hurts coming out.

Liam climbed into bed fully clothed, pulling Harry against his chest. Harry clung to him like he was the only thing left keeping him whole.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. Over and over.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Liam said fiercely. “Not one thing.”

“I let him—”

“No,” Liam cut in, voice shaking now. “He took. You trusted him and he took. That’s on him.”

Harry buried his face in Liam’s hoodie, tears soaking through the cotton. “I feel ugly.”

“You’re not,” Liam said instantly. “You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful, Harry. And I’ll protect you, yeah?”

Harry nodded against him, body trembling.

Liam held him tighter. “If you don’t want him near you, I’ll make sure he stays away.”

Harry’s voice was a whisper. “Promise?”

Liam pressed a kiss to his curls. “I promise.”

—

The bathroom door was cracked open, steam billowing out like a curtain.

Inside, Harry’s soft sobs echoed off the tiles as Niall gently helped him wash away the night warm water, soft soap, careful hands avoiding the bruises. Harry flinched sometimes but didn’t pull away.

“Almost done, mate,” Niall whispered, brushing a damp curl back from Harry’s forehead.

Harry’s voice was raw. “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.”

“You belong here,” Niall said firmly. “And with us.”

—

A firm knock echoed down the corridor.

Louis groaned, pulling the covers over his head. “What now?”

Liam’s voice was steady but edged with anger. “I’m here for Harry’s stuff.” They didn’t get along extremely well and the way he had seen Louis treat Harry made his blood boil.

Louis sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Why the hell are you knocking? Can’t you just send someone?”

“Because I’m the one who’s going to keep him safe.”

Louis snorted. “Safe? You sound like his babysitter.”

Liam’s tone hardened. “You heard me.”

Louis blinked, incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

Liam’s voice dropped, sharp as a blade. “Harry and I agreed you don’t come near him anymore.”

There was a long silence.

Louis’s face flushed red, frustration and something darker boiling in his chest.

“Well, good luck with that.”

—

Harry was wrapped in a towel, fresh and clean, sitting on the bed as Niall helped him into soft clothes an oversized hoodie and loose jeans.

“You look great,” Niall said softly, tugging the hood over Harry’s curls.

Harry managed a small smile, eyes still glossy. “Thanks, Ni.”

Liam appeared in the doorway, nodding once at Niall, then settling beside Harry on the bed.

Harry leaned against him, comforted.

And somewhere down the hall, Louis stared at the closed door, his fists clenched.

Harry leaned back against Liam’s side, legs stretched out on the bed. Liam’s hand rested lightly on Harry’s knee, a small, steady weight that never pressured, never demanded.

Harry caught Liam watching him, eyes soft and unreadable.

“You okay with all this?” Harry asked quietly.

Liam shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You mean the…ban on Lou?”

Harry nodded.

“Honestly?” Liam said. “I think it’s for the best. Lou’s… complicated. And right now you need space. Space to be you.”

Harry felt a flutter somewhere in his chest. Being comforted by the woodsy scent of Liam.

“Thanks, Li,” he whispered.

Liam squeezed his knee. “Always, Hazza.”

—

Louis paced in front of the mirror, adjusting his shirt for the third time. His jaw was tight. His mind spinning.

He dialed Harry’s number but didn’t leave a message.

Then he muttered to himself, “It’s forgotten. It’s done.”

But the fire in his chest screamed otherwise.

—

They were back in their promotions for their album. Bright lights. Cameras. The hum of crew and fans outside.

Harry sat straight-backed, suit jacket crisp, hair tamed just enough to look effortless. He smiled like he meant it. His hands rested calmly on his lap.

The interviewer asked about the rumored relationship with Caroline.

Harry’s voice was smooth, practiced. “We’re just friends. We’re all focused on the music right now.”

The questions shifted to the album.

Harry’s eyes sparkled, but behind the warmth was steel, a young man learning to protect himself, learning to put on the show.

When Louis’s name came up, Harry’s smile flickered ever so slightly.

But only for a second.

—

The city was waking up slow and grey, but the gym was warm and bustling with early risers.

Harry wiped the sweat from his brow, the rhythmic thud of running shoes and clanging weights filling the air.

Liam stood beside him, patient and steady, coaching his form on the treadmill.

“Keep your shoulders relaxed,” Liam said softly. “Breathe through your nose. You’re doing great.”

Harry smiled, leaning into the encouragement like a lifeline.

—

After the gym, they wandered through quiet streets, hands stuffed in pockets, scarves wrapped tight.

Harry glanced up at Liam, grateful for the silence that spoke volumes.

“Thanks for today,” he said.

Liam shrugged with a grin. “You’re a stubborn sod, but I’m stubborn too.”

—

Later that evening they were back in princess park.
Niall was sprawled on the couch, scrolling on his phone.

Harry sat between Liam’s legs, leaning back into his chest. Liam’s arms wrapped gently around Harry’s waist, fingers tracing slow patterns.

Niall looked over and smiled. “You two are like a sandwich. The best kind.”

—

Harry sat across from Louis in a small café near their flat. The tension hummed quietly between them.

“I’ve thought about it,” Harry said carefully. “About us.”

Louis looked hopeful but guarded.

“We can still be friends,” Harry continued. “But I need to be clear I’m not ready for anything more. Not now. And maybe not ever.”

Louis swallowed hard but nodded slowly.

“Friends,” he whispered.

Harry reached out and squeezed Louis’s hand gently.

—

They sat huddled on the couch Harry nestled comfortably against Liam’s side, whose arm was draped protectively around him. Niall sat close too, fingers occasionally brushing Harry’s curls.

The music video began.

Bright lights, carefree smiles, the boys running across sunlit fields. Harry’s solo parts shone, his eyes sparkling with charm and emotion.

Harry’s fingers twitched in Liam’s lap.

Liam leaned down, brushing a soft kiss on Harry’s head.

Harry’s breath hitched.

Liam smiled, tightening his hold.

The video ended.

Silence lingered a moment before the room erupted into cheers and laughter.

—

Louis paced, restless and furious in his room.

Zayn lounged on the bed, watching with amused eyes.

“Man, you’re losing your mind,” Zayn said, shaking his head.

Louis slammed a fist on the dresser. “I can’t watch him with Liam. Like I don’t exist.”

Zayn shrugged. “Then do something. Or don’t. But stop whining.”

Louis spat, “Easy for you to say.”

Zayn grinned. “Maybe you need to go flirt with someone else. Clear your head.”

Louis glared but didn’t respond.

—

Harry shifted against Liam, eyes heavy but content.

Niall smiled warmly, rubbing Harry’s back.

For a moment, the chaos outside didn’t exist.

Just this quiet, soft, and somehow enough.

The moonlight slipped softly through the curtains, painting silver stripes across the bed.

Harry lay curled against Niall’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a balm to his restless thoughts. Night after night, this had become their ritual silent, safe, unspoken.

But tonight was different.

The world had been loud all day, flashing cameras, screaming fans, the weight of being everywhere all at once.

When Harry finally drifted into sleep, he shifted in the dark, restless and searching.

—

Minutes Later, a soft shuffle was heard.

Harry’s body slipped away from Niall’s embrace without a word.

He moved quietly down the hall and into Louis’s room.

Louis was awake, tangled in his sheets, staring at the ceiling.

Then Harry was there warm and trembling pressing close, resting his head against Louis’s chest like a lifeline.

Louis froze.

Fear tangled with relief in his chest.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loudly.

He just held Harry close, afraid that if he let go, this fragile moment would shatter.

—

Harry’s breathing slowed, finally even.

Louis closed his eyes, hands trembling as they rested lightly on Harry’s back.

For once, the world outside didn’t exist.

Harry’s breath was soft against Louis’s chest, the steady beat beneath him a quiet reassurance. But it wasn’t just comfort. It was something older, something raw.

Louis’s hands trembled as they traced small circles over Harry’s back, memorizing the feel of him the curve of his spine, the way his hair tickled his fingers.

Without thinking, Louis lowered his head, pressing a gentle kiss just below Harry’s ear. His lips felt like fire against cool skin.

Harry’s body shivered, caught between peace and something deeper, something electric that made his heart skip.

—

Harry shifted slightly, eyes fluttering open.

He looked up at Louis, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them.

“None of this is simple,” Harry whispered.

Louis nodded, voice rough. “No. But it’s real.”

Harry smiled faintly, curling closer.

In that moment, nothing else mattered.

They fit together like two halves of a puzzle, imperfect, complicated, but perfectly whole.

Louis’s fingers lingered on Harry’s back, tracing slow, tentative patterns as if trying to memorize every inch of him.

His heart pounded loud in his chest
loud enough, Louis thought, to drown out the doubts and fears that had shadowed him for so long.

Harry’s eyes met his, wide and searching, reflecting a mixture of hope, hesitation, and something fierce and raw that made Louis’s breath catch.

Without breaking eye contact, Louis lowered his head slowly, as if approaching something sacred.

Their lips met soft, tentative at first a gentle question asked in the language of touch.

Harry’s body melted into Louis’s, the tension of days, weeks, months unraveling with that single, trembling kiss.

Louis’s hands moved, cupping Harry’s face with a reverence that felt almost desperate. He brushed back damp curls, lingering on the softness of Harry’s skin, his thumb tracing the faint line of a bruise Louis had left last time.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispered against Harry’s lips. “For everything. For hurting you. For not knowing how to be what you needed.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “I know.”

Louis swallowed hard, voice barely more than a breath. “I want to change. For you. If you’ll let me.”

Harry’s eyes searched his, the vulnerability shining through like glass.

“Do you mean it?” Harry asked softly.

Louis nodded, kissing him again, deeper this time a promise and a plea tangled in one.

They fit together perfectly in the dark, two fractured pieces finding a fragile whole.

Louis felt the weight of every mistake, every silence, every misstep and the fierce hope that maybe, here, now, he could make it right.

The night stretched before them, filled with whispered confessions, tentative touches, and the quiet, sacred space where healing could begin.

The room was bathed in shadows, broken only by the silvery glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. The hum of the city outside was distant, like a lullaby, allowing the silence between them to stretch and breathe.

Louis’s hands trembled slightly as they moved, reverently tracing the curve of Harry’s back beneath his shirt. His fingertips memorized the faint warmth of Harry’s skin, the delicate rise and fall of muscles tightened from days of tension. Each touch was a quiet apology, a vow that spoke louder than any words ever could.

Harry’s eyes met his, dark pools shimmering with a mixture of vulnerability and fierce hope. There was so much unspoken between them hurt, longing, confusion, and a thread of fragile trust woven delicately through it all.

Louis lowered his head slowly, cautious as if approaching something sacred, something fragile that could shatter with the slightest misstep. When his lips finally met Harry’s, it was soft and trembling a whisper rather than a declaration.

Harry’s body softened beneath him, folding into the space Louis made, the tension unraveling like the slow easing of a storm. Their lips parted briefly before pressing together again, deeper now, less hesitant, more urgent but still gentle, filled with the careful reverence of two people learning how to hold each other without breaking.

Louis cupped Harry’s face, thumbs brushing over the soft planes of his cheeks, lingering where bruises faint and fading marked their last recklessness. His thumb traced the faint crescent left just below Harry’s collarbone, a remnant of them.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispered against Harry’s lips, voice thick with emotion. “For everything, hurting you, not understanding, not being the person you needed me to be.”

Harry’s breath hitched, a fragile shiver running down his spine. “I know,” he murmured, voice cracked but full of something steady beneath the surface.

Louis swallowed, heart pounding like a drum. “I want to change. For you. If you’ll let me.”

Harry searched his eyes, looking for truth beneath the quiet desperation. “Do you mean it?”

Louis nodded slowly, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead, then his eyelids, then back to his lips each touch a promise, a plea, a prayer.

They fit together in the darkness like two pieces of a puzzle, jagged edges smoothing against each other until the fit was imperfect but real. Louis’s hands slipped under Harry’s shirt, skin meeting skin, grounding them both in this fragile moment suspended in time.

Harry’s fingers tangled in Louis’s hair, holding on as though this closeness might never come again. The world outside ceased to exist.

All the noise, the cameras, the expectations, the pressure dissolved into nothing but the beat of their hearts and the softness of their breaths.

Hours passed unnoticed as they whispered secrets and fears, tentative plans and quiet hopes. Louis confessed his jealousies, his fears of losing Harry forever. Harry admitted his exhaustion, the ache of wearing a public mask, the loneliness that clawed even in crowds.

They did not pretend that the past was erased. The scars remained, but healing felt possible.

⸻

Sunlight spilled hesitantly through the window as Harry awoke curled in Louis’s arms, the heat of his breath warming Louis’s skin. The ache in his muscles was dull now, replaced by a soft kind of peace he hadn’t felt in months.

Louis’s eyes fluttered open, catching Harry’s gaze. A small, shy smile tugged at Harry’s lips.

“I never want to let go,” Louis whispered, voice rough but certain.

Harry’s fingers traced lazy circles on Louis’s chest. “Then don’t.”

—

Nights with Louis were charged and confusing but undeniable a fire that burned and healed in equal measure.

Liam never pushed, he only protected. He understood that Harry’s heart was complicated and that love did not come in neat packages.

For now, Liam was Harry’s sanctuary, Louis was the storm he couldn’t resist, and Harry was learning to hold both without losing himself.

—

The phone buzzed once on the nightstand, and Harry groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. His limbs were tangled up with Louis’s under the covers, the faint sound of Louis’s slow breathing beside him soothing like ocean waves in the distance.

Buzz.
Buzz.

The third time, Harry rolled over reluctantly, arm stretching across the mattress to grab his phone. The screen glowed “Simon Cowell.”

He answered on the third ring, voice groggy. “Hello?”

“Harry, good. You’re still awake.” Simon’s voice was sharp and rehearsed, even at nearly midnight. “Listen, we need you at Caroline’s flat tonight.”

Harry blinked, sitting up slightly. “What?”

“Her publicist is already prepped. Paps are waiting in the morning. You’ll go over tonight, spend the evening there. Make a show of it. Leave around noon tomorrow with her on your arm. There’s a short window where we can really push this thing your face is everywhere after the video drop.”

Harry didn’t answer.

“I’ve arranged a car. Thirty minutes,” Simon continued, not giving him time to argue. “The paps’ll get some solid shots of your car pulling up. Her team has a casual outfit for you something clean but just rolled out of bed enough. Maybe a coffee in hand. You’ll smile. Look smitten. We’ll release a ‘private but caught’ moment.”

“I…” Harry’s voice cracked slightly. “I don’t want to.”

Silence. Not even breathing.

Then “You’re under contract, Harry. We made a star out of you this is the price. The single’s exploding. We need to feed the fire. Do your job.”

Harry closed his eyes.

“There’s more. Rehearsals pick up next week,” Simon went on, switching gears as though nothing was wrong. “Three full days in studio, two in choreo. PR meetings on Sunday. You’re headlining the press schedule for the next twelve days. After that, straight into Europe promo, then rehearsals for the tour in the United States. Management’s finalizing the itinerary. You’ll be briefed.”

“It’s too much.”

“It’s the price of being Harry Styles.”

Click.

—

Harry sat frozen for a moment, phone still to his ear long after the line had gone dead.

Louis stirred beside him, voice muffled. “Everything alright?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He looked down at Louis’s face soft with sleep, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, lips slightly parted. It made Harry’s chest ache.

Then quietly, Harry stood. He moved through the room like a ghost, careful not to wake Louis. At the foot of the bed, he dressed slowly, pulling on his jeans, a hoodie, socks. He didn’t take Seal Paul. He didn’t even look back.

—

Harry knocked gently on the door of Liam’s apartment, biting the inside of his cheek.

Liam opened the door, bleary-eyed, hoodie strings askew.

“Haz?” He blinked, then immediately stepped aside. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to go to Caroline’s,” Harry whispered, eyes full. “Simon called.”

Liam didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened. He reached for Harry’s coat and held it open for him like he had a hundred times before.

Harry slipped into it silently, letting Liam fix the collar gently like a big brother dressing his kid brother for school.

“They’ve planned everything, Liam,” Harry said, voice soft and cracking. “Photos. Outfits. A story. All of it.”

“You don’t have to be okay with this,” Liam said. “You just have to get through it.”

Harry looked up at him, helpless. “How long can I do that before I forget how to be me?”

Liam pulled him into a tight hug, arms strong around Harry’s smaller frame. “As long as you need. We’ll remind you who you are every day if we have to.”

Harry clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world.

“Will you tell Louis I had to go?” he asked, eyes downcast.

Liam nodded. “I will.”

And when the car came, and Harry slipped out into the cold night, the flash of cameras already waiting around the corner, he smiled like Simon told him to.

—

The pale light of dawn leaked into the bedroom, soft and cold.

Louis stirred, reaching sleepily across the bed. His hand met only wrinkled sheets and faint lingering warmth. A low frown creased his brows.

“Harry?” he muttered, voice rough from sleep.

No answer.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the fuzziness of dreamland fading quickly now that the bed was empty. The pillow still smelled like Harry’s curls, sweet and soft and familiar.

Louis padded barefoot through the apartment, yawning as he peered into the kitchen, the hallway. Nothing. It was early barely six.

He knocked once on Liam’s door, expecting the quiet murmur of voices or Harry’s sleepy laugh.

Liam opened the door without hesitation, dressed, already awake. His expression was careful. That told Louis everything.

“Where is he?”

Liam met his eyes evenly. “Simon called him late last night. He had to go to Caroline’s.”

Louis blinked. “To Caroline’s?”

Liam nodded slowly. “Simon arranged it. PR stunt for the single.”

Louis stepped back like he’d been slapped.

“He just went?” His voice was sharp. Too sharp.

Liam’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t just go. He looked like he was going to be sick. He didn’t even want to take his coat.”

Louis scoffed, shaking his head. “Right. Because Harry never says no to anyone.”

Liam’s gaze darkened. “Don’t do that, you know we are all under contract.”

“What? It’s true,” Louis snapped. “He lets Simon lead him around like a bloody puppet. Kisses some 32 year old on command because someone says it’ll sell a single even if it’s more than obvious that our fans hate her.”

“You don’t get to be mad about it,” Liam said, stepping forward now, voice rising. “Not when you’re the reason he needed someone to crawl into bed with in the first place. You hurt him. Again and again. He trusted you so you need to trust him.”

Louis’s face twisted. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act like it.”

The hallway fell quiet again.

Louis turned away, jaw clenched, heart thudding. The worst part wasn’t the jealousy. It wasn’t even the anger.

It was the gnawing disgust with Simon, with the industry, with himself and with Harry, too, for always trying to be what the world demanded. He hated it, hated the idea that Harry was bending over backwards for people who would never love him the way he did. Even if his brain could not fully comprehend it wasn’t Harry’s choice.

—

The day prior.

The car pulled up quietly, but the sound of camera shutters cracked through the early morning like thunder.

Harry’s hands shook in his lap. His breath fogged the window. He could already hear Simon’s voice in his head.

Smile. Look casual. Look wanted.

Caroline was waiting by the door, loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair tousled just enough to look sexy instead of staged. She smiled rehearsed when he stepped out, hand slipping into his without warning.

“There you are,” she cooed for the cameras.

Harry gave a weak smile, eyes flickering everywhere but at her.

Then she turned her face up to him and kissed him, right there on the porch.

He didn’t move. He barely even blinked.

Shutters exploded.

She tugged him inside as he stumbled over the doorstep, like a doll on strings. The door shut behind them with a heavy thud, sealing him away from the moonlight.

He didn’t speak.

She tried to hand him a tea. He didn’t take it.

Instead, Harry sat on the edge of the expensive sofa, his fingers twisting in his sleeves, trying to stop shaking. His throat burned. His chest ached. And every time he blinked, he saw Louis and how he would wake up to this pictures.

His phone vibrated once. A message from Niall.

“You okay, Haz?”

He stared at the words.

He typed:
“Don’t know.”

But he didn’t send it.

Her fingers threaded through his as if they’d done it before. As if it was natural. As if this wasn’t choreographed.

“Simon said we should get a few more shots tomorrow. I’ll order breakfast in,” she said, walking barefoot across the room, her cardigan swaying behind her. “You’ll stay the night, yeah? Keep the story consistent.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He followed, numbly, afraid that if he stayed still long enough he might scream.

Caroline sat on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs, phone lighting up with texts from her publicist. She glanced at Harry, then patted the mattress beside her. “C’mon, Harry. It’s not that bad, is it?”

He moved because he was told to. Because Simon said he had to.

She leaned in close, perfume thick in the air, her hand resting over his thigh like a snake bite. “Just for a bit,” she said. “You’ll be brilliant. They’ll eat this up. Young love. Forbidden romance. Headlines for days.”

He felt like he was floating outside of himself.

She kissed him again, lips tasting of wine and something he couldn’t name maybe the poison in her breath, and he froze once more, unable to do anything else more than stay still and pray the night would go as fast as possible.

The sheets were soft. The light was low.

—

Harry awoke to the sound of her breathing beside him, slow and satisfied. A glimmer of pale morning sun bled through the edge of her curtains. Her leg was draped over his. One of her arms rested possessively across his bare stomach.

And Harry-

Harry was shaking.

He blinked at the ceiling, breath shallow, the nausea crawling up his throat with terrifying urgency.

His skin felt too tight. His mouth was dry. The taste of last night lingered on his lips and all he wanted to do was scrub himself raw. They hadn’t had sex, he had excused himself before she could even get the idea.

Still she had managed to take his shirt off.

He moved slowly, careful not to wake her, slipping her arm off his body with practiced gentleness. His limbs trembled as he reached for his clothes.

Everything was planned. Nothing was his.

He made it to the bathroom just in time to fall to his knees.

His stomach heaved but nothing came up. His hands gripped the sides of the porcelain sink so tightly his knuckles blanched.

He stared at himself in the mirror, at the red rimmed eyes, dark circles and hollow cheeks. The camera would love this carefully curated vulnerability.

Harry’s breath came in fast, ragged gasps.

He curled his arms around himself, sinking to the floor in a silent sob.

—

The main lobby was too quiet.

Liam sat on the edge of the couch, one leg bouncing nervously, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. He’d already sent Harry three texts. None of them had been opened.

Niall sat beside him, Seal Paul in his lap, holding the plushie like it was some sort of lifeline.

“I don’t get it,” Niall mumbled for the fourth time. “Why would Simon send him off in the middle of the night like that? What was so urgent it couldn’t wait ‘til morning?”

Zayn stood leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a mug of tea forgotten in his hand. He hadn’t spoken much, but he hadn’t left the room either.

“That’s exactly the point,” Liam muttered, jaw clenched. “It wasn’t urgent. It was staged.”

He glanced at his phone again.

Zayn finally broke the silence. “He’s not answering?”

Liam shook his head.

Niall looked down at the plushie, voice raw. “He didn’t even take Paul.”

That quieted the room further.

—

Louis sat on the edge of his bed, scrolling furiously on his phone. The photos were already live “Harry Styles Spotted Leaving Caroline Flack’s London Flat After Intimate Night In.”

He zoomed in.

Caroline’s lips on Harry’s cheek. Her hand at the back of his neck. Harry’s eyes… glassy, distant.

He could see it. He could see it.

But it didn’t stop the hot, ugly flush rising in his chest. His stomach twisted. He threw the phone onto the mattress, standing abruptly and pacing across his room.

What the fuck was he thinking?

They’d shared a night just hours before. Harry in his arms, murmuring sleepy little things, curling up like he belonged there. They had kissed, really kissed and Louis had said things he hadn’t said to anyone.

But now, now there he was walking out of Caroline’s flat like it meant nothing. Like Louis meant nothing.

He punched the doorframe, wincing.

“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath. “Bloody stupid.”

But whether he meant Harry or himself, even Louis wasn’t sure.

⸻

Niall was the first to jump up, nearly dropping Seal Paul.

Liam followed closely, eyes wide, relief already blooming in his chest as he flung the door open.

Harry stood there, pale and small in his oversized coat, curls messy, lips chapped. He looked like he hadn’t slept, and his hands were trembling as he stepped inside.

The boys didn’t say anything, they didn’t have to.

Niall rushed forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Harry’s middle, nearly knocking him off balance.

Liam was next, pulling both of them into a crushing hug.

Even Zayn stepped forward, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder and not letting go.

“I didn’t want to go,” Harry whispered, muffled into Liam’s hoodie.

“We know, Haz,” Liam said gently. “We know.”

Harry’s knees buckled slightly, and Liam held him tighter, lowering them both onto the couch.

Niall sat beside them instantly, Paul tucked against Harry’s chest now, right where he belonged.

Zayn stood behind the couch, quiet but steady.

Louis stood at the top of the stairs.

He could hear them. Hear Harry’s voice broken and low. Hear the way Liam soothed him, hear Niall’s soft little jokes meant to make Harry smile.

And all Louis could think was he should be mine.

He should be the one holding Harry. Calming him. Reminding him he’s safe.

But Louis had hesitated. He had lied. He had kissed him and called it nothing.

Louis clenched the railing, guilt and rage warring behind his ribs.

He didn’t go downstairs.

He couldn’t bear to see the consequences of everything he wasn’t brave enough to give.

—

The five of them sat on a worn leather couch, the lights hot and bright above them. The room buzzed with activity camera operators adjusting tripods, a makeup girl powdering Liam’s forehead, a producer muttering about time schedules into a headset. Another press day. Another PR rotation. It was habit for them now.

Harry sat pressed between Liam and Louis, legs folded beneath himself, jacket sleeves pulled over his hands. His curls were still slightly damp from a rushed hotel shower.

He hadn’t spoken much since Caroline’s. Not about it. Not at all.

But the camera was about to roll, and he knew how to smile.

“Okay, rolling in 3… 2… and—”

The red light blinked on.

“Alright, lads!” the host beamed. “You’ve had an insane few weeks the single’s a smash, the video is everywhere, and your fans are eating it up.”

Louis laughed. “The fans are mad, aren’t they? We love ‘em.”

“Harry,” the host said, turning to him with a grin, “You’ve been in the spotlight a lot lately, yeah? New song, the video, the er ‘romantic rumors.’ You handling it alright?”

Harry smiled faintly, eyes flickering to the ground for half a second before glancing at Liam. Then he looked toward Louis instinctively he always did and that’s when it happened.

Louis, without missing a beat, slung an arm across the back of the couch behind Harry and winked at him dramatically. “He’s a heartbreaker, our Hazza. Don’t let the dimples fool you.”

Harry blushed. Full on flushed, cheeks pink and eyes wide, lips twitching like he didn’t know whether to laugh or disappear into the floor.

The host caught it, of course. So did the camera.

So did everyone else.

“Ohh,” the host chuckled, pointing between them, “See, this is what I mean! You lot are always sitting next to each other.”

“We just like symmetry,” Louis smirked, nudging Harry’s knee with his own. “Haz and I balance the line-up.”

Niall rolled his eyes, Liam chuckled, and Zayn gave a quiet shake of his head. But Harry… Harry was glowing, in that embarrassed, bright way he got when Louis paid him any attention at all. He ducked his head into the shoulder of his scarf hiding from the world.

The fans would go feral for this.

⸻

Later That Night it was all over Twitter, Tumblr, and other socials.

@StylesOfSunlight:
why does harry look like he’s in love every time louis even breathes in his direction???

@HazLouUpdates:
can we TALK about how harry blushed when louis winked at him??? Like that boy is gone

@SoftBoyTommo:
someone tell louis to STOP FLIRTING WITH HARRY ON CAMERA it gives me butterflies

@larriespirals:
can’t believe louis said “don’t let the dimples fool you” like he wasn’t the one fully twirling harry’s curls between interviews last week

@onedirectionconfessions:
they sit next to each other in every interview
harry looks at him like he’s the sun
louis touches him constantly
we’re not delusional
we’re INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISTS
This is EVIDENCE

—

Harry lay curled on the couch, phone facedown on his chest, the screen still buzzing every few seconds. Thousands of likes, retweets, screenshots of him and Louis caught in tiny glances. Fans reading into everything. Some of it was romanticized, some of it was spot on.

Because Harry did look at Louis like he was the sun.

He always had.

Even when it hurt.

Louis walked past the living room on his way to the kitchen, shirt tugged over one shoulder, and paused. “Hey,” he said, tossing a small bag of crisps onto Harry’s lap. “Saw a clip of that interview. You were cute.”

Harry gave a small smile. “You were charming.”

Louis smirked, not even noticing how much Harry’s voice shook. “Comes naturally.”

Harry wanted to scream.

Instead, he hugged Seal Paul tighter, pretending the chips were enough to make the moment okay.

—

The world outside was noise. Meetings, fittings, rehearsals, press. Simon’s voice echoing through speakerphones and doorways, spitting out instructions. They were all exhausted. Bone tired. But inside Louis’s bedroom, time had gone still.

Harry lay flat on his back, limbs tangled in soft sheets, Louis’s hand resting low on his stomach like it belonged there. Their legs brushed every time one of them shifted, and neither had moved in almost ten minutes.

The room was still warm with the afterglow of touch, of breath, of quiet laughter that had faded into something quieter, more fragile.

Harry’s curls were a mess, his lips bitten pink. Louis looked at him like he was something golden, skin flushed, eyes too soft.

And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like it could all be real.

Louis traced a finger lazily along Harry’s ribs. “You alright, Haz?”

Harry nodded, eyes locked on the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“You’re quiet.”

“I like the quiet.”

Louis smiled. “You’re a weirdo.”

Harry chuckled softly and turned his head, meeting Louis’s eyes. “You like weirdos.”

“True.”

Silence again. But it wasn’t awkward. It was weighty. Full of everything they hadn’t said, and everything they’d just done. Of Louis’s lips on his neck, and Harry’s fingers trembling as they touched skin that had never stopped feeling like home.

“I wish we could stay like this,” Harry whispered.

Louis’s smile faltered just slightly. “Yeah?”

Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Louis didn’t answer. He just shifted closer, slinging an arm over Harry’s chest and burying his face in his shoulder. Like it was easier to be close than to say something that might break it.

And Harry let him. God, he let him.

Because this was all he’d ever wanted. Even if it meant waking up tomorrow to a world that told him it wasn’t real. That it couldn’t be real.

—

Days later Harry sat by the window, wrapped in one of Louis’s old sweatshirts the one he always gave back just to borrow again. His seal plushie was tucked into his lap, and his phone lay face up on the bed beside him.

One missed call from Simon. Then a text.

“We’re separating the seating arrangements for press this week. Keep space between you and Louis, fans are getting carried away.”

Harry stared at the screen.

His thumb hovered over the delete button.

He didn’t press it.

Instead, he reached for his notebook, the one he used when everything was too much to say aloud or where he would write little thoughts and song lyrics. He turned to a fresh page, heart thudding.

It read:

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him and not feel it.
Even if he never says it back.
Even if I’m never allowed to touch him again.
Even if he walks into the arms of someone else tomorrow.
I’ll still look at him like this.
Like he hung the stars and doesn’t even know it.”

He closed the book.

Curled up around Seal Paul.

—

The sky outside was painted in winter greys, cold and low, pressing against the windows with quiet authority only winter in England could have. Liam, Louis and Zayn had gone out to meet management and Niall was asleep with a cereal bowl half finished on his chest in the living room.

Harry was alone.

And he was smiling.

Cross-legged on the floor of his room, he had a notebook open in front of him. His fingers were smudged with ink and frosting from the cupcake he’d stolen from the fridge. Beside him lay a carefully folded piece of wrapping paper with little footballs on it and a bag of blue balloons.

At the top of the page, in his swirling handwriting, he had written:

Louis’s Birthday — Things To Do:
1- Fairy lights for the sitting room
2- Football-themed cake (Niall said he’d help bake it)
3- Streamers for the hallway
4- Surprise playlist (Louis likes ABBA more than he admits)
5- Projector to play our videos on the wall
6- Print our special moments in Polaroids.
• Look up who is James Coppinger (and how to contact him)
• Tell him he’s good
• Tell him he’s mine

Harry underlined the last item once, then twice, then quietly scribbled it out, drawing a little heart next to it instead. It was silly. He knew that. Louis wasn’t his.

But he still wanted him to feel loved. Cherished. Celebrated.

He wanted Louis to walk into their flat on his twentieth birthday and feel like he was home.

A knock on the door jolted him. He winced, body going rigid as he instinctively tugged his long sleeve down further over his wrist.

“No one’s in here,” he called softly, voice barely above a whisper.

The door didn’t open.

No one came in.

He exhaled, slowly. Then stood up, wincing slightly as his knees protested. Beneath his trousers, fresh bandages wrapped around the bruises from the week before. Simon hadn’t meant to push him so hard, not really.

But Harry hadn’t wanted to kiss Caroline that night, had flinched when the cameras rolled. He remembered the way Simon’s hand had clenched around his arm afterward, how quietly he had whispered, “Don’t embarrass me again.”

He pressed a hand gently to the bruise hidden beneath the cuff of his shirt and tried not to think about it.

Instead, he picked up his list again and smiled.

—

Niall leaned across the counter, sipping on a milkshake. “So, like… do we get him something actually useful, or something ridiculous?”

Harry, standing on a stool in fuzzy socks to reach the top cabinet, grinned. “Both. I already bought him socks with his own face on them.”

Niall burst out laughing. “That’s so cursed.”

Harry smiled, breathless from laughter as he wobbled on the stool. “He’ll love them. He loves himself.”

“True,” Niall said, pointing. “But he loves you more.”

Harry’s laughter faltered. He climbed down quietly, smoothing out his sleeves.

“I don’t know about that,” he said softly.

Niall looked at him then, properly. His eyes dropped to the faint stiffness in Harry’s movements, the way he winced when he twisted, the way his sweater sleeves were tugged so deliberately over his wrists.

He didn’t ask.

He just reached out and ruffled Harry’s curls gently.

“You’re doing something kind for him,” he said. “That’s love. Doesn’t matter what he knows yet.”

Harry smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s enough for me.”

—

Harry had never held that much money in his hands before.

His first real check from the label had cleared that morning, a dizzying number blinking back at him from his phone screen and for a few seconds, he just stared.

Then he grinned so hard it hurt. Not because he wanted to buy himself anything. Not because he was thinking of designer clothes or watches like the older boys sometimes joked about.

He was thinking about Louis.

The way Louis’s eyes lit up when he talked about football. How he always brought up the same name “James Coppinger” like he was speaking about a god. That one time Louis had with eyes soft told Harry how he remembered a Doncaster rovers match he’d seen with his Mom. He’d called it the best day of his life. Harry had written it down in his notes app that night. James Coppinger Doncaster Rovers. #26. Find something someday.

Well. Someday had come.

So Harry did what any lovesick idiot would do. He searched. He called. He begged. And three sleepless days later, he was holding it in his hands.

An authentic, signed Doncaster Rovers jersey from Coppinger’s seventh season. The number 26 stitched in deep red on the back, and just below it, a thick black signature with a quick scrawl that read “To Louis, Never stop playing. J.C.”

Harry gasped the first time he saw it. He held it against his chest like it might dissolve. Like it was the last good thing in the world. He thought of Louis’s face when he’d open the box. Thought of that grin and those blue eyes going wide. Thought of Louis laughing, pulling him into a hug, maybe even— maybe even giving him a kiss.

Maybe even more.

He tucked it carefully into the gift box he’d wrapped himself, the one with tiny footballs scattered over deep navy. He tied the ribbon twice. Then he untied it and tied it again, just to make sure it was perfect.

When he placed it under his bed, hidden away with the envelope that held the letter he’d rewritten four times, Harry laid down next to it, seal plushie under his chin, and let his heart race.

He didn’t need Louis to kiss him that night. He didn’t need him to whisper love into his ear or call him darling. Not yet.

He just wanted him to open the box.

He just wanted him to see.

And love the jersey.

The very first thing Harry Styles ever bought with his very first check was a dream from Louis’s heart.

Because Louis had always been Harry’s.

And Harry had never wanted anything more than to be Louis’s too.

—

Harry lay curled in Louis’s bed, legs tangled beneath the covers, cheek pressed against Louis’s chest. He felt small like this, held, cradled, like he could disappear inside someone and not be missed. Louis’s hand rested against his hip, thumb brushing back and forth in lazy, unconscious strokes.

“You comfy?” Louis murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep.

Harry hummed, smiling against warm skin. “Mhm.”

It had become routine now these late nights where Louis insisted Harry slept in his room, no matter how many excuses Harry gave.

Sometimes it started with them just talking. Sometimes it was Louis grabbing Harry’s wrist and tugging him towards the bed with a “Don’t be a little shit, just stay.” But lately, Harry didn’t resist. He couldn’t. Not when Louis kissed him like that. Not when his arms felt like home.

Tonight, Louis had been softer than usual. He’d curled around Harry like he was fragile, like he might slip away if not held tightly enough. They hadn’t said anything when Harry had slid under the duvet in one of Louis’s old t-shirts, one that still smelled like his cologne.

And when Louis had kissed him, slow, searching, sweet, Harry had glowed beneath him, eyes wide and glassy, hands trembling as they cupped Louis’s jaw.

Now, in the stillness, Louis lifted Harry’s arm gently, thumb brushing over the fresh white bandage wrapped around his outer wrist.

“What’s this?” he asked quietly, not pulling away.

Harry swallowed.

“A tattoo,” he whispered. “Did it two nights ago.”

Louis shifted just enough to look at him. “You didn’t tell me.”

Harry hesitated, then carefully peeled the edge of the gauze back. Redness lined the tender skin, but the words were clear, delicate.

“I can’t change”

Louis stared at it for a long time. His fingers brushed over the edge, barely touching, like the skin might burn him.

Harry spoke before Louis could ask. “It’s from a song.”

“Yeah?”

Harry nodded. “But it’s more than that, I think.”

Louis was silent.

“It’s like—” Harry’s voice caught, then steadied. “ Like all the parts of me that people try to push down, hide away, scrub off. I can’t do it. I can’t change who I am. Not for Simon. Not for… anyone.”

Louis’s brows furrowed. His hand tightened just slightly on Harry’s side.

Harry looked up at him, searching his face. “That okay with you?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. He reached up and tucked a curl behind Harry’s ear, staring at him like he’d never really seen him before.

“It’s more than okay,” he said finally, voice thick. “It’s you.”

Harry blinked, smile small and helpless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Louis leaned down, kissed his forehead gently. “You don’t need to change.”

“Even if… even if I’m a little bit broken?”

“We all are,” Louis whispered. “I just happen to like your pieces best.”

Harry pressed his face to Louis’s chest again and held on.

For a moment, the world didn’t own him. Not Simon. Not the headlines. Not the bruises that still flared when he moved too fast.

For a moment, he was just Harry.

And Louis was still holding him like that mattered.

—

Sunlight spilled across the sheets in golden streaks, warm and almost too beautiful to be real. Harry blinked slowly, the haze of sleep still pulling at the corners of his mind. Louis’s nose was pressed against his temple, one arm flung lazily around his waist, their legs tangled in the duvet.

Harry smiled to himself, barely breathing. Louis’s chest rose and fell against his back in slow, steady rhythm

his breath warm on Harry’s curls.

It was Louis’s birthday.

And he was still here.

Harry shifted slightly, turning in the bed until they were facing each other. Louis stirred, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Morning,” Louis rasped, voice thick with sleep.

“Happy birthday,” Harry whispered, grinning.

Louis grinned back, dopey and lopsided and heartbreakingly beautiful. “This is the best birthday I’ve had already.”

Harry giggled as Louis pulled him in, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Don’t say that yet. It’s only just started.”

“Mmh,” Louis mumbled into his skin. “Don’t care. Got you. Got a warm bed. Could die happy.”

Harry blushed. “Don’t die. I still need to give you your present.”

Louis leaned back slightly, brow lifting. “Yeah? Is it the rest of your mouth? ‘Cause I’ll take that now, thanks.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was already blushing again as Louis leaned in, slow and lazy and smiling into the kiss like he’d never tasted anything sweeter. Their mouths moved together like they’d always belonged this way slow, deep, they had all the time in the world. Louis’s fingers slid beneath the hem of Harry’s shirt, warm on his back, drawing soft little sighs from the younger boy’s lips.

They kissed like fools in love.

Louis pressed his forehead to Harry’s. “You’re trouble.”

“I’m your trouble,” Harry breathed, before he could stop himself.

Louis paused. The quiet stretched between them, tender and tight.

Then Louis kissed his nose and whispered, “Best kind,” before pulling him closer again.

They lay like that for a while, soft giggles between kisses, Harry curled into Louis’s chest, the duvet sliding low across their waists. It was domestic. Intimate. Untouchable.

Until there was a loud knock on the door.

“Oi!” came Niall’s voice, far too cheerful. “Birthday boy, up and out! Management’s got you booked at the label for the morning!”

Louis groaned dramatically. “What the fuck? It’s my birthday!”

Harry had to beg for the boys to take Louis away for some hours, make a makeshift plan in the label to keep him busy and unsuspecting.

“That’s what you get for being born on a weekday!” Niall shouted back. “Get dressed, you knob!”

Harry sat up slowly, brushing curls from his eyes as Louis flopped onto his back like a wounded soldier. “They’re monsters,” he moaned.

“Go,” Harry whispered, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Louis peeked up at him. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Another knock.

Zayn’s voice now, lazy but stern. “Let’s go, Tommo. You can shag Styles later.”

Harry went red.

Louis laughed, pulling Harry into one last kiss, quick and possessive. “You better be wearing that hoodie when I get back.”

“I’ll be wearing a party hat and nothing else.”

Louis looked like he might combust. Red in the face. “You’re a menace.”

Then he was gone dragged out of bed, throwing on a beanie, grumbling at Liam as he was herded toward the front door like a stubborn cat.

And just like that, the apartment was Harry’s again.

He stood in the center of the living room, arms crossed, list in hand, heart pounding with excitement and love and fear. The cake was hidden. The lights were boxed up. The streamers were waiting. Niall had promised to help inflate the balloons when he got back. Eleanor was arriving in a couple of hours. Everything was ready to be perfect.

The house was a flurry of crepe paper and twinkle lights.

Harry was on his tiptoes, balancing awkwardly on a kitchen stool, the tongue between his teeth as he tried to tape a paper banner that read “HAPPY 20TH BIRTHDAY LOUIS!” across the top of the living room arch. He’d written it by hand in gold marker, each letter a little shaky but full of care. The paper fluttered softly as he pressed it into place, the tape refusing to cooperate, but he didn’t mind.

He hadn’t minded anything today. Not the aching in his bandaged wrist, not the empty bank app on his phone, not even the silence from Simon which had a way of hanging like a blade over his every breath.

Because it was Louis’s birthday. And Louis deserved magic.

Harry stepped down, bare feet landing with a soft thud. He turned slowly in place, beaming.

The lights were strung in a zigzag pattern across the ceiling, soft golden bulbs casting a warm glow over every inch of the flat. He’d managed to get the old projector working in the corner, already set to play a loop of their tour rehearsals and a few of his favorite clips of Louis ones no one else had seen, where he laughed too hard or danced terribly or looked at the camera like he knew exactly how loved he was.

The cake sat covered on the kitchen counter, topped with little fondant football boots and a sparkler candle Harry had begged the shop lady to hold for him until payday. The floor was littered with blue and white balloons even if Harry was slightly lightheaded from his asthma, and a little stack of Polaroids tied in ribbon waited for Louis on the table one from each of his friends, one from Harry, and one that showed Louis and Harry cheek to cheek backstage a few weeks ago, grinning like idiots.

Harry picked it up and smiled, brushing his thumb across Louis’s face.

“You better love this,” he whispered. “You better…”

He trailed off, laughing a little to himself. “But you probably will, won’t you?”

⸻

Elsewhere, in a studio waiting room, Louis sprawled across a couch with a water bottle in one hand and his phone in the other. He hadn’t texted Harry all morning had meant to, honestly but the silence felt thick and uncertain.

Zayn leaned back in the chair next to him, sunglasses on despite being indoors. “You’re twitchy,” he muttered.

“I’m not twitchy.”

“You keep sighing like a Victorian widow.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Sod off.”

Liam snorted from the other side of the room but didn’t comment, flipping through a lyric sheet. Niall looked up from his crisps, watching Louis with far too much interest.

“What’s going on with you and Hazza?” Niall asked plainly.

Louis looked up. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you’re always touching him,” Niall said, shrugging. “You act like he’s yours. But then you pretend he’s not.”

Louis blinked.

Zayn chuckled. “It’s obvious, mate.”

Louis licked his lips, suddenly feeling very warm. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” Liam asked quietly.

Louis looked down at his phone. No new messages. Just Harry’s name, glowing in his recent contacts.

“I dunno,” Louis muttered. “He’s… I mean, he’s Harry, innit? He’s just…”

He paused.

Zayn raised an eyebrow.

Louis swallowed. “I think I might be—” He stopped, eyes wide, like the words might burn.

Liam looked up. “Be what?”

Louis stared down at his hands.

“I think I might be in love with him.”

Silence stretched for a beat too long.

Niall grinned. “Took you long enough.”

—

Back at home, Harry stood in the center of the room, face flushed, curls a mess, fingers sticky from hanging the last string of fairy lights. There was music playing now one of Louis’s favorite old Oasis songs soft in the background, just enough to keep Harry company.

He spun in a slow circle, lips parted slightly.

Everything was ready.

He walked to the little gift pile in the corner and added his own, wrapped in recycled paper he’d decorated with little doodles of stars, footballs and smiley faces and the words “You’re my favorite.” He bit his lip.

The door would open soon.

Louis would walk in.

And Harry would get to see him smile.

That was all he wanted. That one moment. The kind that lived forever.

He sat on the couch, arms curled around his knees, Seal Paul tucked under one arm like always, heart pounding in his chest.

He didn’t care about his drained savings, or the bruises beneath his shirt.

He’d built something with his hands and his heart.

And it was all for Louis.

The doorbell rang just as Harry was adjusting the placement of the projector. He scrambled to his feet, nearly slipping on a rogue balloon in his socks, and hurried toward the door, already smiling.

When he opened it, the cool afternoon breeze curled past him and there she was.

“Eleanor!” he gasped, eyes lighting up.

She beamed at him, arms open. “Happy almost birthday to your favorite boy!”

Harry laughed as she pulled him into a hug, warm and tight and familiar. “God, you’re freezing,” he muttered, tugging her inside. “I told you not to wear that denim jacket if you were taking the train.”

She shrugged as she stepped in, curls bouncing as she looked around short red dress hugging her body. “You know I’m a fashion victim. Oh my god, Haz… this is… wow.”

She turned in place slowly, eyes wide as she took in the lights, the streamers, the handmade banner with Louis’s name in glitter pen. Her fingers touched one of the photos pinned to a ribbon by the TV.

“This is incredible,” she said softly. “Did you—”

“Yeah,” Harry said, cheeks pink as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I, uh… I did it all.”

Eleanor looked at him, something soft and shiny behind her eyes. “You love him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Harry’s smile faltered for a second just a second before he nodded. “I do.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Her expression didn’t shift, not in the way that would’ve warned him. She just stepped toward the cake, bent down to peek at it, and let out a delighted laugh.

“You even got him the little boots. You know he’s going to be absolutely insufferable about this, right?”

“That’s the point,” Harry said, grinning again.

She turned to him, arms folded over her chest. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

“I’m just in love,” he said, and the words were too big, too honest, but they sat right in the room between them.

And she smiled with some guilt sitting behind her eyes.

Harry didn’t notice. He was already moving toward the kitchen to check the sparkler again, muttering about the time, the decorations, the snacks.

Eleanor wandered the living room, fingertips grazing the edges of each thoughtful detail, and stopped in front of a group photo of the boys taken at one of their first interviews. Her eyes landed on Louis. Her smile lingered.

She hadn’t told Harry. She’d meant to. Had tried to type it out in a message once or twice. That she’d had a crush on Louis since the first time Harry showed her a blurry backstage photo.

But she hadn’t said it.

Because Harry was in love.

Because Harry glowed when he said Louis’s name.

Because Harry looked like someone building his future with bare hands and hopeful eyes even if he didn’t know it was a sandcastle with the tide already creeping in.

And Eleanor, kind and sweet and still hopeless, didn’t want to be the one to knock it down.

Not yet.

—

Steam curled from the bathroom door as Harry stepped out, towel clutched around his waist and curls already fluffed and half damp from the blow dryer. The mirror was still foggy, his reflection a blur of pink cheeks and wide green eyes.

Seal Paul was waiting on the bed, propped up like a little guardian.

Harry smiled softly, the nerves fluttering in his chest again.

“Okay, Paul,” he whispered, running a hand through his still damp hair. “We’re going for chill…but something nice..Oh, God, I’m a mess.”

He laughed a little at himself and grabbed the outfit he’d laid out hours earlier a soft cream jumper that Louis had once said made him look like a teddy bear, tucked into fitted black trousers that made him feel just a little taller. He even chose the socks with the tiny moons on them, because Louis had once pointed them out with a grin and mumbled, “You’re such a weirdo, but I adore you”

He dressed carefully, folding the edges of his sleeves just right, running his fingers nervously over the hem of his sweater. In the mirror, his curls flopped softly over his forehead. He tilted his head, trying to tame one rogue curl, then gave up and let it fall where it wanted.

His bandaged wrist peeked from beneath the sleeve. The tattoo still stung faintly, but he didn’t cover it tonight. Not for Louis. He wanted him to see it.

Voices trickled in from the living room low and rowdy, unmistakably Northern.

Louis’s mates.

They were loud and easy with each other, already laughing and raiding the crisps Harry had laid out. When Harry peeked around the corner, his cheeks flushed instantly. Nearly every single one of them was crowded around Eleanor, cracking jokes and nudging each other when she laughed.

“Fit, isn’t she?” one of them murmured to another.

“Louis’ll love her. Long legs. Smart. Didn’t she study fashion or something?”

“She’s got that vibe. Classy. Like… normal pretty, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t mind if he pulled her. She’d be good for him.”

Harry stepped back before they could see him.

His chest fluttered with something that felt like static not quite hurt, not yet, but close. He looked down at his sweater. Ran his fingers along the stitched sleeve. His heart knocked hard behind his ribs.

He took a breath.

You’re still enough, he told himself. You’re still the one who planned this. You know him. You love him.

He reached for Seal Paul and sat down briefly on the bed, pressing the plush to his chest.

“I just want him to be happy,” he whispered.

A knock came on the door.

“Hazza?” Niall’s voice light and smiling. “Can we bring him in now? Everyone’s here.”

Harry stood slowly, his heart in his throat. He took one last glance in the mirror. Smoothed down his jumper. Pressed a kiss to the top of his seal’s fuzzy head and gently placed him on the pillow.

Then he nodded to himself.

“Okay,” he whispered.

And walked toward the moment that would change everything.

The lights were off.

Everyone was hushed, crouched behind the kitchen island or huddled behind the couch, hiding balloons behind their backs like weapons of joy. The only light in the room came from the soft flicker of the projector on the far wall, frozen on a picture of Louis mid laugh wild, golden.

Harry stood in the center, eyes wide and sparkling, cheeks flushed, hands trembling slightly as he waited.

He could hear them outside now. Footsteps. Niall’s loud voice. Liam trying to hush him. The door clicking open.

Then—

“SURPRISE!”

The lights flipped on, and the room exploded in cheers and laughter and confetti.

Louis froze in the doorway, jaw dropping, eyes wide. For a beat, he just stood there stunned while everyone clapped and shouted and reached for him.

Harry stepped forward, lit up from the inside. “Happy birthday, Lou,” he breathed, smile bright and bashful, arms wide for a hug.

Louis laughed in disbelief, blinking fast. “What the- did you- ?”

Harry opened his mouth to explain, but Louis was already being swept into a bear hug by one of his mates.

“Look at your face, lad!” someone shouted.

“Harry planned all of this,” Liam said, grinning proudly and clapping Louis on the back. “Every single bit.”

Louis glanced toward Harry, and for a second just a second his eyes softened. “You’re mental,” he said with a small smile, stepping in for a quick hug. “But this is unreal.”

It was brief. A pat on the back. A blink and you’ll miss it squeeze.

Harry’s arms dropped a little slower than they’d lifted. His smile didn’t falter, not quite. But something flickered in his eyes, something like a match burning out.

And then she stepped forward.

“Hi,” Eleanor said, sweet and composed, her curls catching the light like a halo. “I’m Eleanor. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Louis turned to her, and something shifted in his face a grin, a flirty one. “Have you, now?”

Harry stood there, quiet, watching as Louis reached out to shake her hand, then stepped closer, pulled her in for a side hug.

“You didn’t tell me you had a fit mate, Hazza,” Louis teased, glancing back over his shoulder.

Harry laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“She’s one of my oldest friends,” he said softly.

Eleanor blushed, smiling at Louis in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist.

Louis was still looking at her, his eyes crinkling with genuine charm. “Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said.

And just like that, the room swelled with movement. Music played. Drinks were poured. His friends from Doncaster flocked around him, nudging him about Eleanor, about how she’d be good for him, about how normal she was, chill, gorgeous.

Louis laughed. Blushed. Didn’t correct them.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of the room he’d built with his own hands, still wearing the cream jumper he’d picked just for Louis, the bandage on his wrist still hidden beneath his sleeve. All the love he’d poured into this night pulsed quietly beneath his ribs.

And Louis didn’t even see him.

Not really.

Not anymore.

He forced a smile, then quietly slipped away toward the kitchen, hands curling at the edge of the counter.

Out in the living room, someone laughed at one of Eleanor’s jokes. Louis’s laugh joined hers high and familiar.

And behind the cupboard door, Harry let himself break in silence.

—

The room was buzzing, pulsing with bass and laughter and too much champagne Harry had spent a ridiculous amount on. Louis’s mates had taken over the Bluetooth speaker, swapping Harry’s indie playlist for something loud and bragging. Not what Louis listened to.

Harry stayed near the edge of the room since the couch was full, fingers brushing the neck of his soda bottle, Seal Paul held lightly under one arm, a quiet anchor. He didn’t even realize he was still holding it until the laughter started.

“Oi, Lou,” one of the lads slurred, nudging Louis’s shoulder, “what’s up with your curly mate dressing like a kid’s TV host?”

Another chuckled. “And is he seriously carrying a stuffed animal?”

Harry froze mid step, half turning toward the sound. The smile he’d practiced in the mirror cracked right down the middle.

Louis looked over, glass in hand, brow furrowed like he hadn’t even noticed. “What?” he asked lazily, swaying slightly to the music.

“The one who planned the party,” the lad said, nodding toward Harry. “Looks like he wandered out of a school play. What is that, a seal?”

The group howled.

Harry’s cheeks went red hot. His arms curled tighter around the plush before he could stop himself.

Louis chuckled too. He didn’t stop them.

Didn’t even glance Harry’s way.

Just turned toward Eleanor, who sat beside him now glowing in her effortless beauty, laughing softly at something else entirely. She touched his wrist when she spoke, and Louis leaned in, too close, too easy.

And Harry..

Harry swallowed, hard.

He turned away, blinking back the sting in his eyes, the shame creeping up the back of his neck like fire.

But someone else had seen.

Liam had been across the room, half watching, half listening, and in an instant he was up. His jaw was clenched, his voice low and dangerous as he stopped in front of the group.

“Say one more word about him,” Liam growled, “and I’ll make sure you’re not welcome here again.”

The laughter stopped.

Dead silence.

Louis blinked, surprised. “Liam—?”

But Liam wasn’t listening to him.

He turned on his heel, his eyes already locked on Harry’s retreating figure as he slipped toward the hallway, head down, shoulders hunched like a child caught doing something wrong.

“Haz,” Liam called softly, following.

Harry didn’t stop until he reached the guest room. He slipped inside, set Seal Paul down on the dresser gently, and stood there in the low light, breathing uneven.

The door creaked open behind him.

“Hey,” Liam said, his voice soft now. “I heard what they said.”

Harry didn’t look at him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

Harry’s fingers dug into the edge of the dresser, white knuckled. “I guess I do look like a kid. Maybe I am just silly...that’s why louis doesn’t treat me seriously”

Liam stepped closer. “You are not silly. You are kind. You are thoughtful. You made this night perfect for him, and that’s not something a child could’ve done.”

Harry’s eyes shimmered, the sheen of unshed tears catching the low light.

“He didn’t say anything,” he whispered. “He didn’t even look at me.”

Liam opened his arms without a word.

Harry stepped into them, burying his face in Liam’s chest, breath shuddering as he clutched at Liam’s jumper.

“I tried so hard,” he breathed.

“I know you did,” Liam murmured, kissing the top of his head. “And I see it. I see you.”

Harry nodded, a tiny sound escaping his throat as Liam wrapped him up tighter.

And just outside the half open door, Zayn stood in the hallway, his drink forgotten in his hand.

He watched quietly. Then turned back to the party.

Louis hadn’t even noticed Harry had left.

Harry’s sniffles had quieted into small, occasional hiccups against Liam’s chest. His head rested just beneath Liam’s chin, hair slightly damp from earlier and sticking to his temple.

“You didn’t have to come after me,” Harry murmured, voice thick.

Liam smiled, rubbing soft circles into his back. “I always will.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut.

There was a pause. Then, in a much lighter tone, Liam pulled back just enough to grin.

“So, I get the same treatment for my birthday, yeah?”

Harry blinked up at him, confused.

Liam’s grin widened. “Party. Streamers. The whole nine yards. You standing in the middle of the room looking like a sad cupcake.”

Harry laughed through his red nose. “Don’t forget the glitter banner.”

“Absolutely not. I want mine in red. And some cool sunglasses or I walk.”

They both giggled quietly. Harry leaned his head on Liam’s shoulder again. “You’re the best.”

Liam didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His arms were around Harry, and that was answer enough.

Down the hallway, the laughter was louder now. The music had turned back up, the drunken chorus of Louis’s mates warbling along.

The low chant. A wolf whistle. A camera flash.

Louis and Eleanor had kissed.

And someone had caught it.

The phone lit up with a blurry photo of Eleanor smiling, Louis bent forward with beer in hand, their lips brushing, half teasing, half real it didn’t matter how accidental it had been. It was out there. Online. Shared before Louis even blinked.

And worse, they were still laughing.

Still dancing.

In the living room, a drink spilled over the coffee table. It dripped down over the Polaroids Harry had taped there so carefully.

The ink bled quickly, Louis’s grin in the pictures melting like paint in rain.

No one noticed.

No one stopped it.

One of the lads leaned back against the wall and tore part of the handmade banner by accident , just the corner, just enough to leave a rip through the ‘L’ in HAPPY 20th BIRTHDAY LOUIS. He laughed. Didn’t even know what it said.

Zayn sighed, standing off to the side, arms crossed. His gaze flicked toward the hall.

Harry doesn’t deserve this.

He slipped into the hallway to find Niall already headed towards Harry’s room, cheeks flushed, hands curled into his hoodie.

“You going to check on him?” Zayn asked.

Niall nodded. “He’s the best of us.”

Zayn gave a quiet nod. “You know… Louis doesn’t mean to hurt him. But sometimes not meaning to still does.”

“I know,” Niall whispered, then stepped through the door just as Liam pulled Harry up into sitting.

“Alright, Hazza,” Niall said gently, “you’ve had enough heartbreak for one night. Come on, yeah?”

Harry blinked at him, still a little dazed, then slowly reached for Niall’s outstretched hand.

As they left the room, Niall made sure to wrap an arm over Harry’s shoulders. Liam held his wrist lightly, like an anchor, leading him past the chaos.

They didn’t let him see the ruined sign.

Or the ruined photos.

Harry kept his eyes down, Seal Paul clutched to his chest.

—

Sunlight filtered in through the wide windows of the Princess Park flat, casting a warm haze over the mess of the living room

The glitter on the floor sparkled like spilled sugar. Streamers clung limply to the walls, some torn, some sagging. The music had long since died, but the ghost of it lingered in the stale beer smell and the low hum of silence.

Louis stirred.

His head throbbed. His limbs were tangled with someone else’s, warm skin, long legs, hair that didn’t tickle quite the same.

He opened his eyes slowly.

Eleanor.

Still asleep. Draped over his chest, lips faintly stained red, a party hat strap still tangled around her wrist. Her leg stretched across the couch cushions, toes brushing a scrap of soggy paper.

Louis blinked blearily, trying to focus. His mouth was dry. His shirt was gone. Someone’s drink had clearly been spilled near them, because the floor was sticky and cold beneath his bare foot.

And then he saw the cake.

Smashed. Half of it face down on the floor, crushed under what looked like someone’s trainer.

Streamers hung in tatters. Confetti stuck to beer bottles. And in the corner of the room just beside the tipped over coffee table lay a box wrapped in navy blue wrapping paper, dark with water damage, half crushed as if someone had kicked it or used it to play footie.

Louis frowned.

He sat up slowly, trying not to jostle Eleanor. She muttered something in her sleep and rolled off him with a sigh.

He rubbed his face, groaning, then reached for the box.

His fingers brushed the edge of damp tissue paper first soggy and torn. Then he pulled out the contents.

Inside, beneath a layer of ruined tissue paper and glitter, lay a thick envelope now soaked through and a certificate, its ink beginning to run. Certificate of Authenticity, it read faintly. James Coppinger. Match-worn. September 14, 2010. Winning goal jersey.

A football shirt.

Not just any shirt…his dream shirt. White and red, with the name of his hero signed across the chest in perfect black ink. It was stained with something sticky now, and one of the sleeves was torn.

His breath caught.

Underneath it, barely legible, was a card. Water-damaged, ink smudged. He could only make out pieces of the handwriting.

I just wanted you to know you’re worth this kind of love too.

The rest was unreadable.

Louis stared.

His throat tightened. His heart began to thud with something heavier than a hangover.

Suddenly, the memories from the night before began trickling in slow and aching.

Harry’s eyes in the darkened kitchen. The handmade banner. The quiet, uncertain way he smiled when Louis first walked in. The fact that he hadn’t seen him again after the first hour.

“Shit,” Louis whispered.

He stood quickly, nearly tripping over a broken glass. There were crushed Polaroids under the table one still half recognizable with Harry mid laugh, sparkler in hand.

Louis turned in a slow circle, taking in the wreckage, and finally realizing what it all meant.

What he’d missed.

What he’d destroyed.

Eleanor stirred again, groaning softly, stretching out like a cat. “Morning,” she mumbled, blinking at him through sleep mussed lashes and messed up makeup. “Is it late?”

Louis didn’t answer. His eyes were on the soaked card. On the shirt. On the place where Harry had clearly poured himself out.

He didn’t even know where Harry had gone.

He didn’t remember him leaving.

And in the quiet that followed, it struck him with an almost physical force.

Harry didn’t stay the night.

And Louis hadn’t noticed.

—

Harry cried like he hadn’t cried in years.

Not the soft, polite kind he was used to not the tears he wiped away quickly under his jumper when he thought no one was looking. These were the ugly, trembling, heaving sobs that wracked through his body until his chest ached and his stomach hurt and he couldn’t catch his breath.

Liam held him through it all.

He lay on the pullout sofa in Liam’s flat, curled up against his chest like he’d been there a thousand times before. His little seal plushiewas tucked under his chin, damp with tears. His curls were a mess. His cheeks were blotchy. But Liam didn’t care. He just held him tighter.

“I’m sorry,” Harry croaked at one point, throat raw.

“Don’t you dare,” Liam whispered into his hair. “Don’t you ever apologize for feeling this.”

Across the sofa, Niall sat with one leg tucked underneath him, stroking his fingers gently through Harry’s hair. He looked like he’d been crying too quiet tears, angry tears. The kind that came from watching someone so good be hurt for no reason at all.

“I should’ve known,” Niall said softly. “Should’ve seen it coming.”

Harry shook his head, voice small. “It’s not-“ he choked “he didn’t mean it-”

“Stop.” Liam’s voice was firm. “You don’t get to defend him tonight, Haz.”

Harry flinched.

Liam exhaled sharply. Then, gentler he whispered against his hair “You did everything for him. You threw a party with your own money. You bought him that jersey. You wrote him a letter. And what did he do?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Let his mates laugh at you. Let her kiss him. And didn’t even see when you disappeared.”

“I’m just the kid, right?” Harry mumbled bitterly. “I’m stupid for loving him.”

“You’re not a baby,” Niall snapped sharper than usual. Then, quieter, “You’re the heart of this band, H. Always have been.”

Harry buried himself further into Liam’s embrace.

“You’re the bravest one out of all of us,” Liam said, kissing the top of his curls. “You feel everything, and you still love like it doesn’t hurt.”

“I don’t want to anymore,” Harry admitted, voice cracking. “I don’t want to love him if it feels like this.”

The room went quiet.

Outside, the London dawn was breaking faint and blue.

Liam didn’t answer right away. He just wrapped both arms around Harry and tugged the blanket higher.

“I know,” he said finally. “And you don’t have to.”

But Harry knew.

He would. Again and again. Even if it killed him.

Because it was Louis.

Because it was always Louis.

—

Louis stood in the middle of the wrecked living room, staring at the ruined remains of everything Harry had made for him.

The once-bright decorations hung like ghosts. His cake had collapsed into itself, dried frosting cracked along the floor.

And the letter.

That letter.

What he could read of it had haunted him since dawn Harry’s messy, earnest handwriting now water blurred and unreadable. But he remembered the words he had made out.

You’re worth this kind of love, too.

He hadn’t seen Harry since the party.

he hadn’t even asked where he went.

With panic suddenly swelling in his chest, Louis grabbed his phone. No messages. No missed calls. Just one tagged photo on twitter, a blurry snap of him and Eleanor, lips pressed together, someone captioning it: New couple alert?? 👀

Louis wanted to be sick.

He pulled a hoodie over his head and marched out the door, hoping praying that Harry had maybe just stayed with Liam for the night. That maybe he could talk to him. Apologize. Fix it.

But when he knocked on Liam’s door, it wasn’t Liam who answered.

It was Niall.

And Niall didn’t look like Niall.

His face was pale, jaw clenched tight, eyes hard in a way Louis had never seen. There was no smile, no light. Just fury.

“Niall—” Louis began.

“Don’t,” Niall snapped, stepping into the doorway. He didn’t move aside.

“I just want to see him.”

“No.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“You don’t get to see him. Not today. Not this week. Not for the rest of the bloody year.”

Louis felt the wind leave his lungs. “Niall—mate—”

“He cried himself to sleep,” Niall hissed. “He planned your whole party with his savings. He wrote you a letter. Bought you that jersey you’ve wanted since you saw the match. And you laughed with your mates while they called him a child. You kissed someone else while he was cleaning up the mess crumbling in his own tears.”

Louis opened his mouth to speak, but Niall raised a hand.

“You hurt him, Lou. Again. And this time?” Niall stepped forward. “I’m not forgiving you.”

Louis flinched.

“I love him like he’s my baby brother,” Niall added, voice trembling now, not from fear but from sheer protective rage. “And I swear to God, if you get near him before he’s ready—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

He stepped back and shut the door in Louis’s face.

—

Louis stood there for a long moment, hand still half lifted. Cold now.

And that’s when his phone rang.

He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it anyway. Anything to distract himself from the burn in his chest.

“Louis,” came Simon’s voice, sharp and too casual. “Good. You’re up.”

Louis straightened. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve spoken to Eleanor. She’s agreed to a long term arrangement. You’ll begin official appearances next month.”

Louis blinked. “What arrangement?”

“Dating,” Simon said, like it was obvious. “Publicly. You and Eleanor. She’s perfect for your image. Smart, stylish, respectable. We’ll frame it like a natural progression from friendship to something more. Media’s already warming to her after last night’s photos.”

Louis’s heart dropped. “I never…agreed to that.”

“You don’t have to. It’s in your best interest, trust me. She’s agreed already.”

“What?”

Simon’s tone turned colder. “You’ve been spiraling, Louis. Letting your feelings get in the way of your role. Eleanor grounds you. She’s mature. It’s a smart match. And Harry…well, Harry’s been occupied, hasn’t he?”

Louis didn’t answer.

Simon continued. “The label’s happy. Eleanor’s happy. She’ll come by tomorrow for fittings and photo prep. Try to be cooperative.”

The call ended before Louis could say another word.

He stared at his screen, numb.

Eleanor said yes.

Harry was gone.

And Louis?

He’d never felt so small.