Archive of Our Own

The article is brilliant. It’s one thousand gripping words on the current healthcare debate, scathingly critical yet meticulously researched. Zayn says as much when he’s done reading it, jerking his head back from Louis’s computer screen and whistling.

“It’s brilliant, mate.”

“Yeah it is,” Louis says, sliding forward off his desk and dropping down into the chair that Zayn vacates, reading the last (brilliant) line of the document before closing it out.

“Too bad it’ll never be published.”

Louis frowns up at Zayn, who looks down mildly, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

Zayn sighs, and makes an expansive gesture around the room they’re sitting in. The floors are gleaming black, the glass walls between the cubicles so spotless they’re nearly invisible. The desks are sinuous and lacquered to such a high shine Louis frequently checks his reflection in his own before meetings. Everyone is clacking away at a keyboard or talking quietly on their phone. “Not here at least. It’s not Finesse material.” Zayn makes quotes in the air with his fingers, and Louis slumps in his seat.

“Advanced degree in journalism,” he mutters, as Zayn pats him consolingly on the shoulder, “and I’m stuck being the ‘how to guy’ at Finesse magazine.”

“Could be worse,” Zayn says, and skirts the rounded corner of Louis’s desk to his own, his dark eyebrows and quiff the only things Louis can see over the cabinet that separates them.

“How’s that,” Louis calls, just loud enough to be heard in Zayn’s cube.

“You could be the ‘how to guy’ without tickets to the FA Cup semifinals,” Zayn calls back, and an envelope whizzes over the cabinet, nearly taking out the potted fern perched atop.

Louis ducks, then rolls his chair to the opposite end of his cubicle to retrieve the envelope from where it landed. Inside are two tickets with Man U’s familiar red and gold crest stamped on them. “When did they come?”

“This morning. A solid month of shameless flirting - “

“I was not flirting - “

“ - with the bloke from Sport paid off. And yes you were flirting. As someone who can hear 90% of your phone conversations, and also someone who has seen you on the pull one too many times, I can say without a doubt that you were flirting.”

Louis rolls his eyes even if Zayn can’t see him, and then grins down at his tickets. He maybe had been flirting a little. But the editor at Sport was totally straight and totally married, not to mention too old for Louis, and had seemed to get a laugh out of it. The note tucked inside said, “Enjoy the match, you cheeky bastard,” and further assured Louis that he was right. “Keep up with that tone and see if I invite you to come along.”

“I know you promised that ticket to Niall, don’t even try it.” Zayn’s chair rattles as he rolls around the end of the desk, peering out at where Niall should be sitting. He quirks an eyebrow at Louis. “Have you seen him yet this morning?”

Louis has not, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. They have a staff meeting in thirty minutes, and their editor does not take kindly to said staff being late.

“You get tea, I’ll get Niall, meet you by the conference room in twenty?”

Zayn nods, and pushes to his feet, heading towards the kitchen.

Louis folds his tickets neatly into his wallet, locks his computer screen, and heads towards the door.

Niall is a lump under his blankets when Louis lets himself into the flat. Louis pokes the lump with the toe of his trainer and gets a muffled groan in return.

“It’s time to get up,” Louis sings, and gets a handful of duvet, ready to yank it off if necessary. Niall’s foot flails out from underneath and gets uncomfortably close to his groin. “None of that now, Horan, get your arse out of bed.”

“Go ‘way,” Niall says, but his head emerges, blond hair a riot and his face creased from the pillowcases. “I’ve just been dumped, I’m allowed a lie in.”

“You think you’re allowed a lie in every day, now get up. Staff meeting in fifteen.”

“Don’t care,” Niall says, and drags a pillow over his face.

“Zayn’s going to meet us with tea, extra milk and sugar just for you, and you are going to put some trousers on and brush your teeth and not get yourself sacked today.”

Niall grumbles some more but eventually drags himself up and out of bed, and lets himself be manhandled into clothes and a taxi, only swatting Louis slightly while he fusses at Niall’s hair.

“Don’t hit me, your hair looks like a dry-clean only jumper that’s been put through the washer.”

Niall gives Louis a sidelong look, but he gets more alert as he tries to puzzle that out, and he’s figured out enough to be offended by the time they’re back at the office. He kicks the back of Louis’s leg as they go through the revolving doors into the foyer, but he lets Louis back at his hair once they’re securely in the lift until Louis is satisfied that he’s presentable.

Zayn hands them both their tea when they get up to their floor, and slings a sympathetic arm around Niall’s shoulders as they go through the door to the conference room.

*****

The traffic in Manchester is not London-level unmanageable but Harry still finds it far easier to navigate on his motorbike, and the image it presents doesn’t hurt either. He loves roaring through the snarl of cars and taxis in his leather and helmet, even if he does have to spend the first few minutes of his morning fixing his fringe where it’s flattened to his forehead.

He slots into a space in front of the Cowell Advertising building and tucks his helmet away, shaking his hair out and flashing a grin at the people passing on the pavement.

“Showoff.”

“Good morning, Maxwell,” Harry says, sidling up to his colleague as they enter the foyer. He gets a disgruntled frown in return and beams, pleased any time he can get Max’s hackles up. Harry is the new boy, just up from the London office, and Max and his partner Tom hate his guts.

Harry loves it.

“It’s Max, and you know it.”

Harry ignores the rebuttal in favor of greeting the receptionist with his best grin and an air kiss, and laughs when she waves him off. They’ve been out for drinks after work multiple times, and she knows him better than most people at Cowell, so she lets him flirt to his heart’s content and only chides him a little when other people start to talk.

Max has a magazine tucked under his arm, the well-groomed eyebrows of the male cover model just peeking over the sleeve of his suit coat. “Finesse, hey? Need some style tips? I could always offer my services.”

“Thanks, if I need a holey jumper or someone’s granddad’s hat I’ll let you know.”

Harry lays his palm over his heart, over the well-worn leather of his jacket. “You wound me.”

“We have a meeting with them this morning, if you must know. A lot of our clients run ads in their magazine, maybe you should keep up with them as well.” Max gives a haughty sniff as they step out of the lift and Harry plucks the magazine out from under his arm.

“How to maintain perfect stubble,” he reads from the cover, and scratches at his own smooth chin. “I prefer myself clean shaven.”

Max snatches the magazine back and starts towards his office. “You just can’t grow a beard, Styles, we all know it.”

Harry lets the lame - but partially true - jibe roll off his back and heads towards his own office, waving at people as he passes. Cowell is the largest advertising firm in the UK, and as such is a cutthroat, competitive place. Exchanges like the one he’d just had with Max are common, and necessary, and Harry tries to combat them with being as nice to the rest of his colleagues as he can. He usually makes friends easily, especially with the female members of the staff, and if that gives him a reputation, even better.

Reputations mean people talk about you, and the more Harry is talked about the easier it is to land clients. And that is what the business is all about.

“Someone’s looking pleased with themselves.” Liam, Harry’s partner and the only adman at Cowell who can get away with being genuinely nice, is already settled at his desk and two cups of tea in, judging by the mound of empty sugar packets next to his phone.

“Just had a pleasant little chat with ol’ Max in the lift on the way up. Always a great start to the morning.”

“That wanker,” Liam grumbles, and then looks scandalised by himself, eyes wide. Harry can’t help but laugh at him, until Liam’s eyes crinkle up with a grin. “Well he is. He and Parker have been rubbing it in my face all morning that they’re getting the Brighton account.”

Harry jerks his head up, alarmed, his jacket halfway off of his shoulders. “What?”

Liam grimaces, shrugs. “That’s what they said. Cowell himself is coming up tonight to meet with them about it.”

“That was my tip,” Harry says, and flings his jacket towards his chair. He’d been the one to make all the calls, grease all the right palms and sit through all the inane chatter and gossip until someone had finally let it leak that Brighton was expanding into luxury menswear and was shopping for a new agency to handle it. He’d brought it up at a team meeting a few weeks ago with the express purpose of taking it on himself. It was his baby. “This is my baby,” he reiterates out loud, and Liam nods.

“I know. But we’ve never done jewelry, Haz. We’re all motors and amps - rock ‘n’ roll, right? Why would they give us fancy watches?”

Harry works his jaw, flicks his fringe, stares out the window at the city. Liam isn’t wrong. Harry had been brought up from London to work with specific clients, because no one could make a grungy account look classier than Harry Styles. He’d singlehandedly made Paiste the leading cymbal seller in the UK, not to mention what his campaigns had done for the waning leather industry. But he was tired of being pigeonholed, and getting into luxury menswear would open more doors for him than selling keyboards to teenage boyband wannabes.

“What do Parker and George know about luxury? Fuck all, that’s what.” He flips open his laptop and pulls up his email, clicking through to delete the rubbish that had accumulated overnight.

“And we do?” Liam asks, shuffling storyboards around on his desk.

“More than they do!” Harry spots an email about Brighton, someone at another agency giving him the heads up that they’re officially shopping, and narrows his eyes. “Where’s the meeting?”

“Stock, drinks after work, you aren’t - “

“Oh yeah,” he says, and grins over at Liam. “I’m going.”

*****

“A week long relationship is not enough to lose your job over,” Zayn says, settling next to Niall at the meeting table. Louis slides into the chair on Niall’s other side and nudges their shoulders together.

“It was a week and a half,” Niall says, and frowns down at his tea. “And she was special.”

Louis and Zayn hum, exchanging a look over Niall’s head. They’d heard this before - Niall had a tendency to think every girl that returned his calls was special.

“What happened to this one?”

Niall slants a look up at Louis and then ducks his head again. “Said I came on too strong, she needed more space. Why do they always need so much bloody space?”

“Tell me you didn’t write her a song,” Zayn says, fingers against his forehead like he already knows the answer. Louis presses his lips together to keep from smiling; he does feel bad for Niall, he hates to see his friend so downtrodden, but Niall keeps writing songs for girls he barely knows and scaring them off. After the third or fourth one it’d started to be slightly amusing. Louis had joked that Niall only needed a few more for an entire album and he could be the UK’s male Taylor Swift.

He keeps his jokes to himself now and watches Niall blush crimson up to the darker blond roots of his hair.

“You need a touchup,” Louis says, brushing his fingers against Niall’s hairline, but his choice of subject change is obviously not as light hearted as he’d thought because the look Niall gives him is anything but relieved. Just then their editor strolls in, trailing assistants, and saves Louis from Niall’s fiery Irish wrath.

“Good morning,” Grimmy says, grinning around at the assembled writers and dropping into the chair at the head of the table. Everyone choruses “good morning” back and Grimmy goes around the table, asking everyone for updates on their latest projects.

Nicholas Grimshaw is the youngest ever editor-in-chief of Finesse, and while he’s charming and witty and quite affable, he’s also blunt and no-nonsense. It’s an attitude that Louis appreciates, even if it’s also the attitude that’s keeping him writing fluff pieces like “how to groom your eyebrows without looking like you’ve been grooming your eyebrows.” That had been a particularly hellish month; Louis’s forehead had been red and slightly swollen for weeks on end.

He’s rubbing his eyebrows, which are stinging in pained memory, when he notices the room is dead silent, and when he looks up everyone is staring at him.

“Sorry,” he says, and drops his hand to the table, fiddles with his biro. “My turn?”

“Your turn,” Grimmy affirms, steepling his fingers under his chin. “What instructional will you be providing for our fashionable yet hapless readers?”

Louis fumbles with his notepad, and his biro rolls off the table to the floor. There’s a chuckle or two from the sportswear editors and Louis scowls down at the carpet as he bends down to scoop the biro up. “Uh, well,” he starts, and flicks a glance at Zayn. Zayn furrows his eyebrows in confusion, then sees Louis sliding his healthcare article out from between the pages of his notepad and shakes his head. Louis ignores him. “I’m working on something a little different than my usual stuff, actually.”

“Different.” Grimmy doesn’t sound pleased but Louis barrels on.

“It’s a little more political than the how-tos we’ve done before, but I think - “

“Political?” Grimmy cuts Louis off, and he’s got an eyebrow arched when Louis looks up. Not a good sign. “Louis, this is Finesse not The Economist, yeah? Politics are not our bag. Bags are our bag. Suits. Dating tips for the modern gay male. Not politics. We’ll come back to you.”

Louis slides his article back under his notepad, fuming silently down at the blank yellow pages. He should’ve known better, really, but he had to try. Maybe if he can write a few more incredible how-tos Grimmy will let him branch out a little.

And maybe he’ll bump into David Beckham on the street and get invited to join the team.

He’s tuning out again when he hears Grimmy call on Niall, and snaps his head up to see Niall stop mid-sip of his tea, eyes going wide with alarm. Zayn leans a little closer to him, comforting, and tells Grimmy, “He’s a little off this morning, he’s just been dumped.”

“Poor Niall,” Grimmy says, and the rest of the room murmurs along. “You should write about it!”

Niall shakes his head frantically, and shoots Louis a look of alarm.

“I understand. Someone else want to write about it?” A few hands go up around the room and Niall makes a sound like a cat that’s had its tail stepped on, and Louis’s hand shoots up without him thinking about it. “Louis?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, and clears his throat. “I’ll, uh,” he wracks his brain for an idea, Niall and Zayn both staring at him now. “Well, Niall here, he’s a classic case of how not to date.” Niall glares, but Louis plows on. “He’s too available, too sincere. He gets walked all over, and then when he gives someone his heart they stomp all over it.”

Grimmy leans forward, and makes a go on gesture with his hand.

“It could be more of a how-not-to, you know. I could date a guy, and make all the classic mistakes that people make that drive their partners away. You know, text them too much after the first date, talk about my exes over dinner, that sort of thing.”

Grimmy is nodding along, tapping his mouth with his fingers. “I can see it. ‘How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.’” He shapes the headline with his hand, and then claps once, like it’s final. “Done. Next?”

Ten days. Louis has no idea how he’s going to find a guy in ten days let alone date one and lose one. But Niall is shooting him a grateful look over his cup of tea, so he’s at least going to try.

They walk out with Grimmy, Zayn still discussing the band he wants to write up for next month’s culture feature, Louis and Niall trailing along behind.

“Thanks, mate,” Niall says, and Louis waves a hand in the air dismissively.

“No problem. We couldn’t have any of the wanks from the relationship department working on this, they’d be at your desk every day with horrid questions and the stench of their cheap cologne would put us all off our lunches.”

Niall laughs and tucks his arm through Louis’s as they skirt around the reception desk towards their part of the office. Grimmy circles around towards the foyer, and Zayn is still chatting away, so Louis and Niall follow. Louis is hoping they can sneak away to the kitchen for more tea before settling back at their desks, but he wants to wait for Zayn to finish his ramble before they do.

Grimmy greets two dark suited men in the foyer, and looks dead set on introducing them all, so Louis puts on his best networking smile and shakes hands as Grimmy runs through the who’s who. When he gets to Louis one of the guys grins, sleazily.

“You’re the how-to guy. What’s up for next month?”

Louis opens his mouth to give him something generic, because he wants to escape this conversation as soon as possible, but Grimmy jumps in. “It’s a dating how to. Or more a how-not-to. Basically he’s going to hook up with some poor bloke and then drive him up the wall by being essentially the worst boyfriend ever.”

The two men snicker, and Louis gives a half-hearted chuckle.

“And I’ve only got ten days to do it,” he says, and slides a hand around Zayn’s elbow, tugging him and Niall away. “Must be off.”

As they’re ducking back around reception Zayn raises his eyebrows at Louis. “Ten days.”

“Yep. You know what that means boys.”

“We’re going out tonight?” Niall suggests, and Louis nods, determined.

“We’re going out tonight.”

*****

Stock is predictably packed when Harry arrives, suits and cocktail dresses three deep at the bar and the dining area filled with similarly well dressed people. Harry’s in a suit under his leather jacket, though he’d skipped the tie. He’s putting some effort into looking good for the head of the company, but he wants to be comfortable when he’s snatching the Brighton account out from under Parker and George’s snooty noses.

He’d called earlier to add himself to the reservation, so he’s shown to a table as soon as he walks in. The hostess is flirty, bending down lower than necessary to hand him the wine list, letting the already low neckline of her blouse slip lower.

“Sparkling or still?” she asks, briefly touching the side of his water glass.

“Still is fine,” he replies, and gives her his best “you’re lovely but I’m not interested” smile. She smiles back, straightening up with a nod, and heading off to get his water.

He orders a bottle of champagne, because he fully plans on celebrating a new account before the end of the evening, and a beer for himself while he waits. The drinks arrive mere minutes before he sees Max’s buzz cut above the heads of the crowd, Tom and Simon Cowell not far behind. Max sees Harry first, and his scowl is so deep Harry feels a thrill of delight.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Harry says, and stands up as they draw closer.

“Styles,” Max says, his tone murderous. Tom is so taken aback he’s speechless, standing behind Max’s shoulder and glaring. Simon looks delighted, at Harry’s presence or the promise of drama or both.

“Mr. Cowell, nice to see you. Please have a seat.” Harry makes a sweeping gesture at the table and waits until the others have sat down to do so himself.

“Harry, what a surprise,” Simon says, and leans forward over the table. “What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, Harry,” Max says, teeth gritted. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to talk about the Brighton account. Since it was my tip, I figured I should head up the pitch.”

Max’s eyes narrow into slits and Tom’s fingers curl up like claws on the tablecloth. Harry grins around at all of them and lifts the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket, pouring a glass for each of them.

“It was your tip, and I appreciate you bringing it to my attention,” Simon says, and takes a sip of his champagne. Max and Tom are nearly vibrating with anger and Harry relaxes back in his seat, grinning. “But what makes you think you’re capable of handling an account of this kind?”

“What makes you think they can?” Harry shoots back, and Max hisses in a breath.

“They do a hell of a lot more menswear than you do. Selling guitars is not quite the same thing as selling luxury jewelry.”

“I’m aware of that. But I’m ready to broaden my horizons, take on something a little more challenging. I’ve tripled the sales of every account you’ve given me, Simon, I can do the same with Brighton.”

Tom sputters across the table, his face red. “I think this account needs a slightly different touch, Styles. Brighton doesn’t need your brand of sexed up advertising.”

Max lays a hand on his partner’s arm, and turns to Simon. “What Tom means is that a brand like Brighton is a little more high end than the brands that Harry’s used to dealing with, and they’ll want a campaign to match. Harry’s great at making a certain kind of lifestyle appealing, but that lifestyle is not the one that Brighton fits into.”

“Lifestyle?” Harry sits up straighter, smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket. “What lifestyle would that be, Maxwell?”

“You know very well what lifestyle that would be, Styles,” Tom says, leaning forward again. “We’ve all seen you stroll into the office late with last night’s clothes on, stinking of booze and some woman’s perfume - “

Simon holds up a hand to cut Tom off, and Harry’s blood simmers down from the boil it’d worked up to. “No need for that.”

Tom slumps back, arms crossed, and Max’s mouth goes so tight the skin around his lips blanches to white.

“Though they do have a point, Harry. Your style doesn’t exactly match Brighton’s. The men your adverts attracts aren’t always in the same demographic as the ones Brighton will be trying to attract.”

“I can attract any man I want,” Harry says, and three pairs of eyes go wide around the table.

“That’s an interesting statement,” Max says, tilting his head. He’s staring off across the room now, and he looks like he’s plotting something. He can bring it on. Nothing is stopping him from getting this pitch.

“It is,” Tom agrees, and Simon placidly takes another sip of his champagne, seeming settled in to watch the exchange. “Something tells me you’re not just talking about advertising, either.”

“Maybe I’m not.” Harry doesn’t know what that statement will do for him as far as winning this argument goes, but Max and Tom are having some sort of wordless conversation with meaningful glances and hitches of their chins, and he’s not going to back down from whatever they throw at him. If declaring that his image is just that, an image, will get him the Brighton account then he’ll do it.

“Any man you want,” Max says, and taps his fingers on the tablecloth. “I assume that means you think you can land the type of man that Brighton’s new product lines will be marketed towards.”

“Of course.”

“Care to bet on it?”

“Bet?”

Max and Tom exchange another look and Tom nods. “We pick the man. You ‘land’ him. Bring him to Brighton’s preview party for their new watch line next week and you win the pitch.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Simon says, and Harry turns it over in his head. He’d have ten days. He’s fairly confident that he can keep a guy interested in him for ten days. It seems thoughtless, to start something with someone under false pretenses, but he wants this account so badly. And maybe he can turn them off when the ten days are up, make them happy to get away from him.

“Deal,” Harry says, and glances at Simon. He’s got a mischievous glint in his eye, and he’s grinning wickedly.

“Deal,” Simon says, and lifts his glass. They all do the same, clinking them together over the middle of the table, and then drink.

“When will you choose the lucky man?” Harry asks, and Max smiles, looking confident. Harry feels a swoop of dread in his stomach.

“We already have.”

Simon leans his forearms on the table and surveys the room. “Someone here then? Excellent.”

Harry looks around. There are plenty of men in the restaurant and none of them seem like ax murderers or serial killers. A few of them catch his eye - one tall, dark haired man laughing over cocktails with his mates in the corner, a slighter guy in a neat pinstripe suit near the door, tie loose and buttons undone. Max lifts a pointer finger and angles it towards the bar.

“Him,” he says, and Harry tries to follow the line of his finger. It seems to be pointing towards a trio of men with beer bottles in their hands, their heads bent together as they talk. One is beach blond, sporty looking, with a cardigan on instead of a suit coat. One has dark hair and eyes, supermodel good looks. He’s got the practiced slouch of someone who knows he looks good, even in his out-of-place denim and tee shirt. The third has honey coloured hair that looks too casually windswept not to be styled, and is smirking around the bar like he’s just gotten away with something naughty. Harry feels something tighten in his chest, and he looks away before he gets caught staring.

“Who?” Simons asks, ducking his head around Harry’s to get a look.

“In the blue shirt. Buttoned up to his neck.”

The naughty looking one, then. Harry feels a smile spread across his face. This could actually be fun. “Done.”

He stands, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and extracting enough money to cover the bill and then some. He tucks it next to Tom’s water glass and leans a hand on his shoulder.

“Simon, good to see you. I imagine I’ll see you next weekend at the Brighton party. Where I will,” and he punctuates this with a squeeze to Tom’s shoulder, “have my new man with me. Gentlemen.”

He gives them another cocky grin and turns on his heel. He has a man to land.

*****

The crowd at Stock isn’t Louis’s usual fare, but Niall had it on good authority that it was fairly easy to pull there once the happy hour drinks settled in. Everyone’s a little too “young professional” for him, even though he’s one himself.

“What about that one?” Zayn tilts his head towards the bar, where a muscular bloke in a navy blazer is trying to get the attention of the barman.

“Too burly,” Louis says around the mouth of his beer bottle, nose wrinkling.

“That one?” Niall asks, pointing discreetly at a brunet with sharply arched eyebrows and a thin mouth. Louis waggles a hand back and forth, shaking his head.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you’re being too bloody picky?”

Louis looks up at Zayn, who takes a pull from his bottle. “Every day of my life.”

Niall knocks his shoulder into Louis’s, a show of solidarity. “Maybe you should do another lap, see if anyone’s come in that catches your eye.”

“Good idea. Stay put, I’ll be back.”

He weaves through the crowd slowly, trying to give people the once over without anyone noticing. It feels a little creepy, but the whole situation is a little creepy if he’s honest. He should pick someone he wouldn’t normally choose, since he’s supposed to drive them away in the end anyway. There’s a guy leaning on the bar that looks a little too cocky for his own good, lounging back on an elbow like he’s posing, looking around the room with disinterest, waiting for people to come to him.

Louis is debating giving him what he wants, because he looks like the kind of wanker that could be taken down a peg, when someone brushes up against his arm.

“Excuse me,” he says, and looks up into a crooked grin and a pair of bright green eyes.

“Totally my fault,” the guy with the eyes says, grin going more crooked. Louis can’t help but smile back, and something zips over his skin, electric, like he’s touched a live wire. “I’m Harry.”

“Harry,” Louis says, and thinks this is him. “I’m Louis.”

Harry holds up his hand for a shake, and Louis slides his fingers against Harry’s palm, slow, like a promise, and lets his lip curl a little further.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says, and holds on a beat longer than Louis expects him to. Flirting comes naturally to Louis, and Harry is more than easy on the eyes, his hair flipped back from his forehead casually, the neck of his shirt open to expose the long corded column of his neck.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Louis says, and Harry presses his lips together, amused.

“You seemed like you were looking for something.”

“Did I? Past tense?”

Harry leans in a little closer, and the hair on the back of Louis’s neck stands up. “Seems like maybe you’ve found it now.”

Louis wants to laugh, the line is a little cheesy, but Harry is backing away again, smiling like he knows it. Louis shakes his head and rolls his eyes instead. “How do you know what I was looking for?”

Harry shrugs, broad shoulders shifting under his close-cut suit coat. “‘Cause it’s the same thing I’m looking for.”

“Oh?” Louis cocks his head, licks his lips because he knows Harry will watch. “What’s that?”

“Someone to,” Harry starts, nearly drawling, and brushes the pads of his fingers over Louis’s bare forearm. “Go to dinner with,” he finishes, pulling away once more. “I’m starving.”

Louis laughs, a little breathless, surprised. That is definitely not what he was expecting. “Dinner,” he says, to buy himself time to regather his thoughts. It’s not everyday that someone throws him for a loop.

“Dinner,” Harry confirms, and smiles again, easy. “You hungry?”

Louis watches him for a moment, weighing his options. Harry’s a bit more suave and good looking than Louis’s been aiming for, but he also seems full enough of himself that he won’t be heartbroken when Louis is basically the worst boyfriend ever. He makes up his mind and grins. “Absolutely famished.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

“Give me a moment, I have to say goodbye to my friends.”

“Sure. I’ll wait by the door.”

Louis pushes back through the crowd to where Niall and Zayn are waiting, craning their necks to watch him approach.

“Found one,” he says, when he gets close enough, and shoves his half-empty beer at Zayn. He takes it with the hand not holding his own.

“Where, where?” Niall asks, and gets on his tiptoes to look around, bracing himself on Zayn’s shoulder.

“By the door, don’t look!”

The both look anyway, and Niall gives a low whistle.

“He’s fit,” Zayn says, nodding appreciatively.

“Yeah, well, he’s also cocky as all get out, but he’ll do. Wish me luck,” Louis says, and they both call ‘good luck’ as Louis weaves his way towards the door.

Harry puts his hand on the small on Louis’s back as they push through onto the pavement, and sidesteps the valet stand, pulling keys out of his pocket. He’s heading towards - really.

“A motorbike?”

Harry looks back over his shoulder, and Louis had somehow missed him donning a leather jacket. It looks unfairly good stretched over the breadth of his back, and Louis can’t help but feel a little jolt of excited anticipation at being pressed up against it, seated behind him on the bike.

“Don’t worry, I have an extra helmet.” He passes it back to Louis and shakes his hair back before pulling his own helmet on, swinging a leg over the bike and kicking up the stand. “You coming?” he asks, and pats the seat behind him.

Louis blows out a breath, hopes his hair stands up to being squashed, and tugs the helmet over his head, fastening the strap under his chin. Harry reaches out to tug the end, tightening it slightly under Louis’s chin.

“Looks good,” Harry says, smirking, and Louis rolls his eyes before climbing on.

The leather of Harry’s jacket is soft and supple where Louis grips his shoulders, and his back is warm and solid underneath it when Louis slides forward on the seat, pressing up against it. His thighs straddle Harry’s, straddling the bike, and Louis can’t help the heat that curls in his belly, especially when Harry revs the motor.

“Ready?” Harry asks, turning his head so Louis can hear him over the motor.

“Ready,” Louis says, and slides his hands down and around Harry’s waist as Harry peels away from the curb.

*****

Contrary to popular belief Harry isn’t that well versed in first dates. He needs to impress Louis right off, and he’s not exactly sure what type of restaurant will do that. He opts for a place he knows is amazing, because it’s near his flat and he frequents it, and hopes that the lack of glam decor and zeroes on the menu don’t detract from its charm.

Louis seems suitably impressed when he looks over the menu, and bickers with Harry over which items to share. Harry lets Louis win in the end, and it’s worth it for the surprised but smug grin he gets in return.

The small talk starts while they wait for the first plates to arrive, and Harry relaxes. Small talk, first impressions, are all things he has to be good at in his line of work. If he thinks of Louis more as part of the work necessary to land a client he should be just fine.

“How is it,” Harry asks, watching Louis swipe naan through the leftover spinach sauce from the lamb saag.

“The food?”

“What else would I be asking about?”

“The date in general,” Louis says, and thumbs sauce from the corner of his mouth. Harry props his elbows up on the table, beer bottle dangling between his hands.

“I guess both then,” he says, and Louis leans back in his chair, considering.

“The food is excellent. The date is going well so far, but you never know.”

“Hey.”

Louis grins. “Answer a question for me.”

Harry’s been answering questions the whole time, and asking a few of his own. They’ve exchanged information on where they’re from, what they do for a living, and basic family details. He wonders what other question he could answer to make or break the date. “Go on then,” he says.

“True or false,” Louis starts, and leans forward, challenging. “All is fair in love and war.”

It’s an odd question, but Harry knows exactly how to answer. If Louis only knew, he thinks, before saying, “True.”

A smile spreads across Louis’s face. “Great answer.”

Harry returns the smile, suddenly excited about the next ten days. “Want to come back to my place?”

Louis doesn’t hesitate when he says, “Sure.”

Louis grips a little tighter when they get back on the bike, and Harry can feel the warmth of him all along his spine. He’s not used to having passengers, but having Louis pressed up behind him as he navigates the few corners in between the restaurant and his flat is rather nice. He does spend a few moments fussing with his hair and grumbling when the helmet first comes off, but it’s good-natured enough that Harry just laughs, reaching out to ruffle it while they take the lift up to Harry’s flat.

“Very nice,” Louis says when Harry opens the door and stands back for Louis to go in. Harry does love his flat - it’s spacious but not too big, and it’s high up in a nice building. It’s kind of sparsely decorated, because he’s been so busy since moving to Manchester, and he’s always loved filling up his living space as he goes instead of all at once. He thinks it’s homier that way, more comfortable. He does have a great sofa, long and sleek and so comfortable it’s hard to stand back up after sitting on it. He waves Louis towards it while he hangs up his jacket and heads for the kitchen.

“Beer?” he calls, and hears Louis settle in, the leather of the sofa creaking just slightly.

“Sure.”

Louis’s sprawled in the corner of the sofa, tucked back against the arm with one foot tucked under his other thigh. He’s smirking slightly, and brushes Harry’s fingers with his own when he reaches out for his beer. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Harry says, and sits in the opposite corner, angling his body towards Louis’s. Now that they’re here he’s not sure why he’d asked Louis back in the first place. This isn’t supposed to be a one-night stand, and they’d exhausted a good amount of getting-to-know-you topics at dinner. Harry drinks his beer and Louis does the same and Harry thinks the silence should be awkward, but it almost feels tense instead.

And then Louis pitches forward across the expanse of leather separating them and kisses Harry square on the mouth.

Harry makes a little noise of surprise at the impact, and kisses back almost instinctively. He’s so shocked by it that he can’t focus on the kiss, on doing all the little things he usually does to make it good, and he’s still scrambling to get his brain back on track when Louis pulls away.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. We really shouldn’t.”

Harry blinks a few times. Maybe the kiss was awful because Harry couldn’t get his shit together and that’s why Louis wanted to stop. Which doesn’t bode well at all for making him stick around for ten days, so Harry reaches out to set his beer on the coffee table and then takes Louis’s face in his hand and gives him a proper kiss.

Louis still pulls back after a few moments, and Harry was just getting started, angling his head to slot their mouths together better, thinking about maybe trying to slip Louis a little tongue. He frowns, and Louis reaches out to brush his fingertips over Harry’s bottom lip.

“I don’t want to go too fast,” he says. Harry nods; he’s right, this is a marathon not a sprint. He’s got ten days, they definitely shouldn’t go too far on the first date.

“You’re right. We should take things a little slower.”

Louis smiles, and scoots a few inches away on the sofa. “Slow is good,” he says.

They finish their beers, and then Louis decides he’s going to call it a night, get a taxi home.

“Are you sure? I could drive you.”

“I think I’ve had enough of your motorbike for one evening,” Louis says, and digs out his phone. “But before I call the taxi,” he says, and holds the phone out for Harry, a blank contact page pulled up on the screen.

Harry enters his information, gives the phone back to Louis, and walks him out, leaning out into the hallway while Louis jabs the button for the lift.

“Good night, Louis,” Harry says, and Louis’s smile is soft, fond, when he turns back to echo the sentiment.

“Good night, Harold,” he says, and steps through the lift doors. Harry gives himself a mental pat on the back as he ducks back into his flat.

So far, so good.

He doesn’t notice the envelope lying on the sofa cushions until the next morning.

*****

“You left the tickets at his flat?”

Niall sounds more horrified at this prospect than he had when Louis had asked if it was alright for him to give his ticket away. He figured since Louis had stepped in for him at the staff meeting giving up one footie match would make them even. But the idea of the tickets not being in Louis’s possession was obviously giving Niall fits.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he found them. Now we wait.”

“For what?” Zayn asks, and as if cued a delivery man appears at the edge of Louis’s cubicle, holding out a box tied with twine.

“Louis Tomlinson?” the man asks, and Louis takes the proffered clipboard. “Sign at the ‘x’.”

He snips the twine with scissors and opens the lid of the box. Nestled inside, surrounded by crinkles of corrugated cardboard, is a large tin of Yorkshire tea. There’s a card on top, which Louis flips open to see a messily scrawled, “I didn’t include any sugar, since you’re already so sweet,” and Harry’s name looped below it.

Niall snatches the card and reads it out loud and Zayn groans.

“He’s in marketing, give him a break.”

“Is this what we were waiting for then? The sign that he found the tickets?” Niall is still anxious about the tickets, and Louis just barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes.

“I’d guess yes, but I suppose I should check.” He thumbs his phone on and taps out a text.

Just got the tea, how lovely of you. He doesn’t add his name because he’s fairly confident Harry hasn’t had tea delivered to multiple men this morning. He’s gratified when his phone rings a few moments later, and it’s Harry’s slow, deep voice on the other end of the line.

“Good morning, Louis,” he says, and Louis mouths ‘Harry’ at Niall and Zayn, who cluster closer to Louis’s chair.

“Good morning. Thank you for the delivery.”

“Thank you for a great date,” Harry says, and Louis gives the boys a thumb up. “You dropped something at my place last night.”

“Oh, did I?” Louis asks, playing up his innocent tone for his audience of two, clapping a hand over his chest and fluttering his eyelashes.

“You did. A pair of tickets, Manchester United, ring a bell?”

“You have them? Thank goodness, I was afraid I’d lost them!”

Niall muffles a laugh with his hand and Zayn mutters, “bloody awful” while Louis flaps his hand at them.

“Worried, were you? Good thing I have them. I suppose you’ll want to pay me back then. By, say, taking me to the match?”

“Oh,” Louis says, drawing it out and making it as remorseful as he can while grinning like a loon. “I already promised to take someone else.”

“That’s just too bad for them, isn’t it,” Harry says, and Louis lets out a laugh. “I think it was fate that you left these tickets in my flat, and we don’t want to tempt fate, now do we?”

Louis has to actually mute his phone for a moment so he can get himself under control, and Niall bends over double, shoulders shaking from the effort to not laugh out loud. Louis unmutes the phone when he’s breathing normal again and says, “I suppose we don’t. Meet me at the ticket office an hour before the match?”

“You got it. See you then.”

Louis hangs up and sets his phone on his desk with a flourish. “Were you taking notes?” he asks, as Niall wipes tears from his eyes and Zayn shakes his head.

“Wouldn’t that be your job, since it’s your story?” Zayn rolls his eyes and goes back to his desk.

“I don’t understand how taking him to the match makes you a bad boyfriend,” Niall says, cheeks still flushed from laughter. “I’d say that makes you a great boyfriend.”

“It’s not taking him to the match that makes me a bad boyfriend, it’s how I’m going to act while we’re there.” Louis opens a document on his computer and pulls the keyboard closer. “Now tell me all the things that would ruin your enjoyment of a football match.”

Niall scoots his chair in next to Louis’s and starts rattling off a list.

Louis starts by arriving late. “You know I love to get to my seat before the action starts, or it makes me antsy,” Niall had said, so Louis plans on getting to the stadium half an hour after he’s supposed to meet Harry, and only responds to Harry’s At the gate. :) text when he’s ten minutes away.

Harry’s pacing amidst the crowd milling near the entrance when Louis finally arrives, and Louis takes a moment to smirk at Harry checking his watch before bounding up to him.

“Hi, sorry I’m late, I just could not get my hair to lay right,” he says, and flicks his fringe with two fingers. Harry’s smile is obviously forced but immediate.

“No problem, we should still have plenty of time to get to our seats before kick-off.” Harry hands over the tickets and then starts striding towards the entrance, long legs carrying him through the crowd. Louis hangs back, more of a stroll, and has to stifle a grin when Harry goes through the turnstile and looks around for him, frowning when he sees Louis so far behind.

“Oh, programs!” Louis crows when he’s finally through, and grabs Harry’s elbow.

Harry handles himself much better than Louis would if their roles were reversed, but he can’t hide his irritation when Louis hums in thought for the fifth time, pinching his chin and surveying the football strips on display. He keeps making suggestions and Louis keeps shooting him down, watching as Harry cranes his neck towards the pitch, trying to see if the match’s started up yet.

They miss kick-off, and Louis smiles brightly when they have to make their whole row stand up so they can shuffle to their seats, Harry’s eyes on the game and not where he’s walking so he bangs his knee into an armrest and hops about a few times before dropping into the folding plastic chair.

“Are you alright?” Louis asks, shoving his arms through his new shirt and patting Harry’s shoulder.

“Fine,” Harry grumbles, then seems to shake himself a little before turning a smile on Louis. “I’m great. Just a bump. I’m kind of clumsy. But what a view, eh?”

He’s clearly trying to be kind to Louis even though he’s irritated. It’s going to be much harder to drive this one away if he’s a sucker, but Louis doesn’t want to push too hard on only the second day. He’s got eight more, after all.

He does wait until a particularly tense moment in the match to make Harry get up and get him a drink, because Niall had said, “I can’t stand when someone makes me miss an important play for something stupid, like getting up to get food or something. Wait until a whistle, mate!” Harry does look grumpy when he edges past Louis towards the aisle, but he still goes.

Louis is still shaking his head when Harry gets back, and lets him watch the end of the game in peace. It’s an amazing match, and Harry’s bouncing on his toes as they file out with the rest of the crowd, high-fiving strangers and beaming at Louis.

“Thanks for bringing me along,” Harry says, and Louis leans up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, teasing.

“Thanks for the drink,” Louis says, and shoves the cup at Harry, backing away with a wiggle of his fingers as Harry’s eyebrows climb his forehead, then turning and merging with the crowd surging toward the car park. He texts Niall as he weaves towards his car.

I think I was adequately annoying, thanks for the tips.

He gets a response as he’s angling into the driver’s seat, so perfectly Niall he has to laugh.

Poor bugger.

*****

“How was the match?” Liam leads Harry through the corridors towards the conference room, handing him neatly typed pages of notes from their last meeting held together with a paper clip. Harry skims them as they walk, and shrugs.

“The match itself was great, except that I missed some of the better moments.”

“Why, is this Louis guy that distracting?”

“You could say that.” Harry stops just outside the room, not wanting Tom and Max to overhear. “He made us miss kick-off because he was late, and then he wanted to buy a shirt.”

It was more than that, but Harry doesn’t know how to explain the weird shifts in demeanor Louis went through during the evening. One second he was cheering along with Harry, sharing grins over great passes and goals, and then he’d flip some sort of switch and tune out the game altogether, hanging on Harry’s elbow and whining about being thirsty. It was like being out with two different people at the same time.

“He seems like a great guy, most of the time. But every now and then he’s almost,” Harry hesitates, not wanting to insult him after only two dates.

“Obnoxious?” Liam offers, and Harry laughs a little, shaking his head.

“It’s not a big deal. Let’s get in there before someone comes looking for us.”

The meeting is not going well, their creative director basically insulting every page of copy and every storyboard the department leads are presenting, and Harry’s tense in his chair, back starting to ache from holding it so stiffly. The phone in the middle of the conference table beeps, and the intercom crackles to life.

“Mr. Higgins, there’s a call for Harry on line two,” the receptionist says, and Paul narrows his eyes first at the phone, then at Harry.

“Can’t it wait?” he asks, and Harry is about to say of course when the receptionist speaks again.

“The caller says no, sir.”

Paul raises his eyebrows and waves at the phone, and Harry says, “Thanks, Lisa,” before pulling the phone towards himself and lifting the handset.

“This is Harry,” he says, and is immediately assaulted with some sort of odd cooing noise that eventually morphs into Louis’s voice.

“Hiya, curly,” he says, and Harry blinks around the table, lifting one hand to his hair. “I miss you.”

“I, uh, I miss you, too,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Max and Tom exchange a startled glance and decides to play it up a little just for them. “I had a great time last night. When can I see you again?”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and then Louis’s voice comes back, higher-pitched than usual and almost cloying. “Oh, Hazza, whenever you want.”

“Tonight? Cinema?”

“My choice?”

“Your choice. Look, I’m in a meeting right now so I can’t talk. You pick the time and place and I’ll be there.”

“I can’t wait,” Louis says, and makes an alarming amount of kissy noises down the phone before hanging up. Harry grins around the table as he replaces the handset in its cradle.

“Sorry about that, everyone.”

Paul picks up right where he left off, berating a storyboard, and Liam claps Harry on the back with a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows. Max and Tom are fuming across the table, and that more than anything makes Harry look forward to his date.

Louis texts Harry a cinema and a time, and Harry shows up promptly, though he definitely thinks about showing up late as payback for the night before. In the end he decides to be on time because he hates missing the trailers, but when he arrives at the cinema he realizes they’re not seeing a new film.

The marquee of the cinema is advertising a “rom-com fest” and Louis has picked a night featuring the best of Hugh Grant. Not that Harry minds a good Hugh Grant film, but he’d been looking forward to something he maybe hadn’t seen before.

The line for tickets is filled with couples, and Louis tucks his arm through Harry’s with a soppy smile, which Harry returns to the best of his ability. He pays for the tickets, and then for a bucket of popcorn and a drink that Louis wants to share, and they settle into seats in the darkening cinema, Louis pressed up against Harry’s side.

It’s nice, when the film starts and Louis goes quiet, and Harry feels bad for the uncharitable thought. Louis is good company, and frankly beautiful with the lights of the screen flickering over his profile, but the same odd Jekyll and Hyde act from the night before is back, and it’s making Harry almost motion sick, trying to keep up.

He’ll just have to focus on the Jekyll parts and let the rest roll off of his back. Maybe then he’ll get a little more enjoyment out of the ten days, and in the end he’ll have his new account, and all will be well.

Louis grins at him, bright and sharp in the dark, when their fingers brush in the popcorn bucket, and Harry grins back. He can do this.

Halfway through the movie, when Hugh is doing his Hugh thing and making up words like “belt-tacular,” making Harry laugh, Louis leans over and whispers in Harry’s ear.

“Do you think Hugh Grant is hot?”

Harry blinks, darting his eyes over to Louis, ignoring the backwards glance of the woman in front of them. He can understand, he hates when people talk during a film. He wonders which answer will end this conversation the fastest. “He’s alright,” he tries, and knows it’s absolutely the wrong thing to say when Louis scoffs next to him.

“You do,” he says, and it’s definitely not a whisper. The people around them start shushing, which seems to make Louis angry. “Like we haven’t all seen this a million times,” he grumbles, and then turns back to Harry. “Do you think he’s hotter than me?”

Harry looks around wildly, making eye contact with the couple in front of him and trying to grimace apologetically at them. Louis must see it, because his voice gets even louder, and almost shrill.

“Are you embarrassed by me?”

The man in front of them turns fully around in his seat, and gives up being polite. “Keep it down, my girlfriend’s never seen this before.”

Louis gets huffy, and starts to gesture, and all of a sudden the popcorn bucket is flying, kernels raining down on the man’s upturned face, butter dripping down his nose. He goes red, enough to be noticeable in the dark of the room, and Harry’s stomach drops.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shoving serviettes at the man, who stands up and glares.

“Outside,” he says, and Harry wants to laugh, because he can’t mean what Harry thinks he means, but Louis stands up right away, hands on hips.

“Please,” he says derisively, and hooks a hand around Harry’s biceps to haul him to his feet. “My boyfriend could kick your ass.”

Harry can’t even think he’s so stunned, and the people in the rows behind them are yelling for them to sit down, and Harry just wants this whole scene to be over with as quickly as possible. He starts making his way out of the row, and Louis’s hand is still clamped around his arm so he’s dragged along behind. Harry realizes the man is following them when they get out into the brightly lit foyer, and turns around, hands up placatingly, trying to be calm and rational.

Next thing he knows he’s laid out flat on the patterned carpet, head in Louis’s lap, cheek stinging.

“Oh god, Harry, oh god,” Louis is saying, and he’s got one hand in Harry’s hair, petting. It feels amazing, soothing the ache that’s spreading through Harry’s head. “Are you okay? Should we take you to A&E? Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, shh, shh,” Harry says, because he just wants it to be quiet, and he wants Louis to keep stroking his scalp, and he wants to just lay there for a minute until the patterns on the carpet stop swirling. “I’ll be alright, just let me lay here.”

Louis goes quiet, still running his fingers through Harry’s hair, and Harry presses his hurt cheek to Louis’s thigh, nuzzling a little. Louis tugs at a curl, and laughs, quiet and soft.

“Are you trying to use getting punched as an excuse to get fresh?”

Harry grins, feeling the burn of the blow right over his cheekbone, and digs into Louis’s skin with his chin. “Maybe.”

“Ugh, get up,” Louis says, but his voice is fond, and he helps Harry to his feet, shaking his head. He reaches out to touch Harry’s face, the tips of his fingers just under where his skin is stinging, and frowns. “I am sorry. Let’s get some ice on that, maybe, get you to bed.”

Harry doesn’t make the joke that’s on the tip of his tongue, because Louis looks contrite, and determined to take care of Harry, and it’s nice enough that Harry doesn’t want to break the moment. He lets Louis drive him home, leaving his bike in the car park nearby, and pack ice into a damp flannel, holding the bundle to Harry’s cheek bone and putting his other hand back in Harry’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and Harry circles his fingers around Louis’s wrist, because he believes him, and he wants Louis to know that it’s okay, because surprisingly, it is.

Louis makes sure Harry’s tucked into bed, and brushes his lips over the bruise Harry can feel forming under his eye. “Sleep tight,” he says, and Harry is so sleepy he can only yawn in response, feeling warm and cared for under his covers, asleep before Louis even leaves the room.

*****

“You got him beaten up?”

Louis takes a bite of his burger, shrugging guiltily. He still feels bad about the whole situation, and is trying to medicate with grease and carbs. “Not beaten up necessarily. Just punched a little.”

“How do you get punched ‘a little’?” Zayn quirks a sardonic eyebrow over his pad thai, chopsticks aloft.

“He was only unconscious for like, a second. Maybe a few seconds. It was kind of cute, actually?”

“Cute?” Niall chimes in, and Louis shrugs again.

“Yeah. Cute. He’s a good looking guy, okay, you said it yourselves.”

Niall and Zayn are giving him matching looks, which Louis chooses to ignore in favor of taking an even larger bite of his burger. Grimmy chooses that moment to swing around the cubicle wall, making everyone jump.

“Louis, I just read through your preliminary notes on the lose a guy piece. Totally sadistic, which obviously means I love them. When are you seeing him next?”

Louis chews frantically, trying to swallow some of the burger in his mouth. Grimmy is tapping his foot, waiting, and Niall’s eyes are nearly bulging out of his head. “Uh,” he says, mouth still full. “Tonight.”

“Great, perfect. What are you doing?”

Louis swallows a few more times, says, “Dinner,” with his cheeks full like a hamster.

“Excellent. Just, um,” Grimmy waves his hand at Louis with a grimace. “Maybe chew with your mouth closed tonight?”

He strolls off, leaving Zayn in fits behind him, Niall nearly choking, and Louis’s face flaming.

“That was the best thing I’ve seen all week,” Zayn says, and Louis peels a chunk of lettuce out of his burger to throw in Zayn’s direction.

“Dinner?” Niall asks, and Louis finishes his mouthful of burger before speaking again.

“At his place. He’s cooking.”

“He still wants to date you after you get him knocked out and he’s cooking you dinner? Sounds like a keeper,” Zayn says, and Louis frowns. Unfortunately he’d been thinking the same thing. There’s no reason why Harry should agree to see Louis again after the way he’d acted the night before, but Louis had still woken up to a message on his answerphone inviting him to dinner, and Louis had to shove down the guilt and tiny lick of shame so he could focus on shaving without nicking himself too badly.

“I know, it doesn’t make sense. I have to step it up.”

Niall gets a gleam in his eye, the same manic Irish mischief that he gets when he’s drunk and wants to cause trouble, and leans forward on his elbows. “You’ll be at his place, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Niall stands up and grabs the fern from its perch, plunking it down in front of Louis. “Here’s what you do.”

Louis arrives at Harry’s flat with his stomach jumping from nerves and a records crate filled with Niall’s suggestions, the fern poking its frilling strands out the top. Harry’s door is unlocked, and Louis shoves inside instead of knocking like he’d normally do, because tonight his mission is to take over Harry’s living space.

“Hello,” Louis calls, and hears clinking from the kitchen.

“Hey, come on in. I’m just finishing up,” Harry calls, and Louis ducks by when Harry’s back is turned, setting his box in the living room where Harry can’t see it and then swinging back around into the kitchen.

“Smells amazing,” Louis says, and takes in the sight of Harry in a long black apron, stirring something on the stove, forehead gleaming with sweat. He grins, and hitches his chin at the bottle of wine decanting on the counter.

“Help yourself, it’ll be a few more minutes.”

Louis can’t resist leaning up on his tiptoes, hand on Harry’s shoulder, to peck his cheek, because he may be forced to make this man’s life a living hell but that doesn’t mean he can’t get a little something out of it, and spins back around feeling smug when Harry blinks slowly and curls a grin at him.

He doesn’t pour himself wine, because he has a job to do.

He starts in the bathroom, sliding a toothbrush into the cup next to the sink that already has one toothbrush (a pink one, leave it to Harry to have a pink toothbrush) in it. The medicine cabinet gets aftershave and a tube of athlete’s foot cream, one of Niall’s top suggestions. “Gotta leave something kind of gross in the cupboard, Lou. Top of the list.”

He has a stack of books for the bedside table - self-help books that he’d bought at the second hand bookshop and gone through to dog ear “pertinent” pages. He tucks a folded up tee shirt of his own under one of the pillows, even though he doesn’t even do that at home.

The coup de grâce is a picture of Louis in a frame with hearts all over it, placed on the end table, and the fern from the office that Niall had dubbed the “love fern.”

“Tell him it’s just like your relationship, yeah? In need of nurturing and care so it will flourish. Make you sound like a complete loon,” he’d said, and Louis feels like a loon when he lifts the fern out of the box just as Harry’s carrying a dish of something out to the dining table.

“What do you have there?” he asks, and Louis can see his eyes flit around the room, from the Finesse magazines he’s spread out on the coffee table, to the stack of CDs and DVDs by the stereo, doing a double take when he sees the picture on the end table, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “You brought over some stuff?”

“I did. And this is the best part,” Louis says, and steps up so close to Harry he’s nearly crushing the fern between their chests, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “This fern represents our relationship, Harry. It’s so small now because it hasn’t gotten much love or care or attention. We have to nurture it so it can really flourish.”

Harry’s eyes go wide as he looks down at the fern and Louis simultaneously wants to laugh in triumph and pack everything back up so he can shove the box out in the hall and pretend it never happened. But he stands his ground, pressing the fern’s pot against Harry’s chest until Harry takes it and sort of pats the leaves.

“A fern,” he says, and makes a face Louis thinks is probably supposed to be a smile but falls a little flat. “I’ll take very good care of it.”

“You better,” Louis says, mock-threatening, and has to turn away then, focusing on the table where there are candles and wine glasses and a steaming dish of something that looks like a roasted chicken. Harry puts the fern on top of a bookshelf and follows Louis to the table, presenting it with a flourish.

“Dinner is served,” he says, and he looks so proud of himself, and Louis takes the whole scene in, Harry’s arm extended over the table and the chicken and the platter of vegetables and weighs his options before letting his face crumple, turning to Harry.

“Oh, Harry,” he says, and wobbles his lip. “I’m a vegetarian.”

*****

Harry dumps a pile of Tupperware containers on Liam’s desk in the morning and gets a set of very highly raised eyebrows in return.

“Lunch,” Harry says, and slouches towards his own desk, dropping into his chair. He hears Liam lifting the lid of the containers and the smell of roast chicken wafts through the office.

“Did either of you eat, this looks like more than leftovers.”

“He’s a vegetarian,” Harry says, and pinches the bridge of his nose as he recalls the disastrous evening before. “We ended up going out. And then he ran to the toilet every few minutes claiming just the sight and smell of the chicken had made his stomach upset. I suggested maybe it was the food he’d ordered at the Indian place we’d gone to and he completely flipped out on me and accused me of calling him fat.”

“What?” Liam comes around Harry’s desk and perches on the edge of it, and Harry looks up at him balefully.

“I feel like I’m dating two different people, Li. It’s the weirdest thing. He can be so great and then so … “

“Not great?”

Harry sighs. “That’s not the end of it. We went back to my place after dinner and he kind of leapt on me and started undressing me and then - “

“I don’t know if I want to hear this.”

“No, no, you really do. Nothing happened because he asked me if ‘the little guy’ could ‘come out to play.’ And he asked in a really weird baby talk kind of voice. Needless to say ‘the little guy’ did not want to play after that.”

Liam presses a fist against his mouth and makes a coughing sound, almost like he’s choking. Harry glares.

“It’s not funny.”

Liam gets himself under control, face red, and lowers his fist. “It kind of is.”

Harry groans and leans back in his chair, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hears the door to the office open, and then someone coos.

“Hi, Hazza.”

Harry sits bolt upright, and Liam jumps to his feet. Louis is standing inside the door in a hideous orange jumper, batting his eyelashes.

“Louis, hi,” he says, and scrambles out of his chair. Louis hadn’t mentioned visiting him at work. He reaches out to give him a hug and kisses his cheek. “I didn’t know you were stopping in.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Louis says, and holds out his hand to Liam.

“Oh yeah, Louis this is Liam. Liam, Louis.”

They shake hands, and Louis says, “Of course, Hazza’s told me all about you.”

“Uh, yeah, he’s told me all about you too,” Liam says, and presses his lips together. Harry glares.

“I brought you something,” Louis says, and Harry notices the strap of a bag over his shoulder. He hefts the bag onto Harry’s desk, and lifts something out of it. It’s an animal, wearing a jumper that matches Louis’s, and it’s bald other than a fluffy tail and some tufts of hair around its face.

“What is that?” Harry asks, as the thing blinks up at him.

“A Chinese crested, silly,” Louis says, and skritches the thing behind its ears. “His name is Spike.”

Spike yips at that, and Harry realizes it’s a dog. An incredibly ugly dog in a vomit coloured jumper. He tries to smile at Louis and ignore Liam choking behind his fist again.

“I brought you something else,” Louis says, and whips another jumper out of his bag, brandishing it at Harry. It’s the same hideous colour as the ones Louis and Spike are wearing.

“Oh. Thanks,” Harry says, and takes the jumper. He’s going to shove it in the bin as soon as Louis leaves. He has no idea what to do with the dog, but he’ll deal with that later.

“Put it on.”

Harry looks to Liam for assistance, but he gestures at the jumper with a wicked grin. “Go on, Harry.”

Harry pulls the jumper on reluctantly, taking a moment as he’s yanking it over his head to close his eyes and breathe deep, and then pasting on a smile for Louis as the fabric settles over his chest.

“Oh Haz,” Louis says, and puts his hands on Harry’s shoulder. “We’re like a happy little family now. You, me, and Spike.” He leans up to kiss Harry’s cheek and Harry gives Liam a terrified look. Liam starts to grin until a streaming sound catches their attention, and they all look down to see Spike pissing on Harry’s desk.

“Shit, shit,” Harry says, and he and Liam grab for papers that are a little too close to the puddle for their comfort, sliding them out of the way. Louis just laughs, and reaches for Spike, lifting him up into his arms..

“He’s not potty trained, yet,” Louis says, and kisses the top of the dog’s head. Harry needs them to leave, and shoots Liam a look.

“Uh, Harry, we should really get back to work. Lots to do before our big meeting.”

“Of course,” Louis says, and holds Spike up to Harry’s face. Harry does not particularly want to be nose-to-nose with the thing that almost ruined his files by peeing on them, but he reaches up to pat the dog anyway. It’s not like it’s Spike’s fault that his owner - owners - are in a fake relationship and that one of them may be a little crazy. He looks happy enough to be patted, and Harry scratches a little behind his ears, fingers brushing his rhinestone encrusted leather collar.

“Very fancy,” Harry says, and Louis shrugs.

“High end accessories for a high end dog,” he says, and pecks Harry on the cheek again, tucking Spike back into his bag and whisking out of the office as quickly as he’d come in.

The phrase sticks with Harry, and he repeats it out loud to Liam, who pinches his chin between his forefinger and thumb.

“You think?” he asks, and Harry points at his drafting board.

“Draw it up.”

Obviously they’d replace the “dog” with “man,” but as a tagline it’s not too shabby.

Simon loves it, when Harry emails him the storyboards Liam drafted. They spend an hour on the phone repeating the phrase, and others similar to it, to each other, and Simon even mentions suggesting to Brighton that they make it the theme of their party. Harry hangs up the phone with a grin.

Louis may be useful for more than wigging Harry out after all.

*****

As the week goes on Louis steps things up another notch. Or, actually, a few notches.

“What in the hell is that?” Niall pokes his head over the cubicle wall and gets a glimpse of Louis’s computer screen. He sounds horrified, and rightfully so.

“That is me and Harry’s family picture.”

There’s a rattle of wheels as Zayn whips around the other side of the desk in his rolling chair. “What did you just say?”

The boys crowd around and peer over Louis’s shoulder. He’s got Photoshop open, and he’s painstakingly blurring the spot where the pasted on head meets the neck of the child in the stock photo. He’d read a quick tutorial on how to composite faces together and taken Harry’s picture from his company’s website, and he now has two of the ugliest children he’s ever seen staring back at him. He cackles.

“Family,” he wheezes, and has to take his hand off the mouse so he doesn’t accidentally blur little Hazza Jr.’s face. “Picture.”

“Oh god.” Niall’s voice is hushed with some sort of unholy glee and Zayn gives an undignified snort.

“If he doesn’t go running for the hills after this, lads.”

Louis makes fake holiday photos, fake birth announcements, and fake school portraits, and puts them all in the cheapest, tackiest album he can find on his lunch break. He takes it over to Harry’s flat after work and brandishes it at him, Vanna White hands and everything.

“Our family album? But Louis,” Harry says, mug of tea halfway to his mouth and Spike yipping around his heels. “We don’t have a family.”

Louis droops into a seat at the table and puts his head in his hands, feigns disappointment while he cheers internally. He’s done it, finally, and while he’d grown accustomed to - if not a little fond of - Harry’s presence the last couple of days he’ll be glad to be rid of this evil twin Louis and just write his damn story. Except he’s not even done fake whimpering when Harry falls into a seat beside him and lays his arm across Louis’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Lou. Show me the pictures.”

Louis boggles at him, but he looks sincere, and even reaches over to flip the album open.

Fuck.

“You’re kidding,” Zayn says, when Louis calls him from the bathroom. “He actually looked at that wretched thing?”

“Each and every photo,” Louis says, voice a stage whisper. He looks a little crazed in the mirror. “He even said he liked the names I picked out. Zayn. I named our daughter Ursula. Like the sea witch!”

Zayn makes a noise of suppressed laughter on the other end, and Louis hisses like a wet cat. “Not funny. Help.”

“Okay, okay.” Zayn hums thoughtfully. “Oh! The tickets!”

“Tickets?”

“Yeah, we got the email about them this morning, remember?”

Louis squints at his reflection and then his eyes pop open wide. “Ohhh. The tickets.”

“Let me call Grimmy and see if they’re still available. I’ll shoot you a text.”

The tickets are still available, and Louis dangles the idea in front of Harry, making it sound like maybe they’d be seeing another football game, until he admits that he doesn’t have to go “into work” and will go along with Louis instead.

Louis beams, and bids Harry a silent farewell. No way he’ll make it through the night.

Celine Dion is making a random post-farewell tour swing through the UK, and when Harry sees the sign over the theatre, Louis dragging him along with a hand in the crook of his elbow, he startles so hard Louis can feel it. He holds back a grin, blinks at Harry in confusion.

“Let’s go, Haz, I want to get us t-shirts before the show starts.”

Louis can’t quite believe it but Harry not only goes along, but he puts on a smile when Louis buys them matching tour shirts, and dons his over his stylish checked button-down, posing for a selfie with Louis with his arm around Louis’s waist. Louis sings along to all the songs he knows, gesticulating as melodramatically as possible, and Harry barely flinches. He even lets Louis snuggle into his side during the song from Titanic, and sways them back and forth.

When the concert is over and they’re streaming out of the theatre Harry says, “Thanks for that,” and Louis begins to panic.

“This is getting fucking serious,” he says to the boys the next day, when they’re all sprawled out in front of their office building, sucking down tea. “He thanked me for a Celine Dion concert. Thanked me. He even slow danced with me to ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ I mean, seriously, what the fuck.”

Niall squints up at the sky, taps his fingers against his chin. “And you’re being clingy?”

“Yes. Clingy, needy, whiny; for fuck’s sake I fake-cried when he didn’t want to look at the family album at first.”

“Talk about your exes,” Zayn suggests, and then holds up a finger. “Including sex details.”

Louis cringes, “I guess I could try that. I just don’t know if that’s worse than making up children and a Celine Dion concert.”

“Nothing is worse than that, mate,” Niall says, and Louis sighs.

“Well, we have until tomorrow to come up with something that is.”

“Wait, why tomorrow? Aren’t you seeing him tonight?” Zayn asks, and Louis shakes his head.

“Boys’ night, I guess.”

“Boys’ night,” Zayn repeats, narrowing his eyes.

“That’s what I said, yeah.”

“He doesn’t get a boys’ night. Not anymore.”

Louis’s eyes go wide, a grin spreading across his face as realization dawns. “Of course he doesn’t.”

“You’re going to crash his boys’ night?” Niall asks, and laughs when Louis nods. “Yeah, that should do it.”

Louis can only hope.

*****

Liam had invited Harry along on boys’ night the second week he was in Manchester, and he’d been going along ever since. A few of the guys aren’t really Harry’s type - a little too laddy, if you ask him - but they’re good enough for a couple of pints and a laugh, anyway, and the rest of the group is just fine.

They either meet at a pub or someone’s house, and this time Harry is hosting, because it’s his turn, and he’s got a case of good dark beer and a stack of menus for ordering in, and there’s footie on the television. They’re good to go.

There’s a raucous discussion about which goalkeeper is better breaking out, and Harry leans back in his corner of the sofa, sipping his beer and grinning while the guys banter back and forth. He doesn’t hear the click of a key in the front door lock, but he does hear when the door swings open and Louis calls out, and his mouth drops open in shock.

“Hello!”

A few heads, Liam’s included, swivel towards the door, where Louis is leading Spike in, arms laden with bags. He shimmies his key - his key, how’d he get that - out of the lock and kicks the door closed. Liam shoots Harry a look, so alarmed it’s almost comical, and Harry shoves up off the sofa.

“Louis,” Harry says, half-greeting, half-question, as he rounds the corner into the kitchen, where Louis is unclipping Spike’s lead from his collar. The dog trots over to Harry and sniffs around his bare feet, yapping a couple of times until Harry bends down to pick him up. “You have a key?”

“Oh yeah,” Louis says airily, and waves a hand in the air. “I had the building manager make me one. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

Harry cocks his head. He thinks dropping in uninvited with a suspiciously attained key is dancing pretty close to disturbing. Louis obviously doesn’t think so, listing out a tray of something from his bag, and then a six pack of something so pale it could be water with a little yellow food coloring in it, the word LIGHT bold across the packaging. Louis sees Harry eyeing it up, and raises pointed eyebrows at his pint.

“Less calories than that swill,” he says, and Harry cradles his glass to his bosom. Spike gives it an experimental sniff and decides he agrees with Louis, craning his fuzzy face away.

“So you’re going to … “ Harry trails off, and Louis lifts a bottle from the six-pack, tucks the rest away in Harry’s fridge.

“Hang out,” Louis finishes, and pops the top of his “beer.” He pumps a fist in the air and grins at Harry, a little manic. It’s almost scary. “Boys’ night,” he crows, and then sidesteps Harry, heading towards the living room. Harry trails after him, Spike squirming in his arms.

“I’m Louis,” Louis proclaims, leaning over the back of the sofa and sticking his hand in Andy’s face. Andy takes it and shakes, and Liam shoots Harry another look. Harry shrugs, and finishes the introductions.

“And you know Liam,” Harry says, and Louis grins, perches next to Liam on the sofa and holds out his bottle, clinks it against Liam’s glass.

“Of course. Are you sure you don’t want something lighter?” Louis eyeballs Liam’s middle, and Liam sits up straighter. Liam is one of the most fit people Harry knows, and he’s affronted on his behalf.

“Uh, no, I’m good,” he says, and glowers at Harry.

“We were just talking about the goalkeeping in this match,” Harry says, because he needs to direct Louis’s attention elsewhere and he knows Louis likes footie. Louis whips his head around, opens his mouth like he’s going to chime in, and then his eyes focus on something over Harry’s shoulder and his mouth pinches closed.

“Harry,” he says, and stands up, eyes like laser beams and a grimace on his face. He stalks past Harry, and Harry shares a look of utter panic with Liam before doing a 180 on his heel to follow Louis’s path. He’s reaching up to the top of Harry’s bookcase, hands like claws -

Oh shit.

“Our love fern,” Louis says, scandalised and clutching the pot to his chest. The fern droops sadly, accusingly almost, and Harry scrambles for something to say. “It’s dying, Harry.”

Louis’s lip does an alarming wobble, even as his eyes flash angrily. He moves toward Harry, brandishing the fern like a sword. Harry takes a step back, and holds up a hand.

“You’re letting our love fern die. Is that what you’re going to do to our relationship? Let it die?”

The room has gone so quiet Harry can hear his heart thumping in alarm. He’s not sure how to answer that. He’s been near speechless since Louis let himself into the flat. In all honesty he’d forgotten all about the blasted fern, and he does feel bad that a poor, defenceless plant is being punished for the nonsense that has been his week. He reaches out to pet a frond consolingly, but Louis snatches the pot away.

“Nothing to say, I see. Fine. I’m out of here, and I’m taking this love fern with me.” He stomps off, leaving his light beer, Spike wriggling in Harry’s arms. Harry’s mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out, and he’s staring wide-eyed at an equally shocked Liam when the door reopens and then slams shut.

“What the hell?” someone asks, and Harry can’t help but feel that sentiment down to his bones.

“Well,” he says, voice scratchy, and he takes a long gulp of his beer. Spike barks, and Harry lets him down. He runs straight to the door and paws it, whimpers a little. “I guess that’s that.”

Liam pops up, grabs Harry by the biceps. “Absolutely not. We’re not losing this account because you have a black thumb. You only have a few days left, Harry. Get him back.”

“Get him back, Liam, did you see what just happened? How am I supposed to get him back?”

Liam chews his lip, eyebrows drawn into a low shelf over his eyes. One of the guys pipes up from over Liam’s shoulder.

“Couples’ counseling.”

Liam’s eyes go wide and he gives Harry a shake. “Yes! Excellent. Couples’ counseling.”

“Couples’ counseling?” Harry echoes, unsure. The guy who suggested it nods, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, sheepish.

“Every time my wife starts talking about leaving me it’s the first thing I suggest. Works like a charm.”

Liam gives Harry another shake. “Couples’ counseling, Harry. It’s worth a try.”

“Fuck.” Harry swipes a hand over his eyes, steeling himself. He wants this account more than anything, and if he has to sit through couples’ counseling to get it - “Alright,” he says, and straightens his shoulders. “Couples’ counseling. Wish me luck.”

He dashes out the door and towards the stairs, leaving a yipping Spike behind him. He takes them two at a time, bouncing down, hoping he’ll beat the lift. Louis is halfway down the road, fern cradled in his arms, when Harry hits the pavement.

“Louis!” he calls, and Louis whips around so fast his hair swings in front of his eyes. Harry runs up to him, panting, bends over to put his hands on his knees. “I’m so sorry, Lou. I didn’t mean to let the fern die, I’m just terrible with plants. Please forgive me?”

“What?” Louis asks, voice weirdly faint. When Harry looks up at him he’s staring like Harry sprouted a fern from the top of his head. “Are you kidding?”

“No, look, I feel really bad about the fern, and about us, and I just want to make things right.”

“Stand up,” Louis says, and Harry straightens, chest still heaving a little. Louis’s face is almost pitying, before he rearranges it into a stony glare. He hugs the fern’s pot a little tighter. “What are you doing, Harry?”

“I’m asking for your forgiveness. I’m asking for another chance. I’m suggesting - “ he swallows, and spreads his hands. “Couples’ counseling.”

Louis’s head actually jerks back in surprise, but his eyes narrow, calculating. “Couples’ counseling.”

“Yes. Please, Louis. I’ll do anything.” Harry doesn’t grimace, but it’s a near thing.

“I think that’s a great idea, Hazza. I even know a therapist that might be able to help you.”

Harry breathes out heavily through his nose, irritated at the implication, but nods anyway. “Yes, please.”

Louis nods, and then tilts his head. “Kiss please.”

Harry swoops forward, pecks his cheek. “Thank you, Louis.”

Louis gives him a once over, haughty, and then hefts the fern higher against his chest. “I’ll call you tomorrow with the details.” And then he spins around and nearly flounces off.

Harry grits his teeth and goes back up to his flat. He needs so much beer.

*****

“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?” Zayn has his eyebrows raised so far they’re almost blending in with his hairline, and Louis puts on his best pleading face. Puppy dog eyes and everything. But Zayn’s a cold, heartless bastard and he laughs, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

“I’ll do it,” Niall pipes up, poking his head around into Louis’s cubicle.

“You will?”

“I’m going to charge, though.” He waggles his eyebrows and Louis can’t help but laugh.

“Oh, please do.”

Louis doesn’t know if he has that much faith in Niall’s acting ability, but Niall’s just mischievous enough to pull it off. He still wants to explode laughing when he knocks on Niall’s door later that day, Harry slumping next to him in his stylish work clothes and shiny shoes, and Niall is on the other side in a weird linen looking shirt and giant glasses.

“You must be Louis. And Harry. Welcome,” he says, in a weird toneless voice, fake British accent sounding posh and nasal. Louis presses his lips together to hide a grin, and Niall’s eyes nearly twinkle as he waves them into the flat.

He’s hidden everything personal in the living room, framed football shirts taken down and candles everywhere. Louis is impressed as hell. There’s a straight backed chair at the end of the coffee table, diagonal to the sofa, and Niall perches in it. He’s wearing khaki trousers. He’s barefoot. Louis feels a little hysterical.

“Please have a seat,” Niall says, weird new voice strangely soothing, and Louis and Harry obey. Louis shifts until their thighs are pressed together, and widens his eyes at Niall. “Before we begin, we unfortunately must discuss payment.”

Louis nods, and looks at Harry. Harry just blinks back. “Payment,” Louis prompts, and Harry squints.

“I’m paying,” he says, not a question, resigned to his fate. “I don’t carry cheques, or much cash.”

Niall nods. “I take credit cards,” he says, and Louis’s head jerks up.

“You do?”

“I do. It’ll be £200 for the hour.”

Niall lifts his phone from the coffee table, taps at it, and then enters Harry’s credit card number when he passes it over. Louis is so beyond impressed. Niall must’ve downloaded some app. He’s going to buy Niall so many beers. Or maybe just one, since Niall is now £200 richer.

“Now. What brings you here?”

Louis looks to Harry, because he’d love to hear what Harry’s answer to that one is. Harry looks around, alarmed, and then stutters. “Erm, I think it’s because I let a plant die?”

Niall tilts his head, but makes a note on the pad of paper in his lap. “You don’t sound so sure, Harry.”

Harry looks to Louis, who shakes his head. “It was your suggestion, you answer the man.”

“Louis, you sound hostile,” Niall says, and Louis glares. Harry mutters something under his breath. “I’m sorry, Harry, what was that?”

“I just said that he does that a lot.”

“I’m sorry, I do what a lot?” Louis turns his glare on Harry. He’s getting into it now.

“Sound hostile.”

“Hostile?” Louis says, raising his voice shrilly. Here we go. “I’m hostile? Well how can I not be hostile when you’re so dismissive?”

“Dismissive?” Harry asks, and he looks so insulted Louis wants to high five himself.

“Do you hear how dismissive he is?” Louis asks Niall, who is nearly vibrating with silent laughter at this point, his face schooled in a totally serene expression.

“Let’s calm it down, please. This is a safe space. Harry, Louis has expressed some concern that you’re dismissive of him. What would you like to say to that?”

Harry seems to be gathering himself, a line of tension down his side where Louis’s pressed against him. “I would like to say that that’s not true.”

“Oh come on,” Louis explodes, totally in his part now, but Niall settles them down again. Louis is going to ask him where he got all this touchy-feely mumbo jumbo from as soon as he gets into work tomorrow.

“Please, gentlemen, let’s not get angry. Use your words. Harry, whether you believe it’s true or not Louis feels that way, and we have to address that.”

“I know why he’s dismissive, he’s ashamed of me,” Louis blurts, latching onto an argument he’s heard from friends in shitty relationships. Not that he’d blame Harry if it were true, Louis has treated him awful enough to warrant a little shame.

“Oh no,” Niall says, poking a finger at his glasses and looking distressed. Harry flings up his hands.

“That’s not true.”

“He doesn’t want me to meet his family,” Louis says, and pouts. It’s something else he’s heard from friends. He’s making a list in his head of other complaints he’s heard, ready to throw them out there as soon as Harry protests something.

“Harry, do you want Louis to meet your family?”

Louis feels a clutch of panic in his chest. Niall smiles sweetly, and Louis clenches his fists on his knees. He nearly topples over from surprise when Harry says, “If that’s what he wants then I’d love for him to meet my family. We can drive down to Holmes Chapel tomorrow, stay the weekend.”

“I … what?”

“That sounds magical,” Niall says, his accent almost slipping, voice wobbling slightly. He presses his lips together and Louis takes back the beer he’d been thinking of buying Niall. He’s going to make Niall buy him a beer instead. Or better, a ridiculously expensive meal and a couple of fancy cocktails. A weekend with Harry’s family, what is he thinking?

“Magical,” Louis grits out, and Harry sighs next to him.

“If that’s all it takes,” he says, almost to himself, and Louis uncurls his fingers, flattens a palm to Harry’s thigh.

“It’s a start,” he simpers, and Harry makes a face between a smile and a grimace.

“Good, this is good. Progress already. Now, let’s talk about sex.”

Niall eyes are definitely twinkling now, and Louis is absolutely going to smack him tomorrow.

*****

Harry gives his family about twelve hours notice, and his mum almost cries down the phone.

“A boyfriend? Harry!”

“Come on, Mum, it’s not that big a deal.” Harry scratches at his chin, feeling like a child again. He thinks that’s probably normal, one’s mother making them feel young. Something about the tone of her voice, maybe.

“Harry, you haven’t brought a significant other home since your sixth form girlfriend, and that was only because I was driving you to the cinema.” Harry’s mother tuts on the other end of the line, fond, and Harry feels pleased and guilty all at the same time. First person he’s bringing home to meet her and it’s a sham. He’s just never felt strongly enough about someone to take them home. And he doesn’t about Louis, either. How could he? It’s a relationship built on a bet, basically, and now he’s bringing him home to his mother.

He focuses on the account, on the doors it’ll open and the future it’ll make available, and blocks the guilt as best he can.

“Don’t get too excited, please. We haven’t even been seeing each other that long, it’s not serious, he just,” Harry falters, unsure of what to say. “He just wants to meet you, and I didn’t say no.”

His mother hums, unconvinced. “We’ll see you tonight. I’ll make dinner. Shall I invite anyone else?”

“No,” Harry all but yells, and Liam glances up from his desk, eyebrows raised. He lowers his voice. “No, please. Just you and Robin and Gemma will be fine. And don’t go to too much trouble? Please?”

“Of course not, sweetheart. Okay, we’ll see you later then.” She’s already distracted, most likely planning something lavish and embarrassing, and Harry makes kiss noises down the phone and hangs up, puts his head in his hands.

“Is she planning the engagement party?” Liam asks, grim but still teasing. Harry groans.

Harry picks Louis up on the bike, small overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Louis grimaces, looks down at his own bag. “We’re taking the bike?”

“It’s not even an hour drive, and your bag isn’t that big,” Harry says in reply, and Louis rolls his eyes, slings the strap over his shoulder, and takes the helmet Harry holds out to him.

“You’re lucky I think this thing is kind of hot,” Louis grumbles as he climbs on, thighs sliding next to Harry’s, and Harry feels a little spark of something low in his gut, not for the first time that week. The spark multiplies when Louis’s hands press against Harry’s stomach, and his chest rumbles against Harry’s back when he says, “Let’s get this show on the road, Haz. Literally.”

Harry’s only been home once since moving to Manchester, and he’d taken the train, so he had to map out driving directions at his desk that morning. He chooses the route with the least possible traffic and best possible scenery, and zones out on the open road with the bike throbbing under him and Louis warm against his back. It’s nice, it’s lovely actually, and Harry wishes they could just keep going, avoid the awkwardness that he’s sure the weekend will bring.

They arrive eventually, even with Harry slowing down through the countryside to drink in the views, and Harry climbs off the bike with a growing feeling of dread, just as the front door to the house swings open.

It’s his mother, because of course it is, and she’s waving as she comes down the front steps, cuts across the lawn.

“Hello, darling!” she calls out, and then pulls Harry into a hug as soon as her arms can reach him. He hugs her back, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and feels suddenly calm, settled. Home. He steps back and puts his hand on Louis’s shoulder, gives him an encouraging smile.

“Mum, this is Louis. Louis, this is my mum.”

“Anne,” she says, and wraps Louis in a hug as well. Louis’s eyes are wide over her shoulder, but he hugs back. Harry doesn’t know what he was so worried about.

He remembers at dinner, with Gemma’s eyes gleaming across the table as she kicks Harry’s shin and leans toward Louis.

“So,” she says, and Harry wants to launch himself across the platter of vegetables to clap his hand over her mouth. “You’re the first guy Harry’s brought home, you know.”

Louis almost chokes on his mouthful of food, hand scrabbling at his water glass until he can get it to his lips and take a long swallow. He coughs into his fist and doesn’t meet Harry’s gaze, blinking rapidly at Gemma and making a squeaky, “Oh?”

“Mm-hm,” she says, purring like their cat when she’s being rubbed behind the ears. Harry’s cheeks are burning, and he’s trying to find her ankle under the table but she’s pulled her feet up under her knees on her chair. She puts her chin in her hand. “Must be pretty special,” she says, and Harry shoves his chair back, stands up.

“I’m going to get some more wine,” he says, and grabs the empty bottle from the table. He holds it by the neck, trying to look menacing, but Gemma just swivels her head to smile up at him, sweetly.

He hustles from the room so he doesn’t have to hear what Louis says. He just hopes Louis didn’t pack his Photoshopped horror of a family album. Gemma would never let him live it down. His mum might cry. It’d be a nightmare all around.

He pours himself the first glass of wine, and downs it almost in one go.

Back at the table, Gemma is laughing, head thrown back, and Louis is grinning smugly. He looks back at the kitchen doorway to see if it’s turned into some kind of portal to another dimension, because the atmosphere around the table is so different from when he left he’s sure he’s in some kind of parallel universe.

“Wine, Harry?” his mother says, and tilts her empty glass towards him. He refills it, and then goes around the table. When he gets to Louis he’s still smiling, softer now, and looks up at Harry through his eyelashes. His face is more open than Harry’s seen it all week, maybe since that first night at the restaurant, and Harry wants to lean down and kiss him. It’s an urge he’s felt before, but not often, and it catches him off guard, makes him splash a little wine onto the tablecloth.

His mother waves her hand at the other end of the table, eyes fixed on Harry, looking like she’s puzzling something out. He hates that look. “No worries, darling. It washes.”

He sets the bottle down and focuses on his plate, lets the talk go on around him. But when he glances up he catches Louis watching him, and can’t help the flush that spreads across his cheeks.

They’re meant to be sleeping in Harry’s old room, now a guestroom with a double bed and a quilt his grandmother made. They haven’t shared a bed yet, and Harry feels odd about doing so in his mother’s house, with his not-actual boyfriend. He drags an extra blanket down out of the cupboard, spreads it on the floor, and ignores the odd look in Louis’s eyes when he settles down on it.

It takes him forever to fall asleep.

*****

Harry’s family is completely lovely.

Louis doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t to have an amazing time. The house is warm and lived-in and homey in a way that makes him think of his own childhood home, and Harry’s mum hugs him like he’s already part of the family. It makes his chest ache a little when she puts her arms around him while she’s at the stove in the morning making them breakfast, giving him a squeeze before she turns back to her pan of bacon, and he sits at the table with a mug of tea, Gemma yawning next to him, Harry barefoot in his flannel pyjama bottoms across the table, reading the newspaper.

Who reads the newspaper anymore anyway? It makes Louis smile, tea-scented steam drifting under his nose, Anne’s pan sizzling on the stove.

Another thing he hadn’t expected was the disappointment he felt when Harry spread out on the floor the night before. Sleeping arrangements hadn’t even crossed his mind, but when they were in the room with the door closed and Harry was changed into the softest looking pair of pyjama bottoms Louis had ever laid eyes on, he suddenly wanted to be laid out alongside him in the bed, underneath the obviously handmade quilt, with his family sleeping just across the landing. It was ridiculous, Louis knew, when he was trying to drive the guy away to want to get closer to him, but he couldn’t help it.

Thankfully Harry had chosen the floor, and while Louis had to fight off the let down of it, squeezing his eyes closed as he willed himself to sleep, he figured he was better off.

“What are you two lads up to today?” Anne asks, breaking Louis out of his thoughts as she slides a plate in front of him. He beams up at her in thanks, and digs in.

“Bike ride through village, maybe,” Harry says, snapping the paper and folding it, laying it next to his own plate. He pecks his mother on the cheek as she’s leaned over him, and she startles, laughing a tinkling laugh and swatting his curls affectionately. Louis watches, the way they all move around each other so easily, the little touches and smiles of familiarity, of family, and feels warm all over.

“Show him the sights?” Gemma asks, sarcasm evident in her voice, and Harry grins, indulgent.

“Exactly. All the grandeur of the good ol’ HC,” he quips, and Anne frowns, chiding, but it’s still obviously fond, and Harry laughs. “Maybe a stop at the bakery. Barbara always loves when I visit. I worked there, in school,” Harry tacks on, for Louis’s benefit, and Louis hums around his bacon.

The bakery is small, quaint, and Louis is thoroughly charmed. There’s an elderly couple sharing a croissant at the small table in the window, and a round lady behind the till that positively lights up when Harry pushes open the door, bell chiming above.

“Harry,” she cries, and rounds the counter for a hug, kissing both of his cheeks twice and pressing his face between her pudgy hands. “You look scrawny, love, would you like a muffin?”

Louis laughs, delighted. Harry isn’t scrawny, not that Louis can tell, he’s so broad shouldered. He’s lean, if anything, and he scoffs at Barbara, waves a hand, but accepts two big, golden muffins from her anyway.

“Barbara, this is Louis,” he says, and peels a chunk off his muffin, stuffing it in his mouth. Louis holds his own muffin in one hand and offers his other to Barbara, who ignores it in favor of swooping in and leaning up to kiss his cheeks.

“He’s a looker, eh,” she says to Harry, who grins with crumbs in the corner of his mouth, and Louis blushes, ducking his head. “Good on you, Harry.”

They eat their muffins - banana nut, moist and dense and ridiculously delicious - while Barbara and Harry chat, and Louis stands just behind Harry’s shoulder, basking in their easy banter. Harry leans back slightly, nudges them closer together, and on a whim Louis slides his hand into the crook of Harry’s elbow, presses his fingers into the thin skin there.

“We should be off,” Harry says, and squeezes his arm against his side, trapping Louis’s knuckles against his ribs. “Showing Louis the sights.”

Barbara titters and waves them off, a bag with more pastries in it clutched in Harry’s hand, and Harry keeps Louis’s fingers trapped against his body as they maneuver out the door.

“Teach me how to ride,” Louis says as Harry’s strapping on his helmet, because he wants to learn but mostly because he wants nothing more right now than to have Harry pressed up behind him, ill-advised or not. Harry tilts his head, chews his lip, then grins.

Louis nearly drops the damned bike twice until he gets the hang of it, because Harry is a distracting line of warmth against his back, chin hooked over Louis’s shoulder as he reaches forward to show Louis the throttle, the clutch, the breaks. His breath is warm and smells like tea and muffin when it gusts across Louis’s cheek, and Louis misses half of Harry’s explanation in the feel of his big hands pressing over Louis’s own smaller ones against the handles of the bike.

He focuses eventually, figures out how to twist with just enough force to get the bike to lurch forward, and soon he’s careening down the little winding roads of the village, Harry hanging on to his waist and hollering directions in his ear. It’s like flying, almost, but with a huge rumbling engine underneath you, and it’s the most exhilarated Louis has felt in a long time.

They pull over eventually to explore the treats they’d taken from the bakery, and Harry tears a croissant in two, offers one half to Louis. They peel flakes of dough and nibble on them as cars and lorries trounce past them, bouncing through potholes filled with rainwater from that morning, splashing their feet.

One particularly big lorry roars down the lane, and the water arcs up from the pothole nearest them, spraying them up to their foreheads in muddy water. Louis yelps, and almost tips backwards off the bike seat, and Harry laughs so hard he has to double over and put his palms on his soaking wet knees.

“This would never happen if we were in a proper car,” Louis grouses, plucking at his shirt where it’s sticking to his chest. Harry’s hair is matted down on one side, curls dripping over his ear, but his smile is blinding.

“I know,” he says, and Louis grins back. “Let’s get home and change.”

“And shower,” Louis says, feeling his own wet hair, and Harry nods, eyes crinkling, reaching for his helmet.

*****

“Now, this shower’s a little cranky,” Harry says, as Louis settles on the closed lid of the toilet. Harry’s used to the house’s quirky plumbing, but guests have scalded themselves before and he’d like Louis to remain relatively unscathed. “You have to turn the handle a millimeter at a time because the temperature will go from freezing to boiling before you notice … “ He trails off, watching Louis pick at the hem of his shirt, a frown on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Louis says, but his face says differently. “It’s just this house.”

Harry draws in his eyebrows, props his hands on his hips. It’s not a mansion by any means but he loves this house. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing!” Louis says, and tips his head up so Harry can see he’s sincere. “I love it. It reminds me of my home. In Doncaster. It’s,” he shrugs, and glances away. “It’s so warm.”

Harry drops his hands. “It is.” He’s pleased Louis thinks so, but confused as to why that would make Louis look so sad. “Is that a bad thing? Are you homesick?”

“No. Maybe? I don’t know. Just, your mum, she,” Louis swallows, seems to search for words. “She really hugged me, Harry. Like she hugs you, and Gemma. Like I belong here.”

That lodges in Harry’s ribs, tight up against his heart. He drops down in front of Louis and puts his hands on Louis’s knees. “Isn’t that a good thing?” he asks, and for the first time all weekend he thinks maybe it is. He’s been glad to have Louis here. He’s had a good time with Louis. And here, drinking tea at his mother’s table, licking pastry crumbs off their fingers and grinning at each other on the side of the road, here Louis is perfect. Louis is warm, and funny, and beautiful, even when he’s drenched in muddy rainwater.

“It is.” Louis nods, like he’s convincing himself. “It is. It’s just unexpected.”

Harry lifts one hand to Louis’s face, uses his fingertips to brush his wet fringe off his forehead. “Did you think she’d hate you?”

“No,” Louis says, and his eyes are so blue when they meet Harry’s. His mouth is soft, not frowning anymore, and so close. “I just didn’t think I’d care so much if she did.”

Harry doesn’t think, about that or the implications, about the myriad reasons not to, he just leans forward and presses his mouth to Louis’s. Louis seems surprised by it, and Harry can’t blame him, but the little gasp he makes when their lips brush makes Harry want more.

He pulls back anyway, opens his eyes to scan Louis’s face. His eyebrows are drawn together, eyes skipping over Harry’s face. Harry’s about to lean back, stand up, when Louis moves forward, bumps his nose against Harry’s, seals their mouths together again.

It’s still short, testing, and then Louis pulls back to search Harry’s face. He must see something there, how much Harry wants in that moment, and then he’s lifting his arms, straightening them up over his head, mouth going crooked in a grin.

Harry gets the hint, gathers the wet material of Louis’s shirt in his fists, and gets to his feet, tugging until the shirt comes away. He drops it behind him, on the bathmat, and looks down at Louis, lifting his own arms.

Louis skims his hands under Harry’s own wet shirt, palms skidding over the damp skin underneath, making Harry’s skin prick with bumps all over. The neckline catches under his chin, and Louis is just short enough that he can’t quite free it, and they laugh a little, breathless already, as Harry ducks his head to free it. He kisses Louis’s smile and gathers him up, lifting him onto his tiptoes to get their chests pressed together, and Louis doesn’t stop grinning, just lets Harry’s mouth roam over his lips and his teeth and his cheeks while Louis reaches down to fumble with the buttons on Harry’s jeans.

Harry can’t stop kissing him, even as they march in place, shimmying their jeans off, hands shoving at waistbands of boxer briefs, half-laughing at each other as their mouths slide together. It’s not what he thought kissing Louis would be like, it’s so much better, feeling like there’s not enough oxygen in the little bathroom for both of them, bare skin sticking where it’s still damp, Louis’s muddy hair between Harry’s fingers.

Harry gets one hand around the curve of Louis’s hip, draws him forward as Harry moves back towards the shower. “Just,” he says, pressing the word to the corner of Louis’s mouth. “Just let me,” he says, and fumbles behind himself for the tap.

The water blasts cold, raining down over his arm where he’s twisted into the shower, and Louis is still grinning, teeth against Harry’s jaw, not even kissing, just moving his mouth over Harry’s skin. Harry laughs more, still breathless, and nudges at the tap, waits until the water is just the right temperature, and then nearly topples them both into the bath, under the spray.

Louis touches his tongue to Harry’s mouth as Harry’s hair drips over his face, and it’s like he’s on fire suddenly, flashing white-hot under the barely warm water. Harry’s hands slip down the planes of Louis’s back to the swell of his arse, and he lifts him up easily, presses him back against the wall.

Louis hisses, and arches toward Harry. “‘S a little cold,” he says, and Harry uses the movement to his advantage, fastens his mouth under Louis’s jaw, tongue sliding down the wet column of his throat. Louis’s cock bobs against Harry’s stomach, and Harry gets his hand around it, tightens his fingers and jerks slowly, up with a twist and then down, rubbing his thumb just under the crown of it.

“God,” Louis groans, thighs trembling where they’re wound around Harry’s waist. Harry’s own erection is slipping in and out of the crack of Louis’s arse as he circles his hips, working Louis in the same rhythm, biting across the sharp ridge of his collarbones.

Louis comes first, gasping, fingers clenched over Harry’s shoulders with Harry’s tongue in his mouth, and Harry follows close behind.

They soap each other up with their legs shaking, still smiling against each others’ mouths, and stand under the spray chest to chest until the water starts to go cold.

*****

Louis gets sadder the closer they get to Manchester. And not just because the traffic gets thicker.

They’d toweled each other off after their shower the day before and then dressed in clean clothes, grinning dopily at each other on the sofa while the television played in the background until Harry’s mum and sister came home laden with shopping, and then they’d all made dinner together. It was the nicest evening, capped off with Harry climbing into bed with him and sliding his mouth down Louis’s body to give him the blowjob of his life, then biting his knuckles red while Louis reciprocated.

They’d woken up that morning spooned together, Harry’s chest warm against Louis’s back, his mouth already open over the top knob of Louis’s spine, breath hot and tongue slick against his skin.

Louis had teared up saying goodbye to Harry’s family after breakfast, and Anne’s smile was watery when she pecked his cheek.

“We better see you soon,” she’d said, and Louis had smiled, thumbed under his eyes, and nodded meekly.

It’s day ten. The Brighton party is that night. Harry’d asked Louis to go, and he’s got his suit all picked out. He’ll be a holy terror, figure out some way to drive Harry away before the champagne stops flowing, and they’ll be finished by midnight.

His story is due by the end of tomorrow’s work day. He wants to cry as Harry pulls the bike up in front of Louis’s building. He tightens his arms around Harry’s waist, wildly contemplates asking him to turn around, go back. Maybe they can relive the weekend, forget their jobs. Harry could work at the bakery. Louis could help Anne in the garden. They could live in Harry’s old bedroom, leave the door open a crack at night so the cat can climb in bed with them.

Louis pries his fingers apart and slides off the bike seat.

“I’ll pick you up at seven, yeah?” Harry says, lifting his helmet off. Louis reaches out to run his fingers through Harry’s hair, fluffing it up in front where the helmet had matted it down. Harry tilts into Louis’s palm, smiles a soft smile that stabs Louis right in the heart.

“Yeah,” he says, and forces a smile back. He tugs a little sharply at the curls in his hand and then draws away. Harry blows him a ridiculously dramatic kiss before he pulls his helmet back on, waiting until Louis’s turned towards his building to roar away.

Louis is going to fling himself on his bed and mope, maybe let himself cry, until he has to get dressed.

He waits on the pavement at 6:55PM, hoping against hope that Harry doesn’t pull up on his motorbike. He doesn’t, instead climbing out of a sleek towncar that purrs to a stop at the kerb. He’s devastating in a black tux, hair swept up from his forehead, and Louis can’t breathe looking at him. His own grey three piece suit seems shabby in comparison, even if his tie is a color that makes his eyes pop.

Harry stands for a moment on the pavement, hand crossed over his lapel, giving Louis a slow once over that makes his toes curl in his shoes. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, his voice gravelly, and Louis’s throat clogs up, sadness a lump he can’t seem to swallow past, all his words clogging up behind it.

It takes him until Harry’s reaching out for his hand, pulling him forward to kiss the corner of his mouth, before he can get enough breath to say, “You are too, Haz.” Harry’s smile is wide, proud, and feels like a punch in the gut.

He’s quiet in the car, pressed as close to Harry as he can get, knowing he should start driving in the wedge but completely incapable of doing so in the dark, cool backseat. The windows are tinted dark, and the muted flash of the streetlights they pass under make Harry’s eyes glow, fixed on Louis’s. Louis feels panicked all of a sudden, thinks this might be the last time they’re alone together, and leans forward in a rush, finds Harry mouth with his own.

It’s an appropriately desperate kiss, on Louis’s part at least, and it doesn’t stop until they pull up to the party, the driver clearing his throat. Louis jerks away from Harry, leaves him a little dazed, mouth red and wet. Louis wants to drag him down to the seat and keep him pinned there, because as soon as they walk into the party it’s the beginning of the end. But Harry smoothes his hands down his lapels and says, “Shall we?” And Louis doesn’t have a good enough reason to say no.

The venue is a beautiful old building with a set of stone steps in the front, and they climb them hand in hand, surrounded by people in fancy gowns and shiny shoes, jewels glinting everywhere. The foyer is all marble and crystal, white gloved waiters handing guests champagne as soon as they’re through the door, and Louis snags a glass immediately, resisting the urge to down it in one go.

They find their table amidst the many tables covered in cufflinks like confetti, cases with diamond covered watches scattered everywhere, and Harry pulls out a seat for Louis. “I have to go schmooze a little, do you mind?” He eyes Louis’s nearly empty champagne flute. “I’ll bring you another drink.”

“Of course not,” Louis says. “Go.” The sooner he’s away the easier Louis will be able to breathe.

Harry touches the pad of his thumb to the corner of Louis’s eye, grinning, and then turns to go. Louis sucks down the rest of his champagne.

He’s twirling the stem between his fingers when a man approaches him, holding out a fresh glass. There are two other men standing a few feet away, glowering, and Louis looks around, alarmed, before the champagne delivering man smiles, shark-like.

“Louis?” he says, and places the glass on the table.

“Yes,” Louis says, and stands, because having this guy towering over him is making him uncomfortable.

“I’m Simon. Cowell. Harry’s boss.”

“Oh!” Louis exhales, surprised, and holds out his hand. “Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You were, after all, the inspiration for Harry’s campaign pitch.”

“I was?” Louis’s eyes cast around for Harry, surprised. Harry had never told him that.

“Harry’s a very lucky man, to have someone so inspiring in love with him.” Simon’s eyes glint, and Louis feels like a rock has dropped into his stomach, making it ache.

“In love? No, I’m,” he falters, because it’s been ten days. He may be fond of Harry, may care for him more than he should, considering. But love? Impossible. “I’m not,” he starts again, and then takes a fortifying sip of champagne.

Simon clearly doesn’t believe a word of it, and Louis doesn’t either if he’s honest with himself. Love. How had he gotten himself into this?

Simon clinks his glass against Louis’s, the sound ringing in Louis’s head, and says, “Nice to meet you, Louis.”

Louis watches him walk away, right between the other two glowering men, clapping them on the shoulders. Louis feels panic fluttering in his chest again, his knees going weak.

Love. Fuck.

*****

Harry’s standing at the bar, chatting with a Brighton exec, when he sees Simon strolling towards him. His heart pounds in his chest, and he excuses himself from the exec to step into Simon’s path.

“Congratulations, Styles. You’ve landed your man after all,” Simon says.

“Well, he’s here, but is that enough?” Harry asks, wary but hopeful.

“Enough? I’d say getting the man to fall in love with you is more than enough. Get ready to pitch, point man.”

“Love?” Harry echoes. It’s impossible. Ten days isn’t … but if he examines the way his heart seems to be expanding so fast it’s threatening to burst right through his chest he thinks maybe it is. Maybe it’s totally possible.

“Definitely in love. Congratulations.” Simon hands Harry his empty champagne glass and leaves Harry standing there, too-large heart thudding, mouth gaping open. He seeks out Louis in the crowd, sees him perched on a chair looking as sideswiped as Harry feels, and starts towards him.

He’s intercepted by a man in a navy suit, hair in a quiff similar to Harry’s, grinning wide.

“Did I hear you’re the new point man on the Brighton account?” the man asks. “I’m Nick Grimshaw, editor-in-chief of Finesse magazine.”

“Erm, hi,” Harry says, disgruntled at being cut off before he can reach Louis, but not wanting to blow off Grimshaw, especially since he’s apparently Louis’s boss. Louis. Louis who is in love with him. Louis who he is in love with. He gives his head a shake and holds out his hand for Nick. “Harry Styles.”

“We’re going to be running quite a few of your advertisements, so I hope they won’t suck.” Grimshaw laughs, and Harry offers a weak laugh of his own. On any other occasion, at literally any other time, Harry thinks he’d find this guy funny. But he has one thing in mind right now, and it’s not making new pals.

“I can promise I’ll try to make them not suck,” Harry says, and holds up a hand while Grimshaw is chuckling. “I’m sorry, but would you excuse me, I’d like to get back to my date.” He gestures towards Louis who is - who is suddenly flanked by Max and Tom. Oh no.

“Louis? You’re here with Louis? Oh, he must’ve gotten rid of the other one then.”

Harry wants to run across the room, launch himself between Max and Louis, but Max is already speaking, leaning close to Louis, and it’s going to be too late, it’s - wait. “The other one?”

“Yeah, the how-to guy. He’s been working on a story about how to lose a guy in ten days, you know, doing all these horrible things to drive him away … “ Nick trails off as realization dawns and Harry blinks at him, stunned for the second time that night. “Oh no. You’re Spike.”

Harry swivels his head to stare at Louis - it’d all been for a story - just as Louis is turning his head to look at Harry. Max and Tom are looking smug on either side of him, and Nick is drawing away from Harry with his hand over his mouth, and Harry feels like his stomach has dropped into his shoes.

Louis obviously knows now. And Harry does too. Louis bolts up from his chair and darts through the crowd towards the door, and Harry takes off after him.

He catches up to him on the steps outside, the cooling night breeze ruffling Louis’s hair when he whips around at Harry’s shouted, “Louis, wait!”

“Why? So you can give me more details about your bet?” Louis is livid, color high on his cheeks, and Harry pulls up short, narrowing his eyes.

“How can you be so angry when you were using me for a story?”

“You were using me to win an account!”

They breathe heavily at each other for a moment, and Harry knows he has no right to be this angry, but he is. He’d been so elated to hear Simon say Louis loved him, so … and now to know it was all for show, for an article. He’s never felt so crushed, and it makes him ball his fist at his sides, clench his jaw.

“Your headline was what, Louis? How to lose a guy in ten days? Well you did it. It’s day ten, and you’ve definitely lost your guy.” Harry turns on his heel, ready to stalk back into the party when Louis calls out, the break in his voice stopping Harry cold.

“How could I lose you, Harry?” he says, and when Harry turns back his eyes are sad, mouth set in a line. “How could I lose you when I never really had you?”

There’s no response for that, nothing Harry can think of to say. It’s true, the shittiest part, because everything had been a sham from the word go. He stands there, warring anger and misery making his head spin, while Louis ducks his head and turns toward the street. He’s in a taxi and gone before Harry can catch his breath.

*****

The scene is as comforting as it can get: Niall cursing over the stove, stirring something in a pot that keeps bubbling up and burning his hands, Zayn ferrying out cup after cup of tea and curling up against Louis’s side like a big hairless cat. Louis preens a little under the attention even though he’s hollow inside, sadness sucking at his ribs.

Zayn is reading the final draft of Louis’s article, one hand idly toying with a strand of Louis’s hair. He makes a noise now and then, sympathetic little hums that mean he’s hit a particularly poignant line, and Louis can see the words on the backs of his eyelids, burned there as he was typing them out. It’s not what he thought he was going to write at all, but it’s what came out when he sat down at the computer.

“What did Grimmy say?” Zayn asks when he’s finished, and sets the laptop down on the coffee table. Louis leans closer, holds his tea cup to his chest.

“That it was great. That I could write anything I want for the next one.”

Zayn gasps, but Louis shakes his head.

“Don’t get excited, the ‘within reason’ was implied. No politics, no economics, nothing of actual value. Nothing I want to write.” He takes a deep breath. “I quit.”

Niall squawks in the kitchen, something clatters, and then he’s out in the living room, sucking the tip of one finger. “You did what?”

“I quit. Well, I gave notice.”

“Fuck,” Zayn says, and lets his arm fall to Louis’s shoulders, gives them a squeeze. “Good for you.”

“I hate that you’re leaving,” Niall says, and perches on the arm of the sofa to lay his arm atop Zayn’s, “but yeah, good for you.”

“Thanks. I sent out my CV to a few places in London.”

“London?” Zayn and Niall chorus, matching stricken expressions on their faces.

“Absolutely not,” Niall says, and gets back up to go into the kitchen.

“You’re not moving, Louis, for fuck’s sake,” Zayn says, and gives Louis a shake.

“There are good opportunities there,” Louis says, and thumbs a drop of tea from the lip of his cup.

“There are good opportunities here, too,” Zayn says, and Niall yells “yeah” from the kitchen. “You don’t have to run away. It’s a big city, mate, you probably won’t ever see him again.”

Louis knows that, he does. And while the party had proved that their circles occasionally merge, a tiny sliver of a Venn diagram where their colleagues mingle because magazines print advertisements, he knows he could avoid Harry if he really wanted to. He’s just not sure he wants to, and removing himself from the situation entirely - a clean break, so to speak, from Harry, from the situation, from Finesse - seems the easiest.

But the look on Zayn’s face says otherwise, because these are his best friends in the whole world, and he doesn’t want to be so far from them.

“I don’t even know if I’ll get any interviews out of it,” he says, holding up his tea like a shield, and ignores the look Niall and Zayn share over the top of his head.

He does get an interview, because of course he does, at a website that covers everything from health and beauty to current events; one of the largest of its kind in all of Europe. They’re based out of London but if he lands the job he could telecommute - work from home, stay in Manchester, and only have to take the train down once or twice a month for meetings. The salary is crazy high compared to what he’d been making at Finesse and the range of topics is so much closer to what Louis wants to write.

Niall takes him to the train station the day of the interview, yawning at the wheel in the watery light of dawn, hair sticking up all over his head. Louis feels a crushing wave of fondness as he ducks back into the car to thank him again, and Niall tugs up one corner of his mouth.

“You owe me, Tomlinson,” he says, and shoos Louis away. “Smash it, alright?”

Louis spends the hours on the train thinking of how he’s going to do just that. Hope blooms in his chest as he goes over his notes, because this job is his dammit.

He smashes the interview.

*****

The set of the photoshoot is hot and cramped and Harry is so uncomfortable he would spit if that was something he did. But he doesn’t, he just guzzles another glass of ice water and wipes his fingers across his forehead, blowing his fringe away from his sweaty skin. They have to stop every couple of seconds to blot the models’ faces, and a couple of interns are struggling with giant fans, dragging them as close to the scene as they can get without disturbing it, and everyone looks like they’d rather be anywhere but here.

At least the shots look good, Harry thinks, because otherwise his frustration would boil over - like it had a few times in the past week, since -

He corrals his thoughts, because revisiting what had happened with Louis will only make his mood worse, and they really need to get this shoot done so they can get it to print.

Liam is cutting across the studio, something tucked under his arm, and Harry frowns. “Where have you been?”

“At the office, listen,” he says, but Harry cuts him off.

“Relaxing in the air conditioning while we’re all suffering in here? Why’d we pick this bloody warehouse anyway? Couldn’t we have gone somewhere that isn’t one of the circles of hell?”

“Brighton loved this location, nothing we could do. But Harry, listen - “

He holds up a magazine and Harry’s heart stutters to a stop. It’s the newest copy of Finesse, and Harry’s eyes go straight to the headline halfway down the right side: “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days.”

“Why do you have that?”

“I read it and - “

“You read it?” Harry squawks, a little louder than he’d meant to, and a few of the techs nearby turn to stare. He grabs Liam’s elbow and drags him further away from the set. “Why would you do that, Liam? You were there for the whole story, couldn’t get enough of it?”

“I had a feeling,” Liam says, and holds the magazine out again. “You should read it. Really.”

“Absolutely not.”

Liam narrows his eyes, flips the magazine open, thumbs a few pages, and then starts reading. Harry is dumbstruck, betrayal and sadness washing over him, and barely catches the beginning of what Liam’s saying. He tunes in to catch, “...biggest mistake of my life. Because it turns out the guy I was getting rid of is the only one I’ve ever wanted to keep.”

“Wait, what?” Harry goes cold, and then flushes hot, replaying the words in his head. Liam sighs, relieved of all things, and holds the magazine out again.

“I’m telling you, just read it.”

Harry does, standing in a sweltering hot warehouse with sweat dripping down his back, the click of a camera and the murmuring of his colleagues in the background, and then looks up at Liam, still standing there, with wide eyes. “I have to go.”

“Yeah, I know,” Liam says, and shakes his head, amused. He takes the magazine and flaps it at Harry. “Go, I’ll make your excuses.”

Harry grabs him up in a quick, crushing hug, and then bolts.

First stop is the Finesse offices, where Harry gets an odd look from the receptionist, who points down a hallway and then calls something after him that he doesn’t hear over the thudding of his heart and his own panting breaths. When he skids into the room full of cubicles the first thing he sees is the wilted fern, sitting forlornly on an otherwise empty desk. He crosses to it, lifts the pot in his arms, and stares at the expanse of gleaming white, chair pushed in neatly.

“Hey,” someone says behind him, and he turns to see a familiar face, something about the dark eyes and cut of his jaw poking at Harry’s memory. “He’s gone,” the guy says, and Harry shakes his head, not understanding. “Quit. Not here.”

Harry doesn’t wait for anymore explanation, just walks away with the fern clutched to his chest.

He tries Louis’s apartment next, but the guy that opens the door isn’t Louis. It’s the couples’ therapist. But that doesn’t make sense at all.

“Fuck,” the therapist says, but his accent is definitely Irish now, and he’s wearing a vest and a pair of low slung jeans, feet bare. Harry narrows his eyes.

“You’re not a therapist are you?”

“Uh,” the guy says, and then grimaces. “No.”

“Who are you?”

“Niall,” he says, and then crosses his arms over his chest. “And Louis isn’t here.”

“Where is he?”

Niall clenches his jaw, considering. Harry grips the pot of the fern, looking a little worse for wear after riding in the cargo compartment on his bike, and Niall’s eyes flick down to it. “He took a job in London,” Niall says, and Harry’s heart plummets to his feet. Over Niall’s shoulders Harry can see stacks of cardboard boxes, lined up against the wall waiting to be moved.

“London?” he echoes, and Niall makes a face, almost sympathetic. Harry sets his shoulders, determination swelling. If Louis went to London, then Harry will go to London. He’s not going to lose him again. “Guess I’m going to London then,” he says, and turns to go.

“Harry, wait,” Niall calls, and Harry spins back around. Niall’s hanging out of the door of Louis’s apartment, looking sheepish. “He’s not in London.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The job is based there but he’s working from home. He’s just moving across town, a nicer place. He’s picking up the keys right now, I’m just waiting for the movers. You could,” Niall trails off, shrugs. “You could wait here?”

A smile spreads across Harry’s face, and he lurches forward to hug Niall, who makes a surprised “oomph” against his shoulder. “You owe me £200,” Harry says, and Niall laughs.

They sit on the sofa, shoved away from the wall presumably to be cleaned under, and the movers show up before Louis does. Niall directs them, and Harry stands in the kitchen cupping water in his hands to pour into the fern’s pot, watching it sink into the dry soil, until he hears a voice that makes all his muscles seize up, the water still running in the sink.

“What?” is what Louis yells, and Harry assumes Niall has told Louis that he’s here. He’s proved right when Louis rounds the corner into the kitchen a few seconds later, wearing joggers and a tee shirt with a hole near the collar, hair mussed.

Harry turns the tap, shuts the water off, and presses his wet palms to his thighs. “Hey.”

Louis’s eyes move from the fern on the worktop to Harry’s face and back again, and he swallows.

“I read your article,” Harry says, heart in his throat. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

“It wasn’t,” Louis says, and then clears the gruffness from his throat. “It wasn’t what I expected either.”

“Is it true?” Harry holds his breath, watching as Louis reaches out to brush a frond of the fern with his palm, and his hand is shaking. He looks up at Harry, bites his lip.

“Every word.”

Harry knows they’ll have to talk about it - the way they’d started, how they’d treated each other - but he thinks that can probably wait. Right now he has to kiss Louis, drag him forward by his ratty tee shirt and press their mouths together, the flurry of the movers fading out around them.