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I Hear your SOS

Summary:

“No,” Louis yelled, his voice cracking in the effort not to cry, “Don’t you understand? I’m toxic, Harry. You’ll think you can fix me but all I’ll do is drag you down and fuck you up, and then you’ll blame me for it.” Tears shimmered in his eyes, cobalt blue stark against bloodshot red. He wiped them away furiously, frustrated at his inability to hold back his pain.
“No, Louis, I – I would never blame you, I-”
But Louis had already turned on his heel and walked out the room without looking back. Harry thought he could physically hear the sound of his heart cracking in two.

OR

Harry’s an up and coming indie singer and Louis is a famous boyband member. The two of them just happened to have been at the same music camp as teenagers and they meet 6 years later at an industry party. Harry immediately integrates into every aspect of Louis’ life, and the two of them rapidly grow closer. Harry's falling, but for Louis, crossing the line from friendship to something more would be a terrible mistake.
Louis doesn’t want to be rescued.
But Harry can be a bit of a stubborn little shit sometimes.

Featuring adorable OT5 friendships, lots of pining, fluff and Larry being stubborn.

Notes:

Hi everyone!
This fic was really important to me to write, and has a special place in my heart. I hope you all can get something out of it too.
The title is based on a lyric in Lauren Daigle's song Rescue. It's a gorgeous song and the lyrics are perfect for this fic so give it a listen!
If you're enjoying it please share, or leave comments or kudos
All the love to you all
Phoenix
x

Chapter 1: Twist of Fate

Chapter Text

 

 

                                    I can’t stop crying, I hate that I caused you pain

                                    But I can’t deny it, I just don’t feel the same

                        I’ll always love you, but tonight’s the night I choose to walk away

 

                                                                                                -Midnight Train

                                                                                                            Sam Smith

 

 

The shrill, jarring screech of Harry’s alarm ripped him unceremoniously from a deep slumber, piercing the cool morning air of his bedroom. It felt to Harry as though the sound had drilled right through to the core of his spine.

“Fuck,” he groaned and silenced his phone, then rolled over, burying his face in the downy pillow and tugging the duvet up to his chin.

He was exhausted. He had been writing well into the early hours of the morning, as had become custom for him and had struggled to fall asleep afterwards, his mind still swirling with melodies and lyrics and riffs and bridges. Unfortunately, he had had to set an alarm, as his manager Libby would be coming over that morning to run through that week’s programme. Whatever, Harry thought, she can wake me up when she gets here. It’s not like it would be the first time she’d seen him in pyjamas or had to wrestle him out of bed after all.

 

 

When Libby did eventually arrive, Harry had long fallen back to sleep and was enjoying that special, peaceful sort of rest that one only experiences when they switch off their alarm and go back to sleep against their better judgement.

Libby not only had a key to Harry and Zayn’s apartment, but she was also very well versed in the two men’s morning routines – or lack thereof, as she would say – and so, on knocking and hearing no reply, she assumed correctly that he was still asleep and strode into his room, wrenching open the curtains and tugging Harry’s duvet off him unceremoniously.

“Oi!” Harry complained, “Wasssat for?”

“It’s 10 ‘o clock, an entire half-hour later than we agreed and you’re still loafing in your bloody pyjamas. I’ve got a lot to do today, so move your arse, you great lump.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes and sat up, rubbing his eyes and peering groggily at his manager, who’s attention has shifted from him to her phone and was now texting vigorously, her impeccably lacquered nails clacking rhythmically against the screen.

Coming to the conclusion that Libby was unlikely to move or relent, he sighed melodramatically and pushed himself up off the bed to throw on a hoodie and some slippers.

He could just have easily stripped naked and done a burlesque number for all the attention Libby was paying him, but to be fair to her, as his oldest childhood friend, she wouldn’t have been bothered in the slightest had he done just that.

“Ready then, sloth-face?”

Heyyyyy,” Harry answered, gesturing to the doorway for her to pass before him, “Yes I’m ready. And seriously, what’s with all the name-calling this morning? I’m a sensitive soul” he sniffed indignantly.

 

“Mmm hmm,” she snorted, unimpressed.

Seating herself at the kitchen counter, she kicked off her murderously high stilettos with a sigh of relief and returned her phone to her massive red handbag.

“Tea?” Harry asked.

“Of course,” she replied, smiling, albeit tightly, for the first time that morning.

Harry set about preparing her tea the way he knew she took it - earl grey, no milk, two sugars - and made himself the same just for some variety.

She was stressed, Harry could tell, and there was potentially something else wrong. They always had been able to tell these things about each other; and while they weren’t actually blood-related in the strictest sense, he had just as much of a sibling bond with her as he did with Gemma.

“What’s up love?” he asked gently, handing her a blueberry muffin from the batch he had baked for a depressed Zayn the day before, “You seem a bit off. More insults than usual, and they’re not even up to your usual standard,” he teased gently.

 “I know, H, I’m sorry.” She sighed deeply and massaged her temples.

“It’s just been a really stressful few days, you know? I have some new clients that are turning out to be a right pain in the ass and it’s taking everything I have not to tell them to go fuck themselves, to be honest,” she grimaced, “Unfortunately not everyone is as lovely and cooperative as you are, Harry.”

 

“Why thank you, Elizabeth,” Harry fluttered his eyelashes exaggeratedly which earned him a weak smile and a punch to the shoulder.

 

“So,” he continued, handing Libby her tea and sitting down opposite her, “What’s up? Anything specific on the menu for today?”

“Not much, really. Just a bit of housekeeping to sort out and I’ll be on my way,” she replied, immediately snapping back into business mode, “We’ve sorted out the issue we had with the studio and we’ve now got clearance for you to go in and continue recording in two weeks’ time, and hopefully for the week after that. You’re going to need to get the songs more or less finalized before then because our projected album release date is in about six weeks-time, and they’ll still be promo to organize. Speaking of promo….”

Harry groaned.

“Yes, yes I know,” she placated him, rolling her eyes a little fondly, “-but you know it’s a necessary evil. I promise it won’t be anything too big or over the top, very indie or hipster or whatever you’re choosing to call it these days.”

She mocked, but Harry knew at heart that for all her teasing, she did actually understand - that she understood how important it was to him to make his kind of music on his terms; and with that came his stubborn avoidance of the mainstream pop scene and media. Unfortunately for Harry though, he was popular enough (and ambitious enough) to need some promo, however low-key, to make sure he continued to be successful.

 “Okay got it, so I’ve got the studio from about two weeks from now, yeah?”

“Hopefully,” Libby answered, “And tonight there’s an industry party that I definitely think you should make an appearance at. I know, I know,” she soothed, catching Harry’s defeated expression, “But there are going to be lots of influential people there that could really give you a nudge in the right direction. And you haven’t been out in quite a while, H.”

While Harry didn’t doubt that the industry party would indeed be rife with excellent networking opportunities, he knew that why Libby really wanted him to come had far more to do with his hermit-like behaviour of the past month or so. He had broken up with his boyfriend, Nick, of a year, and while in retrospect he could see that it had never been that forever kind of love, that didn’t stop it from hurting like a bitch. He liked the comfort and safety of being in a relationship, and the prospect of going out again as a single man was undeniably daunting.

He decided to let Libby have this one, however.

“All right then,” he conceded, “What time do I need to be ready?”

“Excellent!” she smiled, albeit quite taken aback by his lack of resistance, “Um, well I can come and pick you up around nine if that works for you? It’s very nearby so it shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes by car. Bring Zayn along, it would do him some good to get out of the house, and there will be lots of fashion industry hotshots there for him as well.”

 

Harry knew what it must look like, both he and Zayn having been recently dumped and moping around the house like two pathetic moody teenagers. By whatever bizarre karmic fate, they were both going through break-ups at the same time, and Harry secretly enjoyed having someone to wallow with in his misery and self-pity. But Libby was right, it had been almost a month of muffin-baking, Hallmark movies and stubbornly refusing to interact with the outside world - it was time to get out, for the sake of both their sanity.

 

------

 

 

And so it was that at 8:45pm a very grumpy and reluctant Zayn joined Harry in the living room, dressed as impeccably as ever in skinny jeans and a black leather jacket lined with elegant silver studs, his hair styled in an artful quiff. He really lived up to his description of up-and-coming male model; a bonafide sculpted god. If only he was Harry’s type (and they hadn’t been best friends since they were toddlers), it would make both their lives so much easier. Harry himself wore his favourite billowy sheer black blouse with his signature skinnies and heeled Chelsea boots. The leather had faded and the heels worn down, but they were his favourite and he stubbornly refused to wear any other pair. He gave his hair a last artful ruffle in the entrance-way mirror, and deemed himself appropriate. He figured that if he was going to miserable and dragged to a party against his will, he might as well look good doing it.

 

Libby arrived as promised at 9 on the nose, and the three of them piled into her car, Harry attempting to act more positive than he felt, Zayn just outright moping, making it very clear that he was here against his will. Harry was reminded of their many misguided teenage adventures; the three best friends driving around in Zayn’s second-hand Fiat with Oasis and the Arctic Monkeys blasting too loud, feeling as though they might one day take over the world. How long ago it felt, how far removed this life was from the one they were currently living. Often, Harry would wake up and still think he was in his little bedroom in Cheshire, not living out in a swanky apartment in London. He had been incredibly lucky, and he did not forget it for a second; the reception for his first single and EP had been beyond anything 17-year-old Harry could ever have imagined. But he was nonetheless tentative, he knew that he was in a crucial position at the moment: a step forward into the limelight would mean success and renown, but also a complete loss of anonymity and the inevitable pressure of a label, whereas a step back would ensure he would stay entirely true to himself but could mean that his music and his message would get lost in oblivion. This was the internal tussle that had been raging in Harry’s brain for months, ever since he had started writing for his first full album.

 

Tonight however, the presence of agents and contacts notwithstanding, was really about getting back out there again. As resistant and sullen as both he and Zayn had been acting about it, in his heart of hearts, Harry knew that moping around the house for another two weeks wasn’t going to get them anything but more misery.

 

“Alright, lads, I want to be at this party just about as much as you do, so I’ll probably just say my hello’s, make nice for a while and then head out, but I want you two to stay for a while, please,” Libby said sternly, and Harry was uncannily reminded of his mother.

“Alright, mom,” Zayn grumbled, apparently thinking along the same lines as Harry.

Libby handed the keys to her Kia to a valet, blushing slightly and they headed into Olly Murs’ lavish house, where they were immediately inundated by crowds of celebrities, the thumping base so strong as to permeate their skulls.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Zayn muttered, and headed off into the throng, leaving Harry to look around desperately for a space where he wouldn’t be crushed. After a few minutes or so of feeling slightly uncomfortable, he caught side of Olly, who beamed and barrelled towards him, clearly already quite pissed.

“Harry! Mate! So glad you came!” he shouted over the din and tugged him into a crushing hug. Harry had known Olly for a while now, it was he who helped him find his feet in the very beginning, he who had helped him find a good recording studio and as such, Harry was rather fond of him.

“This here,” he gestured to the pretty woman on his left, “Is Rita. Absolute star, this one, and a sweetheart too,” he winked, not a hint of subtlety to be found.

“Hi there, Harry,” she smiled genuinely, “I’ve heard a lot about you; only good things I swear.’

Olly ambled off to greet more of his guests and Harry stayed chatting to Rita who, as it turned out, was indeed absolutely lovely and a riot to boot.

It was when Harry was finally starting to relax and feel less anxious and uncomfortable that it happened.

Just a few paces away from where he stood chatting to Rita, he saw a familiar lanky frame topped with an exaggerated quiff and he froze, his mouth slightly agape.

Fuck, Harry thought, this was just his luck. How the hell had this nightmare actually come true?

“Harry are you alri- oh, hi Nick!”

“You know Nick?” Harry asked stupidly.

“Of course, you numpty! He’s only one of my best mates! Come here dickhead,” and she waved him over to Harry’s sheer horror.

His steely eyes landed on Harry and immediately turned to ice.

“Harry,’ he acknowledged tersely with a nod of his head.

“Ah, you know each other! Fab! Well, I’ll leave you two to chat; I’ve got to go for a wee.”

And she drifted off, leaving a very uncomfortable and prickly silence in her wake.

 

“Never been very good at reading atmosphere, has our Rita,” Nick grimaced.

“Hi, Nick, you’re uh… you’re looking good,” Harry managed to choke out. What was he saying? Jesus, Harry, get your shit together!

Nick let out a humourless laugh. “No thanks to you, huh, popstar?”

Nick knew Harry absolutely hated to be called that, and from the bitter sneer contorting his features, it appeared that he had done so on purpose.

"I didn't know you were friends with Rita," Harry offered, just for something to say. It was a little weird that Nick hadn't introduced them in their entire year of dating if he was really "one of her best mates."

"We met a month or two ago," Nick shrugged coldly, "She helped me get through...." He trailed off, his face sour.

Right, that.

Harry was having trouble breathing.

“I – I” he gestured vaguely in the direction of the crowd, “I need to…” he stuttered helplessly, before darting away, his heart thumping wildly against his ribcage, not sure where he was going; just knowing he had to get as far away as possible from where Nick stood, sneering and hostile.

 

He found himself stood outside in a little garden alcove, breathing in lungfuls of crisp January air and trying to calm the rising panic in his throat. He was struggling to breathe normally, his palms sweaty and shaking, his vision blurring, and was just able to register that he was in the midst of a panic attack.

Just then, a delicate hand rested on his shoulder and a worried voice asked, “You okay there, mate?”

Harry could barely see by this point and had sunk to the ground. The stranger crouched down beside him, taking Harry’s hands and urging him to look at him. “It’s okay, it’s okay lad, just take some deep breaths okay? Here, I’ll do it with you, in… and out.” The stranger stayed there for a while, just breathing with Harry until the panic eased and Harry returned to a calmer and more lucid state, the shake in his hands losing intensity and his vision returning to normal

 

“Oh thank god,” the man sighed, “How are you feeling mate?”

Embarrassed. Pathetic. Upset. Ashamed.That’s how he was feeling.

But instead he said: “All right. Thank you for-” he gestured futilely, unable to form a coherent sentence, but the man seemed to understand anyway. He smiled kindly and took a seat opposite Harry, drawing his collar up to his ears for warmth.

“Don’t even mention it uh….?”

“Harry. Harry Styles. It’s a.. it’s a p-pleasure to meet you; although usually I prefer not to be cowered on the floor in the middle of a panic attack when I meet people.”

He looked up but the boy wasn’t smiling anymore, but rather sat upright, stock still with widened eyes and his jaw gaping open.

“Harry…..Styles did you say?” he asked.

“Uh…yeah?” Harry replied in confusion.

“It’s uh Louis, Louis Tomlinson. Do you remember – oh never mind of course not” The man looked away hurriedly, digging his hands deeper into his pockets and shrugging his shoulders a little.

“Louis,” Harry said slowly, rolling the name over on his tongue. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, “from music camp?”

“Yeah,” Louis grinned, seemingly relieved that Harry had recognized him, “the very same. Jeeeesus mate, he whistled, “It’s been what, 6 years or summat?”

Harry nodded, still a little dumbfounded. Of course, how hadn’t he been able to tell? In the midst of his panic attack he hadn't been able to see clearly but now...there were those same piercing blue eyes, that same silken gold hair, that same smooth caramel skin. But this Louis looked different somehow, older - just as gorgeous as Harry remembered him – but with more sharply defined cheekbones, pronounced worry lines around his eyes and mouth, and arms covered in sprawling black ink. He also had an unmistakeably defeated look about him that Harry did not recognize at all.

 

“Yeah, six years,” Harry replied.

“Well you haven’t half grown up, kid,” Louis grinned, “You look... different. A right beanstalk you are, and are those tattoos I spy?”

“As if you’re one to talk, Tomlinson” Harry said, his voice no longer uncharacteristically quiet and wavering, regaining a bit of the composure and dignity he had lost in first the panic attack, and then in the shock of recognizing Louis, and gestured to Louis’ arms, “They look sick, mate.”

It felt strange calling Louis ‘mate’; the last time they had seen each other, they had parted with a tender and lingering kiss, one imbued with the hope that maybe, one day, or had the circumstances been different, it could have been more. But Harry was following Louis’ lead and this was clearly the approach he wanted to take.

“So, how have you been then?” Louis asked, getting to his feet and offering Harry a hand to help him up.

“Good, no complaints I guess, ‘ve only been in London a year or so but I’m getting used to it now.”

“You still making music?” Louis asked, interestedly.

“Yeah, but probably nothing you’ve listened too,” Harry shrugged, almost apologetically, “It’s kind of indie, though I hate that word,” he scrunched up his nose, “-but it’s the kind of stuff I like so I’m happy, I guess.”

 

For his part, Harry was well aware that Louis was still making music; indeed, there were probably very few people who weren’t aware of the fact. As part of one of the biggest boybands in the UK, Louis Tomlinson was a household name and while Harry himself made a point of never following the tabloids and keeping off social media, he had inevitably heard the name pass around in his social circle or occasionally on the radio.

 

“That’s sick! I’ll make sure to give it a listen,” he smiled earnestly, the cobalt of his irises glinting in the light of the garden lamps.

“Oh, you don’t have to do-”

“Oh shut up, of course I will! I always knew you’d be a star.”

Harry blushed and looked down at the ground, slightly abashed.

“Seriously though, I’m happy for you that you’re doing what you want to do. I’m going to sound like such an ungrateful twat right now, but-” Louis heaved a deep sigh, and took a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket, “-sometimes you get caught up in all this industry shit and… you end up being someone you’re not and doing things you didn’t think you ever would, know what I mean? Smoke?”

Harry hadn’t smoked in years, but accepted a cigarette nonetheless.

“And I don’t mean to sound bitter or anything,” he continued, gazing wistfully at a point somewhere ahead of him, “But no one tells you that kind of shit when you sign up. No one tells you that-” He cut himself off, seeming to realize that he had maybe already said too much.

“I’m really sorry, Louis,” Harry said softly, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Bless you, Harry, I’m sat here ranting about shit that I should be grateful to have… and you’ve just had a panic attack. Just as fucking selfish as always.” He scolded himself, shaking his head, his expression bitter.

 

‘Hey, don’t say that,” Harry frowned and squeezed Louis’ shoulder, trying to find a way to comfort him that didn’t cross any lines. Harry wasn’t 100% that he should say what he wanted to say next, but figured that, judging from how open Louis had been in the past few minutes, he was unlikely to run for the hills.

“You really shouldn’t… like, feel guilty I mean…You made me feel normal, you know? Most people would feel awkward and make things uncomfortable, treat me like I’m a nutter or summat…. Well, most people wouldn’t sit with me through a panic attack at all, now I think about it. I really do appreciate it.”

Louis just nodded and took a drag of his cigarette.

Harry’s eyes were fixated on the way Louis’ cheeks hollowed around the cigarette, and had to physically shake himself back to reality when Louis asked his next question.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you out here? The garden I mean, not London.”

 

“Ran into an ex” Harry said grimly, “Well my most recent ex… It was a …messy break up, to say the least, and we’re not exactly on speaking terms. We were alone and he wasn’t saying anything and I had no idea what to say anyway so -  I guess I just panicked…”

Louis nodded sombrely. “Sorry about that, he sounds like a right wanker if you ask me.”

Harry grinned, but it faded and was replaced immediately with an almost bitter expression.

 “Nah, I was the one who broke up with him. It was-” Harry sighed. He wasn’t sure why exactly he was spilling his heart out to Louis. Perhaps it had to do with how open Louis had been with him without any prompting whatsoever. Or maybe it was the easy way he felt like he just understood Harry in a way that only Louis ever had, as though six years had never passed, and they were still the naïve teenagers sharing whispered conversations in a shared camp dorm.

 “- now I’m the one who’s going to sound like a twat. I broke up with him after a year of dating because I knew I wasn’t in love with him. I think I’d known for a while to be honest and I probably thought I might be able to get there eventually… but as time went on…” Harry sighed. He had tried. Things had always been easy with Nick; they had barely ever fought, their families had meshed well and his group of friends had immediately accepted Harry as one of their own. They were friends first, and after a while decided to take it a step further. It was after maybe three months of dating or so that Harry sensed there was something missing. Their break up had been one of their only fights, and potentially had elicited the strongest emotion out of Harry throughout their year-long relationship.

“I honestly wish I had said something sooner, you know? Before it got so complicated…but I just felt so awful at the time, I couldn’t hurt him… I never wanted to hurt him and now, whenever I think of it, I feel so guilty because I was so fucking selfish, stringing him along for so long.”

 

Louis was eyeing Harry curiously, a strange look in his eyes.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” he shook his head, “It’s just that you’re the same Harry, you haven’t changed at all. Too kind and too compassionate;  beating yourself up over something that wasn’t your fault. If you weren’t in love with him, it wasn’t selfish to end it, you do realize that right?”

 

It may have been six years, and they may have only known each other then for four weeks, but Harry couldn’t help feeling that talking to Louis felt like conversing with another part of his own soul. He was unsure of how someone he had known for such a short time and such a long time ago could understand him better than he understood himself. All he knew was that, sat outside in an abandoned side-garden with Louis, while everyone else was partying inside felt both irrepressibly exciting and strangely comforting at the same time.

 

“The thing is,” Harry said after a while, not really answering Louis’ question, “I haven’t been able to write about it. Usually, that kind of thing will give me some sort of inspiration but its’ just not coming to me at the moment… I know that’s kinda fucked up to be focusing on that now but-” Harry shrugged. It was the truth. Despite the messy break up and the flood of feelings, Harry had been blocked for ages.

 

“Nah, it’s not,” replied Louis, “I get what you mean. Maybe you just need a change of atmosphere y’know?”

Harry considered this. Louis did make a fair point: trying to write in the same apartment that he had been stewing in for weeks was probably not helping the problem.

“You know,” Louis began tentatively, “I have a music room in my house…’s got guitars, a piano and some low grade recording equipment. If you’re stuck you could come along and work there for a bit?”

His tone was nervous, perhaps even a bit hopeful.

“That would be amazing,” Harry said earnestly.

 

 

They chatted for a while, about how their lives had been in those six years, about exes and friends, their families, mutual acquaintances, songwriters, tours, TV shows and music. Harry felt utterly captivated by Louis; by his glittering eyes tinged with mischief, his stories that made Harry cackle unabashedly with raucous but genuine laughter and the enchanting smile he gave Harry when he had successfully made him laugh where his eyes would go all crinkly at the corners.

 

After what felt like barely a couple of minutes but was really over an hour and a half, a blonde boy poked his head around the door and exclaimed, “Louis, ya dickhead! There y’are! We’ve been looking for ya everywhere.”

“Hey Nialler,” Louis grinned up at the boy and shrugged, “You’ll have t’ blame Harry here for that, was keeping me right entertained.”

The boy smiled widely and tugged Harry, who had leapt up in shock at the sudden intrusion, into a crushing hug. “Good t’a meet ya, lad. I’m Niall.” He seemed to immediately have taken Louis’ acceptance of Harry as a seal of approval and more than enough to accept him himself and immediately launched off into a conversation with a slightly bewildered and taken aback Harry. He quickly found out that Niall was in the band with Louis (though of course, Harry knew this, knowing the band members’ names and put two and two together – Niall wasn’t exactly that common a name), he loved a bit of footie, (though as a proud Irishman, he refused point-blank to support any English teams), and that the band was currently on a break after having released their latest album.

Harry had started to shiver by the time that Louis got up, placing a hand on Niall’s shoulder and saying: “All right then, Nialler, I think that’s enough now. Poor lad’s gonna freeze t’ death.”

“But he was just telling me about his Beef Wellington recipe…” Niall pouted.

Harry had indeed let slip that he could cook, and from the way that Niall’s eyes had lit up immediately, he took it that this was the way to this boy’s heart. Despite his almost overpowering enthusiasm, Harry really liked Niall, and could see them becoming good friends, if the opportunity presented itself.

“Right, Harry, I think me and Nialler best be off now,” Louis said apologetically. “It was great to meet you, well re-meet you, I guess,” he smiled. Harry didn’t want the interaction to end; didn’t want the best thing that had happened to him in months to slip between his fingers, but felt helpless to stop it.

“Yeah, great t’a meet ya lad,” Niall said and hugged Harry again, heading for the door and clearly expecting Louis to follow him.

“It really was good,” Louis said, his voice much softer now, more intimate somehow. He stepped close to Harry and smiled almost shyly. “And, uh, if you want to take me up on my offer to use the music room, it still stands, yeah?  Or, uh, if you want to come by t’a chill wi’ t’lads, that invite’s open too. I think Nialler’s quite taken with you,” Louis grinned, winking mischievously.

“Well I’ll just have to come around to cook for him then, won’t I?” Harry grinned.

He was about to point out that this would actually be impossible considering they had no way of contacting each other, when Louis handed him his phone.

“Put your number in there?” he asked, cheekily - but with an underlying hint of something like uncertainty.

Louis Tomlinson just asked for your number. Harry’s fingers were tingling, and he wondered briefly whether he was going to have another panic attack.

 

He returned Louis’ phone and smiled down at him, more boldly now. Hmmm, he thought, this is different. He hadn’t noticed before - possibly because they had been sitting for most of the time - but whereas Louis had been a similar height to Harry at 17, Harry was now more than a head taller. Louis was really rather small. Harry was not sure quite why that made his breath shorten or his nose scrunch.

Then, the smaller boy leant in and pressed a quick peck to Harry’s cheek and then he was gone, and Harry was stood there in the freezing January air, utterly shell-shocked and a little disbelieving of what had just happened.

 

 

 ------

 

 

 

“Okay, so run this by me again, yeah?” Zayn asked in weary disbelief, rubbing a hand across his throbbing temples, “You met two members of like, the biggest boy-band of our era, one of whom talked you through a panic attack and, oh yeah, just happened to be at the same music camp as you when you were 15? That can’t actually be true.”

“I know right,” Harry nodded solemnly, “It’s beyond crazy. If I didn’t know it was 100% true, then I’d think it was the bizarre premise for some rom-com or other.”

 

Harry took his and Zayn’s empty mugs to the dishwasher and started taking things out for breakfast. Right now, he was thanking his lucky stars that he had had only one drink the night before, and  as a result was able to remember the night in full detail. Zayn was even moodier than usual, as he tended to be when hungover, having had far too much to drink and far too little fun. Harry had found it practically impossible to fall asleep, his mind buzzing; a cocktail of excitement and confusion, and he had wasted no time in relaying the entire night’s events to an unenthusiastic and unresponsive Zayn over their morning cup of tea.

 

He had practically been glued to his phone, jumping every time it buzzed in the hope that it might be Louis texting, but so far he had heard nothing. Zayn eyed him wearily as he cracked two eggs into a pan.

“Be careful, Harry,” he warned, so quietly Harry almost missed it.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“I mean,” Zayn sighed tiredly, “That you’ve just gotten out of a year-long relationship. And I get that this Louis guy sounds nice and all, but he’s in a boyband.”

“And what has that got to do with anything?” Harrys asked, somewhat affronted.

“Jesus, you’d think you’re the one with the hangover,” Zayn grumbled, “Keep up, H. I know you don’t follow social media or anything like that but you do know about the closeted boy-band member trope, right? If he’s gay - which you don’t even know yet, there’s no way he’d be out; and that’s something both you and I know you wouldn’t be handle. I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend anyway… at least in the eyes of the media.”

 

It was probably the most he had ever heard out of Zayn in one go and Harry was kind of wishing he would return to his sullen silence. As it so happened, Harry had decided in his mind the night before that he wanted to be friends with Louis; and had immediately ruled out anything else on the very basis of all the points Zayn had just made, but somehow he still felt deflated. Of course, Zayn had made a very valid point; Harry didn’t follow celebrity media and as such wouldn’t actually know about a potential girlfriend. Was she a beard?  Was Louis actually gay or had the two weeks they had been together at camp all those years ago really just been Louis experimenting, and this girl was the real deal? He was feeling even more confused than the night before, but the elation he had felt was gone. Even if he was into guys, Zayn was right; there was no way around it: Harry hated secrecy and closeting and would never be able to handle that.

 

Zayn seemed to realize that he had been a bit harsh, and sighed, opening his arms for Harry to hug him. Harry went easily and rested against Zayn’s bony frame, breathing in the familiar scent of tobacco and spiced cologne, feeling a bit of relief. Zayn stroked his back gently. “I’m sorry, H, you know I didn’t mean it like that, yeah? It’s just that we’ve both been through hell relationship-wise lately and I worry? I don’t like to see you get hurt. Who knows, maybe this Louis guy is the real deal.”

 

Harry let go and went to fish the eggs out of the pan, serving them onto slices of toast and bringing the plates to the table, still feeling rather dejected.

 

“I mean, I wasn’t even really thinking about that you know? I was thinking more along the lines of friendship I guess…” he mused, pausing with a forkful of egg halfway to his mouth. “He was so kind, funny too. And he knew so much about the industry. Even if you are right, Z, it’s worth being friends, no?”

Zayn considered, and then nodded. “If what you’ve told me about him is true then yeah. God knows you need some new friends now.”

 

 

Zayn was right of course. Harry and Nick had been part of the same group of friends; it was how they had met and eventually started dating. Unfortunately, that meant that Harry’s friends were Nick’s friends, and while not all of them had actually taken sides in the whole thing, things were now so awkward that he hadn’t hung out with them since.

 

Zayn crossed his knife and fork, having managed his egg and only half of his toast, which was something of an achievement for him lately. When he was depressed or under pressure, he tended to completely lose his appetite and would either forget to eat or take a few mouthfuls and pronounce himself full. Harry had sneakily been finding ways to make sure he took in enough food, leaving bowls of snacks out when they were watching films and cooking all of Zayn’s favourites. They were brothers; and brothers are there to look after each other when they can’t look after themselves.

 

“Right,” Harry said, clapping his hands together, “I’d better get going. I need to get to work on finishing up those bloody tracks today,” he rolled his eyes and gave a put-upon sigh. “What’s your day going to be like?”

 

Zayn yawned widely. “Ugh, I have a meeting with my manager at midday and then one with the new Vogue photographer afterwards to prep for tomorrow’s shoot, but apart from that, I’m more or less free.”

 

Harry nodded, and gave Zayn a quick hug, before gathering up their plates to put in the dishwasher and ambling off to take a shower. He had to be productive today. He had been going through a severe bout of writer’s block recently; seemingly unable to commit a single lyric to paper. It was strange too, because he had just come off an emotional breakup which really should have fuelled his creativity, but it seemed to have done just the opposite. He just hadn’t been able to write anything of substance lately. Unfortunately, Louis hadn’t texted him yet, so for now he had no choice but to stay in.

 

It turned out to be a long, boring and almost entirely unproductive day, so when Harry finally climbed into bed that night, he was grateful it was over. Something had to change, because this just wasn’t working for him.

 As he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he had no idea of how different the next day would be.