Chapter Text

Part One

And rain falls angry on the tin roof
As we lie awake in my bed.
You're my survival, you're my living proof
My love is alive and not dead.
Tell me that we belong together.
Dress it up with the trappings of love.
I'll be captivated,
I'll hang from your lips,
Instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above
And I've dropped out, I've burned up, I've fought my way back from the dead.
I've tuned in, turned on, remembered the things that you said

Early September, when the temperature outside is cooling down and leaving the house has no real appeal, Harry decides to teach Louis how to play guitar. It’s a terrible, terrible idea – he’s sure of this before he even voices the decision out loud – but Louis had been bugging him about it for months and Harry can only say no so many times.

They’re sat on the living room floor, guitars resting across their laps, with barely any space between them. Harry keeps trying to scoot back, to give them both some much needed breathing room, but Louis keeps following him; he’s close enough now their knees are pressed together and Harry can feel the heat Louis’s radiating. Harry knows it’s probably a subconscious thing – Louis being so close; he knows that the older boy is a very tactile person and doesn’t quite understand the meaning of personal space. The thought that maybe Louis has a problem keeping his hands - or in this case, knees - to himself, though . . . it stirs something warm inside Harry’s tummy, makes the guitar lesson that harder to focus on.

They haven’t made any real progress except for how Louis can now name all the strings and different parts of the guitar. There’s a look of deep concentration on his face; he keeps biting his lip and furrowing his brow. Harry’s about a hundred and seventeen percent sure Louis is doing it all just to mess with Harry’s head. What’s worse is, it’s working; he’s starting to forget why he agreed to this guitar lesson in the first place. He’s torn between the urge to laugh outright at Louis’ expression or to give up, to tackle Louis and tell him how stupidly, distractingly beautiful he is.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Harry tells him, watching Louis struggle with keeping his fingers pressed to the strings. His tone isn’t short or irritated, mostly amused as he tries to keep from laughing; he’s pretty sure it’s making Louis that much more aggravated, angry that Harry’s being so patient with him. For some reason Louis was under the impression learning to play guitar would be easy. Harry’s tempted to tell him just how long it took him to learn and that he didn’t even have anyone to help, but he figures he can enjoy Louis’ exasperation for a little longer.

Ignoring the groan that escapes Louis’ half-parted lips – it’s mostly exaggerated anyways – and still trying to hold in his laughter, Harry leans forward and tugs on Louis’ fingers gently. “Put your hand like this,” he instructs.

Louis grunts. “That feels weird.”

Sitting up straight again, Harry snorts. “Yeah, I know. Get used to it.” Absentmindedly, he holds up his own hand, rubbing the pads of his fingers together. They’re rough and calloused from playing guitar, not soft and smooth like Louis’. His hands are smaller than Harry’s own, too, delicate almost.

Louis grabs for him suddenly, running his fingers over Harry’s. “How long?” he asks quietly, the words barely audible. He exhales warm breath over Harry’s hands, inspecting the callouses with unusual focus.

Harry clears his throat and shrugs, tracking Louis’ movement with his eyes. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How often you play.”

Louis still hasn’t let go of Harry’s hand. The gentle way he brushes his fingers against Harry’s palm feels too intimate for their conversation topic.

“How long did it take before you had -” he starts.

“Guitar fingers?” Harry supplies, jokingly. “Not sure, but I practiced almost every day for hours, and I’ve been playing for years.”

Letting out a sigh, Louis drops his hand. “My fingers hurt.”

“Stop complaining.” He smiles though. “Try it again.”

When Louis strums the guitar and it actually sounds like it’s supposed to, Harry’s grin widens.

“Look! You’re officially playing guitar.”

“Took for fucking ever,” Louis grumbles under his breath.

“You’re complaining again.”

When Louis looks up at him, smiling, his fringe falls into his face. He flicks it out of his eyes and meets Harry’s gaze again. “Thanks for teaching me,” he says, “or, y’know, attempting to teach me.”

Attempting is the right word. They’ve been at his for nearly half an hour, but Louis’s restless and easily distracted; multiple times throughout the guitar lesson he’d stood right up in the middle of Harry trying to show him something important, ignoring him in favor of getting something to eat or drink or point out a commercial on the telly. Eventually Harry had turned off the already muted television and told Louis he wasn’t going to teach him if he didn’t pay attention.

There’s a long few minutes of silence between them during which Harry tries to remember what they’d been talking about. Louis’s looking all distracting again; his smile is wide and blinding, his eyes equally bright. There’s a wicked glint to them, the kind he always gets before doing something he knows Harry probably wouldn’t approve of.

Without even having to ask, Harry shakes his head and sets his guitar aside. “I have to go to work.” It’s supposed to be a reminder, but he thinks it comes out as more of a warning instead.

Louis’ smile quickly turns into a pout. “No,” he drags out the word, whining almost. “Stay and teach me. I’m learning, I promise!” He strums his own guitar again as if to prove his point.

“I know! But if I call in sick again I’m going to get fired.”

“That’s not true,” Louis insists. “Your boss loves you.”

He doesn’t argue – his boss does love him, but that’s no reason to call in. He tries to save his sick days for when he actually is sick (or just completely uncompelled to get out of bed.)

Come December, he’ll have been out of the psych ward a year, but that doesn’t mean every day is rainbows and sunshine. He wouldn’t say he’s still depressed necessarily, and he’s definitely gotten better. There are days, though, here and there, where he flat out cannot go into work, where it takes all his strength just to get out of bed. And not because he’s sad, but because he feels empty; where it feels like everyone around him is moving at hyper speed. He tries to keep up, but he can’t always. It’s like he’s trudging through quicksand, he thinks, and every time he tries to move and get on with his life, he just sinks a little deeper.

Other times it’s like someone has cut him open, took out his heart and his soul and his brain, rearranged everything else, and then zipped him back up again, expecting him to go on acting normal. But he can’t act normal after that, not when pieces are missing and nothing’s in the right place.

Those days are getting further and further apart, but they're there. They still occur, refusing to be ignored. 

Louis scooting closer to him brings Harry out of his thoughts. His eyes narrow as he watches the older boy move, apparently attempting to remove whatever little space is left between them. His guitar must have been discarded off to the side sometime while Harry had been zoned out. Louis is smiling but there’s a look on his face like maybe Harry had been out of it for longer than he’d thought.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks him. It’s a stupid, rhetorical question; he knows what Louis is doing. What he really should be asking is: are you serious right now or why are you doing this to me? He has a hard enough time resisting Louis when he’s all the way across the room, doing absolutely nothing; when Louis turns his focus on Harry, what little self-control he has goes down the drain.

Louis just grins wider, sits up straighter, and presses their lips together.

It’s been well over a year and a half since the first time they kissed; Harry thinks he should probably be used to it by now. (Louis seems intent on making up for lost time, too, those long months when they were barely talking let alone touching or kissing. He’s constantly taking advantage of any free time the two of them might have.) The way he tangles his fingers into Harry’s curls, though, parting his lips just barely, feels just as good – maybe even better – than the first time. Harry just wishes his heart didn’t speed up every time Louis’s within reach, like it’s going for some sort of record.

Whether he wants to or not, Harry finds himself relaxing into the kiss, smiling against Louis’ lips. He wraps his hands around Louis’ waist, using his hold to pull the smaller boy into his lap. Louis makes a happy little noise, wiggling around to get comfortable, and starts peppering kisses along Harry’s jaw.

“I really do have to go to work, Lou.”

Louis hums like uh huh, sure, yeah, right okay, but doesn’t stop kissing him. He bites a mark onto Harry’s lower neck before connecting their lips again. His fingers trail down his chest quickly, brushing the skin exposed between Harry’s shirt and the top of his jeans.

Their lips only break apart for half a second when Louis grips the edge of the shirt and pulls it up and over Harry’s head.

“Lou,” he whines.

“Hm?” Louis traces his fingers back down his chest, grinning mischievously. They’re not really kissing much anymore, just breathing the same air and bumping noses as their lips brush against each other’s for the briefest of moments.

“I have to go.” He doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears.

Louis nods, a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “Okay.”

“Five minutes ago.”

“You should probably go then,” he says seriously. He even pulls back, giving Harry an innocent smile. He cracks a second later, smirking a little to himself before kissing down his chest. His lips brush against sensitive spots, sending chills up and down Harry’s spine. He shivers and Louis smiles against his skin. Harry knows if he could see Louis’ face he’d look proud, be fucking beaming like he does every time he gets that kind of reaction out of Harry. He pulls on Louis’ hair a little, just for payback, but Louis only chuckles again, deep and throaty.

Louis’ right hand brushes Harry's side where a thin white scar stands out just below his ribs. Unintentionally - Harry thinks - Louis stills momentarily, his hand tracing the scar slightly. The moment lasts a fraction of a second if that, but it flashes through Harry’s mind - the memory of where he got the scar in the first place. He has the sudden blinding urge to push Louis away, to get away from his hands and his touch, but the feeling burns out just as fast as it came. Louis’ hands are soothing up and down his sides, pressing gentle kisses to his stomach like he knows what Harry’s thinking.

Knowing Louis, he probably does.

It isn’t until Louis’ lips pass his belly button, when he can feel nimble fingers just barely press against the button of his jeans, that Harry actually does stop him. He tangles their fingers together gently, trying to ignore the jumble of nerves making another sudden appearance in his stomach. He presses a kiss to Louis’ lips, feather light, and then pulls back, untangling their bodies. When Louis is no longer straddling him, he stands up, grabbing his shirt to pull over his head.

There’s a long minute of silence in which Harry tries to ignore the impulse to apologize. He clears his throat, turns his back to Louis and asks, “Are you coming tonight?”

“Apparently not.”

When Harry turns back around, Louis is lying on his back across the floor. His arms are crossed beneath his head and he looks completely unapologetic about the slight tent to his sweatpants. (Harry tries not to feel smug about being the cause - it’s still not something he’s used to - but he has to turn his head away again to hide his grin.)

He opens his mouth, ready to say something along the lines of how that really wasn’t what he meant, but before he can, Louis continues.

“Of course I am; it’s mike night.”

There’s a fond smile on his face, despite the roll of his eyes.

Harry nods, fidgets a little - tightening his hands into fists at his side momentarily before shoving them in his pockets. “Right. Okay. I’ll see you later?”

Usually this would be the moment when he’d kiss Louis goodbye. He’d tell him he’d see him later and Louis would say something ridiculous like ‘don’t miss me too much.’ Louis is still laying on the floor, looking ridiculously tempting with his t-shirt pushed up a little, showing off a bit of his stomach and the trail of hair that disappears into his low slung pants. Harry presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks out the door, knows if he kisses Louis again or even gets within touching distance of the boy, he’ll probably blow off work altogether.

He’s pretty sure he hears Louis laughing a little as the door closes behind him.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that night, while putting freshly made muffins in a display box, he listens to Louis sing Look After You by The Fray. It’s one of his favorite songs to cover, but he hasn’t sung it in awhile, so Harry takes the time to pause what he’s doing and watch the way Louis lights up when he’s on stage.

The stage is fairly small, just big enough for two people, a couple stools, and possibly a drum set off to the side if they really squeezed things around. Louis can be extremely energetic on stage, especially when he’s singing, and he’s never let the size of the stage stop him from letting loose. Now, though, he’s sitting on a stool, eyes closed. He’s putting everything he has into the words, belts them out like they’re coming straight from his heart, like he means every damn thing he’s saying. Sometimes Harry momentarily forgets that Louis wasn’t the one to write the words in the first place.

He’s always thought Louis was too attractive to be real - fairyesque almost - but when he starts singing, it reaches a whole new level. Harry would never admit it out loud, but there are times he literally feels weak in the knees and he has to clutch the counter to help keep himself upright.

When Louis is finished, he jumps off the stage; bows dramatically at some of the clapping people; attempts to ruffle Zayn’s hair - who moves out of the way too fast - and then starts over to where Harry is watching.

Before he can make it across the cafe, though, a hand reaches out and stops him.

This is nothing Harry hasn’t seen before. It’s actually more of a shock when Louis doesn’t get stopped for a little chat or a query of his name and number. This feels different, though, and Harry’s brows raise as he takes in the faces of the two older men responsible for stopping Louis. They’re mid-thirties probably; one has a shaved head, the other a goatee. The bald one says something to Louis and the boy freezes. He looks back towards Harry for a second before sliding into the seat across from the two men.

Harry watches them for a moment, wishing he could see Louis’ face instead of just the tightness in his shoulders, before going back to taking orders. When he’s finished, he makes sure everyone who signed up for mike night knows what order they go on in.

The next act - a girl in her late teens early twenties - gets on stage and starts quietly singing a cover version of Not Like the Movies by Katy Perry. This has Niall all sorts of excited; Harry can hear him from all the way across the cafe as he makes a kind of cheerful whoop. It gives the girl a sudden surge of confidence and the volume of her voice goes up a notch.

An older fellow comes up the counter, looking like he feels out of place, but intrigued all the same. Harry sets about making the man’s coffee and wrapping up a still steaming blueberry muffin to go. Even after he has his order, the man idles by the door. He catches Harry watching and fumbles into one of the few open seats.

By now the Katy Perry Girl is finished and Harry watches with mild interest as Niall attempts - and succeeds - to chat her up. Harry’s already got the blond’s regular snickerdoodle cookies and hot chocolate ready; when Niall shows up at the counter with the Katy Perry Girl close at his side, he slides the plate and mug towards him.

“Anything for you?” he asks the girl.

She smiles briefly, but shakes her head. She looks a little shy again, her dark red hair falling into her eyes.

“You can have one of my cookies!” Niall offers - which, really, Harry wants to tell the girl that that is a pretty big deal. Niall doesn’t share food with just anyone.

The blond doesn’t even try to be inconspicuous as he takes a couple fivers from his wallet and shoves them into the tiny opening of the bakery’s tip jar. Harry presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything - it would be pointless if he did anyway; Niall never listens.

Niall grins at Harry like he can read his thoughts. He takes the cookies and drink, offering his arm to the girl, and mouths a ‘thank you’ to Harry as he passes.

Harry just shakes his head and waves him off.

Ever since Harry started working at the cafe, it’s busiest times have always been Monday mornings and Friday mike nights. The mike nights have become quite popular in the neighborhood, and thanks to being within walking distance of the local university, they get a lot of business from college kids. Still, it’s Friday night and a lot of people have better places to be than hanging around a cafe. They don’t get a lot of stranglers after nine and Natalie, the girl who shares most of his shifts with him, has already gone home for the evening. So when the bell above the door chimes nearly thirty minutes before closing time, Harry’s a little surprised.

He’s even more shocked when he looks up to see Liam walk through the door.

“Didn’t you have a date tonight?” Harry says as the older boy approaches the counter. He glances at his watch to double check the time. "One that started  like an hour ago?" 

Liam is dressed for said date, wearing a snugly fit blue button-up and what Louis likes to call his ‘interview pants.’ He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, unintentionally showing off some of the muscle he works so hard to keep (and that Harry swears he isn’t jealous of.) He brushes a hand through his hair before meeting Harry’s gaze and shrugs his shoulder, only half paying attention.

“Oh, you know,” he responds vaguely, glancing over the cafe again. “Bussiness good?”

Harry knows a desperate attempt to change the subject when he hears one, but doesn’t push it. He just nods his head and grins a little. “Better every day. You want anything?”

“No, I’m good. I’ll just, uh . . . go see how Niall’s doing, yeah.”

It comes out more of a question than anything and Harry’s eyes automatically follow Liam’s line of vision.

For the past half hour or so Zayn’s been cuddling with Perrie on the beanbags in the corner by the stage. Harry knows this because Zayn had basically declared the neon green beanbag his for eternity and that’s always where the lads end up. Now, though, Zayn is standing  in the middle of the cafe, looking frozen in place like something stopped him from approaching the counter. (Harry doesn’t have to question what this something - someone - is.) Zayn looks towards the counter (Liam), then to the door (escape route) and then back to where Perrie (semi-safety) is waiting.

Less than five seconds have gone by. Liam pushes away from the counter and heads over to the beanbag chairs. When he passes Zayn, he knocks their shoulders together in a ‘hey there’ gesture but doesn’t say anything.

Harry watches with mild amusement and then goes back to scrubbing the counter, waiting for the inevitable.

“He does it on purpose, you know,” comes Zayn’s voice shortly later.

“How’s Perrie?” is all Harry replies with, a hint of mocking to his tone.

Zayn sighs. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know,” Harry agrees, but he’s grinning. “You’d think I’d treat my best friend better, but . . .” He shrugs.

“Oh please.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “We all know your boyfriend is your best friend.”

“He’s not my boy-”

Zayn waves it off with a hand, doesn’t let Harry finish (they have this conversation so many times, Harry practically has it memorized at this point), and glances back to where Liam is now sitting with Niall, Perrie and the Katy Perry Girl. Louis is still sitting at the table with the older men. The tightness is gone from his shoulders, Harry notes, otherwise he’d have come up with some excuse to go over there and interrupt by now.

“He’s not doing it on purpose,” Harry argues, jumping back to the original not-so-much-of-a-conversation conversation. “I mean, this is Liam we’re talking about. He’s completely oblivious to these things.”

Zayn drops his hands down onto the counter. “He came to my flat the other day.” He’s using his do-not-fuck-with-me tone and Harry bites down a laugh. “He asked me for advice on cologne for his date.”

“Well.” Harry clears his throat and shrugs. “You are the only person I know who actually uses cologne, so.” He shrugs again. “I’m ninety percent sure it wasn’t part of some master plan to torture you. Although,” he grins, “the idea of you picking out cologne for him is hilarious. Wish I could’ve been there. You didn’t happen to get it on video, didja?”

Zayn’s eyes narrow a little before he says, “So what’s the deal with you and Louis, huh? Not boyfriends, yet you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other. What’s that about?”

Harry doesn’t look up, doesn’t let the words affect him. “I hope you realize it would probably hurt a lot if I punched you in the face right now.”

“That’s what I thought.” Harry doesn’t have to glance up at Zayn to know he’s smiling. “Look,” Zayn’s tone is softer now, “I think you should just seal the deal. Proclaim your love right here in front of everybody! Go up and kiss him. It would be fucking romantic. People would applaud. It might even end up on YouTube.” There’s a half second pause. “Mate, you could go viral.”

He pretends to contemplate it for half a second. (He doesn’t want to bring up the fact that he’s pretty much done all those things already. It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re in that weird ‘more than friends, yet not officially dating’ stage, and Louis is the world’s biggest commitment phobe. If Harry had to put a label on what he and Louis are, he’d say it’s something like an exclusive friends with benefits flirtashonship kind of thing. He’s thought too much about it, but he’ll take what he can get.)

“How about you go up and kiss Liam?” He gestures towards said boy with his dishrag. “Maybe I’ll get inspired.”

Shaking his head, Zayn yanks the rag from his grip and throws it at Harry’s face. “I repeat: asshole.”

As per every other Friday night, Louis and Harry are the last ones to leave the cafe. Most of the lights are off, the glow from the kitchen and street lamps outside enough to see by. Louis is sitting on the counter, swinging his legs back and forth while he picks apart a banana nut muffin. Harry flips the last chair up onto it’s corresponding table before he goes about sweeping the place. It’s quiet except for the quiet humming coming from under Louis’ breath. It’s peaceful and nice, a major difference to how chaotic the place can get during the day, college students rushing around, begging for their caffeine fix.

“You could hire someone to do that for you, you know,” Louis suggests absentmindedly.

“I’m only the assistant manager, Louis,” Harry points out. “It doesn’t really work that way.” 

“You fired Cher.”

“That’s different. She was a temp and wasn’t doing her job.”

“Too busy ogling you,” Louis says from under his breath. Harry can still hear him, though, and he halts his ministrations to look over at the older boy. Louis just shrugs in a ‘i regret nothing’ sort of way and shoves another piece of muffin into his mouth with more force than is probably necessary.

Harry goes back to sweeping out from under the tables. There’s an empty to-go cup under one of them and he picks it up, tossing it in the nearest trash can.

“I’m just saying,” Louis says slowly, something in his tone causing Harry to stop what he’s doing again. This isn’t like their usual end-of-the-night conversation. “If there was someone else to close up at night, we could be home already . . . making out. Also, I wouldn’t have to be wearing ridiculously tight pants. Or, y’know, any pants at all for that matter.” He shifts around as if to bring his point to focus.

He does this a lot, complaining about how his pants never leave him any room to breathe, and Harry’s use to it by now. He gave up on reminding Louis that he could wear different pants a long time ago. (He doesn’t actually want Louis to stop wearing his skinny jeans anyway.) Harry’s pretty sure Louis just wishes it were socially acceptable to wear sweatpants and pajamas everywhere.

There’s something to his tone this time, though, something different in the way Louis looks when he says it: the way he shrugs, like his words are completely casual even though Harry can see his gaze darkening the longer they look at each other. Harry’s mouth goes dry and his mind is completely wiped clean of everything he needed to do before locking up. He doesn’t know if it’s from the realization that Louis’ pants really are that ridiculously tight (more so than usual), or the image of Harry getting to take off said pants, or because Louis has decided now is a good time to reach behind the counter and pull Harry’s jumper over his head.

It’s Harry’s favorite jumper, too - the off white one he used to wear all the time. It’s not as big as some of his newer ones but it still swallows Louis up pretty well. Louis starts swinging his legs again, apparently oblivious to the miniature meltdown Harry’s having. He drops the last bit of muffin into his mouth and swallows before going about licking his fingers free of crumbs . . . ridiculously slowly.

A seven-year-old could have picked up on the innuendo behind the action. A mile away. Blindfolded.

It takes everything inside of Harry not to cross the cafe right then. Screw clean up, he thinks, but he does pick up his fallen - when the hell did that happen? - broom.

“You know, if you stopped distracting me, I would be finished already,” Harry quips, but it lacks his usual cheek.

“Oh, am I distracting you?” Louis asks, feining innocence. “I had no idea.”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes and just throw his broom across the cafe to where Louis is lounging oh so casually.

“Ha ha ha,” he says instead. “Fuck you, Lou,” and he flips him off.

He’s pretty sure Louis’ answering laugh can be heard all the way outside. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

Harry can’t not look up at that and watches as Louis rolls up the sleeves of the jumper to free his hands better. Because it’s that big on him. If there were any straws left, that would’ve been the last one. He decides to give up on actually getting any work done. He’ll apologize to everyone on morning shift later.

It only takes him a few long strides to make it in front of Louis.

Louis hums a little and licks his lips. “Did you need something, Hazza?”

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

The older boy grins and finally looks up, meeting Harry’s gaze. “Always my plan, Harry. Don’t for one second ever doubt that this isn’t always my plan.” He trails his hand up Harry’s arm until it’s cupping the back of his neck, fingers playing with the small curls there.

“You are truly ridiculous.” He shakes his head, pulls Louis in by the jumper, and kisses him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. Not even a little bit. It’s not soft or slow. They skip past all that, already so familiar with each other. It’s heated from the start, fast, a little chaotic (and a little weird because Louis tastes like banana nut muffin), and it isn’t long till Harry has to pull back to catch his breath. He doesn’t go far, just leans his chin against Louis’ forehead.

Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist to pull him in closer, and Harry doesn’t have to look down to know he’s grinning. “I had a dream we were doing this.” He sounds a little breathless and when Harry glances at him, his eyes are still closed. “You were wearing a lot less clothes, though.” His eyes snap open and he sneaks his fingers under Harry’s shirt. His touch tickles more than anything, but still manages to send heat shooting down Harry’s spine. “Actually,” Louis amends, “I don’t think you were wearing any clothes.”

He doesn’t really take Louis seriously, but there’s this look in his eyes like he’s picturing - or remembering, maybe? - it. He reaches for the hem of Harry’s shirt, but Harry takes a reluctant step back.

“Come on,” Louis pouts, reaching out for Harry again, “you do not need to be wearing a shirt right now. I’m actually convinced you don’t need to be wearing a shirt ever. I’m thinking about starting a petition.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re not taking off my shirt. There are cameras in here.” Louis whines a little, trying to pull Harry in. “There are windows . . . someone could walk by.”

Louis gives him this look though and Harry can’t really say no to that. He steps back and  presses their lips together again. Louis grins against his mouth and reaches for his shirt again. Harry doesn’t stop him this time, because really, who is he to deny the boy any and everything he wants.