Chapter Text
Harry first saw Louis across the floor of his casino.
“Hellfire” wasn’t even his most lucrative casino, or his most successful. It didn’t offer VIP dinners or private rooms. Just tables and cards, adult entertainment in the back, and a few choice bottle of top-shelf liquor amongst more low-brow fare. It was in a tourist-ridden part of London, and was mostly filled with bored Americans or middle class workers, with only a few wealthy clients who could actually afford to care less about the games at hand. It did its job, which was to draw in sad, desperate people, but other than that, it barely made him pay attention.
And yet he had dragged himself out into the human world for the night, had taken time to pick out an immaculately pressed suit, a cerulean tie and a matching pocket square and gold-tipped shoes, all to order a melting glass of bourbon and wait.
Harry glanced at his Rolex and sighed. He knew that the person he was waiting for had odd hours. It wasn’t uncommon for him to show up right at closing time at three in the morning. It was kissing midnight now, and the floor was teeming with regulars. Harry groaned and dragged his finger on the wet glass in front of him, glancing at the bartender, who returned his gaze with a nervous glance. Harry vaguely recognized him as one of his employees, but he was so far down the ladder they probably had never been in the same room until tonight.
“Anything wrong with your drink, Mr. Styles?” the bartender asked, his voice as nervous as his expression.
“No,” Harry said, “I’m just not in the drinking mood.”
He hadn’t been in a drinking mood all week, and yet he had been every other night, waiting, watching.
“I’m waiting for someone,” Harry added, just for something to say. He rubbed his fingertips together, flicking condensed water onto the counter.
“Oh?” the bartender said, “Who?”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Harry said vaguely, and the bartender just nodded and then scurried off to another side of the bar.
Harry was about to call him back, just for the sake of having someone else nearby to receive any of his out-loud ramblings, when he heard a loud burst of noise from the side of the casino floor. The back of his neck prickled, and he turned, leaning his elbow hard on the bar as he did so.
The one Harry had been waiting for had arrived.
Harry wasn’t sure if he was just bad at guessing ages or if the man was genuinely almost a teenager, and just hiding it decently well under a thick beard. He moved boldly, with swinging arms and a hopping step. He was loud, his voice high and shouting, emerging from a mouth full of sharp teeth. He was dressed in a pair of cheap jeans, t-shirt, and trainers, an outfit that couldn’t have cost more than thirty pounds in total. Harry watched with careful eyes as the human bounded over and ordered a beer from the opposite side of the bar, not even asking for it in a glass before he picked up the bottle and headed to his first table.
Harry kept his gaze tight as the human greeted all the other regulars, offering slaps on the back and greetings as the cards were dealt out at a blackjack table. He took his seat at the table, the others moving to accommodate him. He chatted with the players as he took his place, his laugh loud enough Harry could hear it across the casino floor. Then, the hands were dealt out, and the table fell silent as the game began.
As the game went on, the human’s every move was casual, his face not even falling into any bit of concentration as he picked up his cards and began to play. He looked like he was playing a game of Uno at a house party, and yet he was putting down plays that were easily going to wipe out the entire table in a few minutes.
This was the man who was taking several million pounds from Harry’s flawlessly rigged casino tables every night, and who only kept a few thousand and a penthouse suite upstairs for himself before giving it all back.
Harry hadn’t really thought anything of it at first. He had been working late, going over his business files and nursing a cup of black coffee just for the taste, when he had flipped open the Hellfire file and seen something strange in the ledger. After he had read through the file on the place, he had soon found the name and profile of the human who was responsible for odd numbers.
It was funny, really. Harry had no reason to care about the place or what happened here. It made him pennies compared to everything else. What did he care if a human with a rather spotless moral record was gambling for no reason every night?
Except, Harry didn’t have much to get curious about anymore. And after awhile, the file and Hellfire and this strange, strange human started to dig at him. So he went to check things out.
And then he had returned every single night for a week.
“Him,” Harry finally said, pointing at the man, “Get him another beer. But tell him he has to come get it at the bar.”
The bartender nodded.
“Yes, of course,” he said, “A – a client, sir?”
“Something like that,” Harry said, “Just do it.”
The bartender nodded, and Harry turned in his seat to watch the scene unfold. One of the servers came from behind the bar and walked across the casino floor, towards the blackjack table. The human was still enjoying himself, laughing, fidgeting with his cards and his empty glass. The bartender then came over to him and gave him a tap on the shoulder, making him turn, his mouth still smiling, his eyebrows lifted. Harry saw the bartender speaking to him, and then he gestured to the bar, towards Harry.
The human turned, his eyes finding Harry immediately. Harry offered him a smile, lifting his glass as he held his gaze against the other man.
After a long moment, Louis turned back to the server and nodded, then folded his cards, said something to the group, and then was walking to the bar, directly to the stool next to Harry.
The first thing Harry noticed when the human climbed up onto the barstool was that he looked much younger up close. There were barely any lines on his face, his beard was full but he hadn’t bothered to start grooming it yet. His hair was feathery and cut like a teenager’s, and even as he tried to look serious, Harry was too distracted the fact that he had the upturned nose and big blue eyes of a child’s doll.
He blinked at Harry lazily, then looked at the bottle, then back to Harry.
“Do you usually spend a week casing someone out before you buy them a beer?”
His speaking voice was much softer than his excited, shouting, gambling voice, even if it sounded like he was purposely trying to make it deeper.
Harry just smiled.
“You’ve noticed me, then.”
“Yes. You’re very hard to miss. I actually tried to get security to talk to you and make you stop fucking staring at me like a creep and they told me they couldn’t do anything,” the man lifted a brow, “Do you do something around here, then?”
Harry gave him a sharp smile, lifting his glass.
“I own this place.”
“Great,” the man said, “Can you tell them to ice down their drinks better? My beers are lukewarm most of the time.”
Harry blinked at him, trying to read the man’s expression. He wasn’t intimidated or nervous. He seemed like he could not care less.
“That won’t do, then,” Harry said. He turned towards the bar, flicking up a hand at the bartender, “Can you make sure that Mr. – “
He turned his eyes to Louis, lifting his brows in a silent question. The human smiled wryly.
“Tomlinson.”
“Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry said, clicking the name on his tongue, “Gets nothing but cold drinks from now on. I’m going to check.”
“Of course, Mr. Styles.”
Tomlinson snorted as the bartender took his bottle, and a few moments later, exchanged it for one covered in frosty condensation.
“Thanks,” he said, then turned to Harry, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know this place is kind of the worst, right? Like, it’s a fucking dive.”
“One of us here is a much more frequent patron.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Tomlinson chuckled, “But the thing is, one of us has bills to pay. One of us owns this place. So what the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Harry said, “You make enough in one night that if you kept it all, you’d never have to worry about bills again. And you certainly wouldn’t have to rent a room in this dive, as you would call it.”
Tomlinson’s mouth twitched, his eyebrows pinching inwards.
“Did you…research me?”
“I own this place,” Harry said again, “I’m just being an informed owner.”
“Am I…” he paused, “Am I in trouble or something?”
“Not at all,” Harry smiled. “I suppose I’m just curious about you, that’s all.”
“About what, exactly?”
“About why a young man with over £5 million in credit here isn’t off enjoying his winnings and instead comes back every night.”
“I’m a gambling addict,” Tomlinson said easily.
“No, you’re not,” Harry said easily. “Addicts are sloppy. They take too many risks.”
“I take plenty of risks.”
“It’s not a risk if you seem to know the outcome will work in your favor, is it?”
Tomlinson lifted his brows.
“I hope you’re not accusing me of cheating.”
“I am not,” Harry said. “And that’s what’s remarkable. You’re good enough to have the confidence of someone who has already rigged the game in their favor.”
Tomlinson’s mouth twitched, and he shrugged and lifted his beer to his lips.
“Look, if you’re just going to compliment me over and over, I appreciate the flattery, but I have more games scheduled tonight,” Louis said. “I like to play blackjack at least six times and poker three times every night.”
“Well, I’d hate to delay you, then,” Harry said. “Thank you for humoring me, Mr. Tomlinson.”
“Sure,” Tomlinson said. He slid off his stool and held up a hand, signaling for the bartender. “You can go ahead and take that drink off Mr. Styles’ tab and put it on mine, thanks.”
Harry opened his mouth, but Tomlinson turned to him and shrugged, his smile sharp.
“I made £30,000 in one game,” he said. “I can afford to pay for my own drink.”
Harry closed his mouth and nodded, waving to the bartender who was looking at him with wide eyes.
“You heard Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry said, and the bartender slipped away.
“Well,” Tomlinson said, tapping the bar top twice. “I assume I’ll see you again.”
“Maybe,” Harry offered, and Louis just snorted.
“Maybe,” he echoed, and then he was walking away, slipping easily across the casino floor to another blackjack table. He found one easily, pulling out a chair, smiling and laughing with the other men seated there as a new game was dealt out.
Harry watched him, taking slow sips of his drink as he watched Louis. He never played for long. He was efficient, never taking a second longer than he needed to lay down a hand that was deadly to the other players. And he was off to another table, to another set of players whose pockets he had not yet emptied.
Harry thought back to the thin file he had pulled on the boy, the simple paper with basic information, his photo at the top with those intense blue eyes, his name printed beside it.
His name, which Harry thought of now, as he watched the human flit to his first poker table of the night, his step light and his smile steady, as if he was not about to bring the entire casino to its knees.
Louis.