Archive of Our Own

The first thing Louis smells is cologne. Some vaguely air-freshener-y cologne. Probably called Fresh or Meadow Life, probably came in a nicely packaged box with a sheet billowing in the wind as the backsplash. Hm…

Wait.

Louis doesn’t own a cologne called Fresh or Meadow Life. On second thought, Louis doesn’t own any cologne, now that he no longer has Luke’s to use at whim. So maybe those are his sheets he’s smelling? But no, he hasn’t washed his sheets in nearly a decade (give or take) because laundry is literally the dullest activity next to grocery shopping and Louis firmly avoids dull things; his sheets typically smell of warm skin and aftershave. On a good day.

Brows pushing together, he opens his eyes, blinking into the curtain-clad window next to him, its soft grey hues glowing and gently bumping against the windowsill in the breeze. It seems overcast today, seems—

Wait. Wait a fucking minute.

Something heavy plunks in Louis’ stomach as he hoists himself onto his elbows, assaulted by the pale silvery light as his body whines in protest, eyes widening into complete circles.  

Several things assault him at once:

1.    He’s sore. Why the fuck is he sore?? His bum feels bruised.
2.    He doesn’t have grey curtains. He doesn’t have any sort of curtains. This is not his window, those aren’t his curtains, and this is most definitely not his fucking flat.
3.    He’s naked.
4.    There is a human being in the bed next to him.

Shit.

His throat clicks as he swallows, hands fisting into the sheets as he resists the wild urge to scream because holy goddamn shit, Louis slept with someone last night. He had a one night stand.

Balking, he sits up a bit more, head whipping around as he takes in his surroundings (large bedroom with clean white walls, sparse decorations, a Biggie poster, and sleek furniture that still smells new) before he takes in the body next to him that’s currently slumbering peacefully; just a white lump in a bed, breaths deep and elongated, brown hair poking out from a pile of high thread count sheets.

He’s never had a one night stand before. And, given that he’s been at uni for two years now, it’s sort of an on-going joke with his mates; Tommo, of all people, never had a one night stand?? He should be a seasoned vet with waking up beside fluffy-haired strangers whose names he can’t recall. It’s always been his nature to be wonderfully social, flirty, and sexual so, really, it’s almost as if he’s missed his calling.

But, thing is, Louis’ been in relationships all through uni, hasn’t really lived the single life for any extended stretch of time, so. So he opted out of slagging it out at the clubs with everyone else, instead spending his nights on the lap of whoever he’s been dating, cuddled up on a lumpy couch and studiously completing his homework in between lazy fucks and Netflix marathons.

So this is all new territory.

Louis is waking up in a literal stranger’s bed. Without a handbook or any recollection as to how he’s gotten here. And there is pain and too much sunlight and, fuck, now that he notices—a pretty severe headache to top it all off. And shit, his throat is scraped dry, too. When was the last time he had water, holy shit—

“Ngh…”

Louis jumps, blinking past any intense physical discomfort he’d just been pondering as his head snaps back to the now-stirring lump beside him, his heart pausing.  

Alright, so Stranger is waking up.

Good. This won’t be awkward at all.

Carefully, he leans over, curiosity getting the better of him as he makes to get a look; Stranger’s back is to him, swaddled up and covered. His hair is everywhere, splayed across the pillow every which way… It’s curly. And really long—shit, is that still his hair? Okay, it’s really, really long. Dear god, did Louis fuck Rapunzel last night?

He leans over that much more, bracing his hand on the ebony headboard as he slowly maneuvers his body to a better angle so as to peer at Stranger’s face and maybe jog a memory or two—

Before his hand suddenly slips on the headboard and he face-plants into Stranger’s shoulder.

“ARGH!” Stranger now yelps, limbs jolting into life as Louis screams right along with him, face igniting with shame as he scrambles back to his side of the stranger’s bed.

Everything happens very quickly.

Stranger snaps upward, looking wildly around the room before his eyes settle on Louis, arms scrabbling to cover his chest with the fallen blankets. Eyes as wide as beach balls. Large hands gently quivering. Tattooed arms taught and glued to his body. He screams for approximately thirty seconds before he falls completely silent, Louis following suit, his own arms splayed out behind him, blankets fallen to his waist, hair probably in every blasted direction because he tosses like the tide when he sleeps.

Stranger stares at Louis. Blinks once.

Louis stares back, motionless.

And then they erupt simultaneously.

“What are you doing?!” they shout-ask as one, the distance between them gaping like an endless, awkward chasm, their bodies humming with tiny blips of adrenaline.

Louis’ never having a one night stand ever again.

“I was staring at you,” he blurts, still red and warm and caught as Stranger swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. He looks terrified.

“Why were you screaming?” he asks, curls wild.

“Because you were screaming,” Louis replies instantly, afraid to move. “Why were you screaming??”

Stranger gapes. “Because you fell on me!”

“I’m sorry, I just slipped while I was staring at you!”

Awkward. Dammit, Louis.

They continue to stare at each other.

Stranger looks nearly petrified now, white as the sheets he’s using to cover his nipples, eyes blinking in tandem with the ticks of a nearby clock.

The silence feels loud as neither one of them moves. It’s awful.

“Uhm,” Louis begins, just trying to break up the tension a bit, interrupting the mid-morning breeze. “Good morning?” He scratches his head, tries to pull up a smile that feels tight on his hungover, sleep-wrinkled cheeks.

Stranger relaxes infinitesimally, hands fumbling with the sheets. He nods just a fraction, clearing his throat. His eyes look puffy and the wince in his expression suggests his hangover is probably akin to Louis’. “Good morning.” His voice sounds like lumpy hot cocoa and it rolls down Louis’ tense back.  

He knows literally shit all about this person. Doesn’t even recognize him. Given how much he drank last night, it’s hardly surprising that he doesn’t—at all—but still, Louis has no fucking clue what to do right now and they’re still just eying each other, weariness hinted in the corners of their mouths.

Does Stranger recognize Louis? Given the wide expanse of his eyes, he assumes not. Though, to be fair, that could be due to the fact that Louis just body-slammed him awake…

“How, uh, how was your sleep?” Louis asks, coughing into his palm and pretending that, in doing so, he didn’t just potentially dislodge his brain. He needs to pee. He needs water ASAP. He might throw up. Fuck, he’s hungover.

Stranger nods before he even begins speaking, tucking strands of hair behind his ear, one corner of the sheet falling. Revealing a sprinkle of tattoos and one perky nipple. With a bite mark cozily wrapped around it. Louis stares at it; that’s his bite mark. He’s staring at his own handiwork that he has no recollection of making on a stranger that he has no recollection of meeting. Cool. Cool stuff.

He only startles out of his thoughts when he hears the crackled rumble of Stranger’s voice. “It was good. Solid. Very restful.” That’s a lie. Louis can tell by the timbre of his voice. “How about yours?”

At least he’s polite.

“Productive,” Louis quips in response, unable to look away from the nipple.

Stranger follows his gaze, neck flushing when his eyes meet with the bite mark. A small smile dabs at his lips when he looks up though, so maybe he does remember something from their rendezvous? “I’d say so,” he mumbles, his words as warm as the flecks of sun splayed over their bodies. He relaxes that much more, his other hand slowly releasing the sheet as he shifts, eyes still on Louis; with an edge of gained confidence, they flick over Louis’ torso and arms. “Nice tattoos,” he remarks, a twist in his lips as his eyes dance back up. “Couldn’t see them in the dark last night,” he rushes to add.

“Right,” Louis nods. So Stranger clearly remembers. Which is good despite the fact that Louis clearly does not. “Same to you. Now I can see yours as well. And may I say that I very much enjoy that, uh…explicitly illustrated mermaid.” He nods towards Stranger’s arm where there appears to be a mermaid with a vagina. Interesting. “Nice detailing.”

“And I like your bird,” Stranger nods back, extending an arm and pointing one long finger towards Louis’ forearm, fingertip brushing skin. “I didn’t know birds had pubic hair.”

“I didn’t know mermaids had them either,” Louis offers, a smile touching his lips despite his physical misery.

What an unconventional way to start a morning—discussing pubic hair and tattoos over a one night stand in a strange flat with a raging hangover. How quaint.

“Well, they’re good luck,” Stranger smiles then, offering up a half-shrug. He eyes Louis, something easier and sunnier slowly overcoming his features. “I reckon pubic-haired birds are as well.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Louis nods, smiling just a bit fuller now despite his probably rank breath and the kink in his neck. “But you know what’s not good luck? This fucking hangover.”

“Thank fuck,” Stranger exhales, smile sliding off his face as he slumps back into the pillows, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I was afraid I was the only one who felt like shit.”

“You didn’t have to pretend like you weren’t suffering on my account,” Louis snorts as he sinks down as well. He watches Stranger, watches how his tendons ripple beneath skin, watches the cut of his profile against the light. He’s very pretty. Good job, Drunk Louis. “By all means—throw up, groan, burp. Do what you must. I’m about to head to the bathroom myself and stick me head in the toilet.”

Softly, Stranger chuckles, sending a ripple through the mattress. Louis smirks. “Didn’t want to be impolite,” he murmurs, deep as can be. Louis’ decided he likes his voice.

“Oooh, a gentleman,” Louis smiles, closing his eyes against the assault of natural light. Awful. “I’ve landed meself a real prince.”

“Maybe a prince last night,” Stranger reasons, thumbing at his temples as he slowly sits up again and throws off the blankets, swinging legs over the side. “But definitely a toad this morning.”

Louis shoots him a glance, throwing his own sheets off. His feet are cold but his legs are a little sticky with warmth. “Not a toad. Just a rumpled prince.” He squints his nose when Stranger offers a warbled smile over his shoulder. “With bad breath. And incredible bags under the eyes. My lord, you could easily carry my wallet and keys in those—“

“Oi,” Stranger laughs genuinely, wincing that much with the movement as he clutches a hand to his stomach. “Don’t make me laugh. Hurts.”

“Sorry. I’m very charming, so it comes with the territory. Should’ve warned you.” Louis flashes a grin, impressed with his own wit despite being mildly panicked and severely physically uncomfortable. All before his morning cuppa, too.

“Indeed,” Stranger snorts, rolling his eyes. But Louis still spots his smile. “It’s dangerous to walk around with that kind of weapon unsheathed, you know.”

This time, Louis actually laughs; immediately, his hand shoots up to his head, something sharp splitting something open. “Ow.”

“Payback,” Stranger grunts, standing up on creaky legs. They’re incredible legs, though. Give him that. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom. If that’s cool?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Louis brushes aside, waving one weak hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna peel myself off these blankets and scrounge up some water. Would you like—“

“God, yes,” Stranger replies, low and desperate as he hobbles to the doorway, using nearby objects for support. His back is hunched, his balance is off, and his hair hangs in front of his face in limp curls, obscuring him from view. He looks eight thousand years old.

Louis chuckles as he openly watches him, amused and still cushioned by the sanctity of the bed.

“Shut up,” Stranger grumbles, but Louis can hear the smile. “Don’t laugh at me. Don’t judge my struggle.”

Louis just grins—or, tries to. His jaw sorta hurts for some reason. “I’ll get us some water. Maybe make some tea, Creaky?”

“Shut up,” Stranger murmurs before he pauses, head tilting back towards Louis for a moment. “But yes, please. Thank you, um, mate.”

“You’re very welcome, uh”—shit, he doesn’t know this guy’s name—“pal.”

Stranger flashes a thumbs-up in response while Louis chuckles as he watches him slowly descend down the hallway, his footsteps creaking unevenly across the floorboards.

Alright. Now. First thing’s first—Louis’ going to learn how to walk again (never before has he sympathized with Disney’s Ariel so much as he does now, bless her incompetent legs), then discover this man’s kitchen and thus obtain water then tea then, hopefully, some food he can scrounge up in the cabinets. Then he’s getting the fuck out of here and going back to the sanctity of his own flat and bed where he will text his woes and adventures to any and all who will listen—mainly Liam because this is basically all his fault.

There. A plan.

With these comforting thoughts, Louis climbs out of bed, miraculously remaining upright as he ambles out into the hallway. Across the way is a closed door—must be the bathroom, a sliver of golden light pouring from beneath. Down the hall is what appears to be the kitchen. He thinks he sees the corner of a fridge. Excellent.

He walks towards it, taking in the details of his surroundings with as much adequacy as his withered brain will allow. It’s a nicely furnished flat, that’s for damn sure. Black leather couches and armchairs. Polished glass end tables. Enormous flat screen. Modern fireplace nestled beside a wall of windows that overlook the city. Very posh, indeed. The floors are rich and dark and clean. The paintings on the walls are abstract and purplish. There’s a lived-in feel about it all though, something warm despite the cool varnish and sharp corners. Well-read books are piled on the floor next to a recliner that’s bowed with use. A pair of large black-rimmed glasses sits near the control to some game station or another. Pillows dented from a tired head, shoes lined up near the door. A lot of black Nikes, a lot of black combat boots. A leather jacket hangs off of a hook. There’s a weird sculpture in the living room that looks like the Green Lantern. Good stuff.

Too miserable to snoop, Louis heads straight for the faucet, cupping his hands beneath the stream and slurping it like a dog. He’s beyond caring what he looks like right now, too desperate to relieve some of his headache, stomachache, and general ache.

After he’s sufficiently hydrated enough to think properly, his eyes resettle back into his head and he begins opening the sleek wooden cabinets, quickly finding the cups. Nice glass ones, spotless and glimmering in the sun that streams through the living room windows. Sick. He fills them with the chilled, filtered water he finds in the fridge, condensation already beading on the glasses. He guzzles it, hearing Stranger puttering around distantly in the bathroom; the faucet’s been running for awhile. It makes Louis have to pee all the more despite the fact that he’s still thirsty as fuck. Hangovers are finicky bastards. So again, he guzzles water before filling the silver kettle sat on the stovetop, igniting the flame beneath it.

God, he feels like shit. And he’s in this…flat. With this…guy. And, fuck, he may be off of work today but that does not mean he’s in the mood to waste more time than is necessary on this situation. Though he will need to grill Liam ASAP about their previous night cuz he’ll probably know how Louis ended up here, right?

Speaking of Liam…

Stifling a yawn, Louis trots back into the stranger’s bedroom, quickly searching the room for his jeans which he finds precariously balanced atop the closet door. Nice. He fishes his phone out of the pocket—only to find it completely dead.

Of course. Wonderful.

He bites the inner cushion of his lips as he closes his eyes, clutching his dead phone in failed hands, his bladder full, his temples pounding, his jeans hanging from a closet door as he stands in the boxers he hastily threw on once he realized he was naked for longer than was acceptable. This is, quite possibly, the lowest moment of his life.

He needs his phone. He needs to check texts and…other shit. Maybe Stranger will have a charger?

Speaking of Stranger, the bathroom door just creaked open.

As Louis begins making his way back into the hallway, he pauses before the mirror on the opposite wall of the bedroom, startling at his own reflection. He blinks, squinting his eyes as he takes a step closer and examines himself.

Is that…grass in his hair?

He blinks several more times as he cards tentative fingers through the errant strands and, yep, that’s most definitely grass. What on earth?

It’s as he’s bringing up his other hand that he suddenly realizes, for the first time that morning, that he’s also wearing a paper bracelet. It’s neon pink and dirty, folded over and crumpled, and Louis has never seen it before in his entire life.

That definitely wasn’t there last night. Neither was the grass in his hair.

Okay. Alright. So.

“Oh, there you are.”

The voice startles him, causing him to whip around, hands falling to his sides. He finds Stranger leaning against the doorway, curls damp and swept away from his face, face pink and scrubbed, looking worlds more chipper than he had before, all pretty and structured with youthful softness; all the while as Louis stands there with a potential nest on his head and a body that may have already begun to decompose.

“Sorry,” Louis apologizes before he knows why. “I was just inspecting the grass in my hair.” His voice is wry, still a little raw.

Stranger chuckles, rapping knuckles on the doorframe. “Thank god you said that because I actually just found some in mine as well? I didn’t want to mention it cuz, like, it would’ve sounded a little weird…”

Louis’ eyebrows raise. “Right. So we both woke up a mess. Well, that’s comforting.”

“Something like that,” Stranger smiles, eyes slitting with it, a dimple popping in his cheek. He has nice teeth. He has a nice dimple. Hell, he has a nice face. Louis feels his cheek twitch with approval. “Hey, uhm. Are you hungry at all? I was thinking, I could make us some breakfast? If you want? Unless you’re in a rush—“

“No, breakfast would be sick,” Louis nods, scratching his stomach as he stifles another yawn. “I think my stomach’s either begun to eat itself or just shred away into bits. ‘M not quite sure yet. So might as well feed it.”

Stranger smiles beatifically, nodding as he kicks off the doorframe. Despite the dim light of the room, his eyes appear very bright, reflecting a sort of glow that Louis finds very enchanting, considering the circumstances. “I know the feeling. But I’m pretty sure the intense pain is hunger.” His lips twitch. “Our innards are just still swimming in copious amounts of alcohol so they’re a little confused, probably.”

“Drowning, more like.”

“Exactly. So we best fill it up with some carbs, yeah?”

“Oo, I love carbs,” Louis grins wickedly, rubbing his hands together as Stranger laughs and begins to make his way into the kitchen. “I’ll be in the bathroom real quick but I’ll be out in just a moment. Thanks—“ He stops, once again forgetting that he still doesn’t know this man’s name despite the fact that they’ve had a full conversation all morning, probably had raunchy sex last night (that may or may not have taken place outside) and are about to have breakfast together. Louis is definitely never doing this again. “Thanks a ton, Curly,” he supplies uselessly, his brain rebelling against him. He tries not to wince at himself.

But Stranger doesn’t break his stride, his low chuckles carrying down the hall. “No problem at all, Tiny!” he calls over his shoulder, his smile peaking out.

Louis’ smile falls off his face before he throws a balled up t-shirt at Stranger’s retreating hunchback (that utter bastard, how brilliant), before hauling himself into the bathroom.

**

By the time Louis emerges, he can smell bacon. Beatific, glorious bacon.

God, he loves Stranger. Stranger is the best.

He smiles, rubbing hands through the moist strands of his hair (like Stranger, he did a quick hair scrub in the sink) and pulls on his t-shirt from the night before; he freezes.

Now, why the fuck is his shirt wet? It’s like properly damp. As if it had been soaked. His jeans aren’t wet. So why the hell is his shirt??

A frustrated noise erupts in the back of his throat as he rolls his eyes and pokes at the t-shirts in the first drawer he pulls open of a nearby dresser. Stranger is nice—he won’t mind if Louis borrows a shirt. Quickly, he finds a black Bob Marley t-shirt, soft looking and smelling like clean linens. That’ll do just fine.

Donning it with finesse, Louis gives himself one final review in the mirror before he ambles out into the kitchen; the sunlight suddenly seems less offensive, the flat warmer and more tangible.

He grins the minute he spots Stranger, forking crisp bacon onto a plate, mug of tea in his other hand. He stands hunched over the stove, legs thin and elongated beneath his nicely fitted black briefs; they’re adorned with a hot pink waist band that causes Louis to nod appreciatively. Drunk Louis really does have excellent taste. Especially considering that this one night stand apparently likes to cook breakfast for him while half-naked.

“Nice t-shirt,” Stranger smirks the minute he looks up at Louis, nodding appreciatively.

Louis smiles, wry. “Thanks. Hope you don’t mind…?”

Briefly, Stranger’s eyebrows pull together. “Mind? No, of course not. I love Bob Marley.”

Louis only laughs in response, fumbling his footsteps towards the stove; two pieces of toast pop up at that very moment.

“Toast and bacon? And eggs??” he gasps, eying the sunny-side-up yellow orbs nestled between orange slices on two white glass plates. His mouth waters as he wipes a wrist over it, turning to smile up at Stranger and placing a soft hand on the small of his back. Stranger grins to himself. “I might just have to keep you if this is how you treat newbies.” He smiles all the more as he watches Stranger preen, a damp corkscrew-curl hovering over his ear as he flutters soft, oily lids over murky green eyes. Pretty, nice breakfast boy.  

“I’m pretty great. But, nah, eggs and toast are hardly a culinary skill,” Stranger shrugs but it’s with pink tickled skin and lips that tug towards the sky so Louis just presses his palm all the more firmly into his back and props his chin on Stranger’s shoulder.

“It is to me. Whenever I make breakfast, I make sure nobody hears the end of it because bacon’s hard work! You’ve got to be patient and just, like, watch it. Horrible.” He wrinkles his nose, feeling Strangers’ shoulders lift in a laugh. Pleased, he dares a lightning-quick peck to Stranger’s cheek before he steps back fully and grabs his own mug of tea, slurping half of it down before Stranger can even react. “Now. Shall I set the table?”

And the smile he gets in response is totally worth any hangover.

The next few minutes are peaceful, filled with the clinking of silverware and plates as Louis attempts to move about the kitchen with finesse; he always hates asking questions as to where everything’s at (he likes knowing all the answers, so what?, it’s a family trait) so he just fishes around the cabinets for everything, enjoying the fact that Stranger doesn’t feel the need to direct him but rather enjoys letting him find the way for himself. Good.

Eventually though, the table is set and breakfast is ready and Louis beams proudly as he folds his hands behind his back and rolls up on the balls of his feet, proud.

“All set, sir,” he smiles sunnily.

Stranger grins, bumping his shoulder as he passes him, a full plate in each hand. “All cooked, sir.”

“I did the hard part,” Louis adds airily and Stranger just rolls his eyes, still smiling, as he settles down at the table, gesturing for Louis to sit.

They eat in sporadic silence, scarfing down food without shame as they trade pleasantries and laugh about the way they eat—“You chew incredibly loudly” and “Why does your tongue do that?” and “Did you actually just fit half of that entire piece of toast in your mouth?”—all the while as they accidentally bump ankles beneath the table, slurp their tea, and steal each other’s bacon for no reason other than just to fuck with each other.

At one point, Louis flicks a bit of egg into Stranger’s hair, delighted to see it stick.

“Just trying to flirt,” Louis blinks innocently through a mouthful of it.

Stranger flicks a breadcrumb at him with one hand in response, the other fishing the aforementioned out of his tangled curls. “Stop talking with your mouth full, caveman. Were you never taught manners?”

“Don’t pretend like this doesn’t turn you on,” Louis retorts just as a clump of egg falls from his lips and they both freeze momentarily, watching as it plops onto the table, before they meet eyes and laugh, cringing.

“Disgusting,” Stranger beams as Louis laughs, cheeks red, and dabs at his mouth with a napkin.

“Sexy as hell, that’s me,” Louis tries-not-to-giggle, voice loud enough to startle the peace of the room because he always gets loud when he’s flustered or flirty or embarrassed. Another family trait.

Stranger reclines in his chair, tilting his head as he observes him, lips still soft and upturned. “Something like that.”

They quiet for a moment, finishing up the dregs of their tea; Stranger looks out towards the windows, squinting into the sun. “Wonder what time it is…” he mumbles distantly, mostly to himself.

“Oh, hey,” Louis begins, setting down his glass and wiping his mouth. “Speaking of—me phone’s dead. I don’t suppose you happen to have a charger?”

At this, Stranger’s gaze slides over to him, his eyebrows drawn. “Charger? Why would I have brought a charger?” He laughs once, tilting his head as if to study Louis. “Surely you’ve got in one of these cabinets, or whatever. I mean, you have an iPhone, don’t you? They come with one.”

Louis pauses, slowly setting down his mug. “Wait, what? What do you mean?” he asks, feeling a strange twist in his lower abdomen.

Stranger blinks. “Well, when you buy an iPhone, it comes in this little box and there’s a charger—“

“No, no, no,” Louis interjects, shaking his head. He leans closer, looking Stranger directly in the eye. “No, I mean, why do you think I’d have a charger here?”

Again, Stranger blinks. “Because this is your flat…?” He enunciates the sentence slowly, as if he were speaking to a very small toddler. Or a dog.

And Louis’ stomach whooshes away. “I thought this was your flat,” he says dumbly.

Stranger stares. “My flat?” he asks, a little taken aback, blinking more rapidly. “What? What do you mean you thought this was my flat?” he asks, jabbing his finger into his chest. “This is your flat!”

Holy fucking shit.

Louis gapes, neck prickling. “This isn’t my flat,” he low-key panics, watching as Stranger’s eyes widen even more.

“This isn’t your flat?”

“No.”

Stranger swallows. “This isn’t my flat.”

“This isn’t your flat?!”

“No!”

“Well then whose flat is this?!”

They stare at each other for a minute, eyes wide and terrified; it feels much like this morning, actually, that same frozen ‘what the fuck is happening’ feeling spilling over Louis’ limbs.

Fucking shit, he is never, ever doing this ever fucking again.

“Alright, so we should probably, like, search the flat,” Stranger reasons, clearly trying to be calm and clearly failing as they stare at each other from across a foreign table, bellies full with a stranger’s food. “Just for clues? For clues.”  

Clues? Clues??

“What do you mean, search the flat for clues? Don’t you know where we are?!” Louis squawks, face suddenly hot. Why is he hot? Everything got hotter.

“No!” Stranger yelps, wide-eyed. “I’ve never been here before!”

“But don’t you remember anything about last night?” Louis shrieks, beginning to stand up because there are bolts in his legs and he needs to stand, dammit.

He’s panicked. Louis is panicked and he’s terrified.

“No!” Stranger repeats, gesturing helplessly. “I was too drunk, I’m sorry! I don’t even remember your name, if we’re being honest. I’m sorry, I know I should’ve said something—“

“I don’t know your name either!” Louis shouts, adrenaline beginning to blip into his system before he suddenly pauses, taking in this newfound information. Stranger doesn’t know him either? “Oh, thank god,” he suddenly exhales in relief, hands planting on the table as he hangs in his head, body slumping. “I don’t feel like such a prick now. I was too embarrassed to say anything.”

“So was I,” Stranger nods, but he’s now biting his smile away, the manic panic slowly ebbing away as his cheek fattens into a smile, his eyes glinting with suppressed laughter.

Louis’ own smile budding, he turns his head, blinking over at the man before him. “So. Who the fuck are you?” he asks but laughter is itching its way into his voice. The entire situation is so absurd that’s he can’t even begin to grasp it. “What is your name and where are we?”

Tiny, bubbling giggles slip from the man’s lips as he speaks, slowly beginning to stand. “My name is Harry and I have no idea whose flat we’re in,” he manages, biting his lip against the sudden onslaught of chuckles. He offers his hand. “And who the fuck are you?”

Now Louis is laughing, taking this Harry guy’s hand and shaking it with exaggerated gusto. Everything is wild. “I’m Louis and I have no fucking clue as to where we are either. I just really hope we’re still in England.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh god!” he gasps but he continues to laugh as their hands release. “What if we’re in France or something?”

“Then we’ll sure as hell make a day of it, though I can almost assure you we are not in another country,” Louis shakes his head as his chuckles subside, pulling himself upright as he runs a hand through his unruly hair. “But even so. We should probably make sure. I mean, we had grass in our hair this morning. You never know…”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, head snapping in every direction as he takes a tentative step, bones clicking. “Maybe we should go outside? Check the area out? Just, like, what streets we’re on.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Louis claps, immediately grabbing Harry’s hand and tugging him along. “Good job, Curly Harry man. Let’s check out the area!”

Harry grins as he lets himself be pulled, their feet sliding on the floor as they make their way towards the door. “If we’re in France, you’re buying me lunch,” he smiles, words curled like steam drifting from a hot cuppa.

“Deal. And if we’re not, then it’s on you.”

They exchange a smile as they open the door without any trepidation about the fact that Louis’ only wearing boxers and a t-shirt, Harry only wearing his pink and black briefs. They drift into the hall and press the button for the lift, hands still tangled up like webs as they stand there, barefoot, side by side in a foreign building.

He feels Harry glance sidelong at him. “What if we’re in America?” he whispers conspiratorially.

Louis fights a smile. “We’re not in America,” he whispers back, fingers comfortable against Harry’s. Harry’s a very comfortable sort, though.

“But what if we are?”

“We’re not.”

“But what if?”

“Oi, fuck off,” Louis laughs, unable to resist, and Harry smiles triumphantly, tugging on his hand as the doors ding open.

“Come along, Louis,” he says primly, smiling even wider when Louis continues to chuckle. “Time to map out our wheareabouts.”

“Alright, Magellan,” Louis snorts.

The doors ding shut.

**

“You go that way, I’ll go this way, and we’ll meet back here and tell each other what roads we’re on, alright?”

Harry nods, serious as can be, the street buzzing with passerby and the aggressive engines of traffic. “Alright. On the count of three we’ll disperse.”

Very official for someone who’s standing in front of a foreign building in nothing but their pants.

Louis snorts but counts anyway.

“1…2…3.”

“Go!” Harry shouts, immediately sprinting off down the street and Louis can only gape at him as he stands there in his t-shirt and boxers.

“You are an absolute nutter!” he shouts at him but it ends on a breathy laugh as he turns and strolls down the street, eyes flickering over buildings, trying to gain a sense of direction.

About ten minutes later, they reunite in front of the building, Harry panting and grinning wildly, hair askew, hands on hips.

“Why on earth did you run?” Louis asks, folding arms over his chest.

“Because,” Harry shrugs, naked torso warm with heat. “It felt appropriate.”

“Well, I didn’t run,” Louis counters.

“Means that I won,” Harry grins, tipping his chin upward and Louis flicks his stomach.

“Enough outta you. Now, what road are we on, Harry?”

“We’re on Kensington and Clark, Louis.”

Louis nods. “Excellent. Good. I found us to be on Winston and Clark.”

Harry claps his hands together. “Marvelous!”

They grin at each other, passerby eying them.

“So do you know where we are?” Louis asks, hands now on his hips.

“Not a clue,” Harry answers brightly.

“Me neither!”

“Brilliant.” He pauses, grin fading. “Hey, uhm. You didn’t lock the door upstairs, did you? Because we kinda just ran down here and… Didn’t bring anything. So, like, our wallets and phones are still up there…” He drifts off, staring at Louis.

Louis’ eyes widen, his heart dropping. “Oh, shit.”

They stare at each other for exactly one second before they take off, running into the building at high speed.

**

Luckily, the door to the mystery flat was indeed open and nothing in their momentary absence had been stolen.

“So now we just need to figure out where we are,” Louis nods decisively, steepling his fingers as he sprawls on the leather couch. It’s comfy as shit, whoever owns it.

“And how we got here,” Harry adds, sprawling out across from him and kicking his legs onto Louis’ lap like he’s known him for longer than a handful of fuzzy, bewildering hours.

Louis raises a brow in return. “Cheek,” he comments but it’s with respect.

Harry just beams sunnily.

“Well, what do you remember last?” Louis asks, leaning his head back into the cushion. “Because, if I’m being completely honest, I don’t remember even seeing you last night.”

“Hm, neither do I,” Harry says slowly, narrowing his eyes in thought as he stares across the room contemplatively, hands rested on his now-clothed stomach. (He also borrowed a t-shirt after Louis had a minor meltdown over wearing some random bloke’s clothes. It was irrational but intense.) He chews the inside of his cheek as he sweeps his lashes in slow blinks, face all scrunched up. Louis watches him, amused, as he settles palms on his bare feet. Warm. “You know, I’ve never had a one night stand before,” Harry ends up saying instead, glancing over at Louis.

“Neither have I,” he shrugs, poking at a stack of video games on the table. “Never really felt the need or had the opportunity, I suppose.” He smiles wryly. “But since I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend, I guess it seemed like a good time to try new things.”

“Oh,” Harry fishmouths for a moment, straightening his posture as he makes to remove his feet from Louis’ lap—who stops him, flashing an odd look. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you alright? Like, is everything—“ he prattles, concern writ clear across his face.

But Louis just brushes it away with the flat of his hand, settling deeper into the couch. “Nah, I’m more than alright. I’m glad it’s over, to be quite honest. He was clingy. Called me ‘pookie’ unironically and never let me sit down unless he was in my lap.”

Surprised, Harry laughs, relaxing his posture again as he rests slitted green eyes on Louis, leaned back and long. His arm is bent behind his head. “Well, in that case, good riddance,” he smirks, poking a toe into Louis’ stomach playfully. “I promise I won’t call you ‘pookie’ unless it’s ironically.” His eyes widen just as Louis opens his mouth. “Not that I’m your boyfriend, or anything! I’m not—like—er—“

“Heh, no, I get it,” Louis chuckles, shaking his head as he pats Harry’s foot. “No worries. Though, I probably wouldn’t mind if you said it. You can call me anything you want.” He grins, flashes a wink.

Harry’s smile bumps his chest. “That’s what you said last night.”

“Oi, don’t act like you remember a thing,” Louis snorts, grabbing a silver-etched satin pillow to lob at his head. Harry makes a muffled grunt of protest, which only makes Louis lob him harder. “We still have to figure out how to get home. And what happened. I wonder where Liam is…”

“Liam?” Harry blinks, sputtering out bits of his hair as he emerges from the pillow he’d been using as a shield. “The guy the party was for?”

“Yeah!” Louis grins, brightening. “He’s my best mate! Going away to study abroad in America.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s what the party was for,” Harry smiles, sitting up. “He’s Niall’s good friend.”

“You know Niall?” Louis blinks, surprised.

Harry laughs. “Yeah! He’s my best mate! Known him since I was twelve!”

“Well, I’ll be,” Louis tuts, letting his smile pool as he observes Harry fondly. “Guess we know the same people.”

“Funny, that,” Harry remarks, unblinking and soft.

They stare at each other a moment, Louis feeling a tiny ripple of light across his chest, before he claps his hands onto Harry’s feet with a loud thwack, definitive and firm. Harry jumps.

“Alright, then. We need to get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods with a sigh, smile diminishing a bit as he watches Louis stand before following in his wake. “Can’t just sit here all day. Would be a bit awkward if the guy came home.”

Louis snorts. “To say the least.”

Sharing a smile, they trudge back into the bedroom, sifting through discarded clothing and rumpled sheets.

“My t-shirt’s soaked and I have no idea why,” Louis mumbles, sniffing it carefully.

Harry lifts his head, eyebrows risen. “Mine too! And so are my trousers!”

“Oh, well mine are dry,” Louis says easily, unaffected. “So that’s unfortunate for you.” He smiles angelically as he shuffles on his jeans, stifling a laugh as Harry glares at him, clutching his own soggy black ones in his hand.

“A true gentleman would offer me his,” Harry sniffs as he slowly begins pulling them over his legs.

“It’s clear you don’t remember a thing about me if you think ‘gentleman’ is any way indicative of me,” Louis quips and their smiles inflate still more. “Though, just what the fuck we got up to last night is beyond me.”

“Hm, yeah…” Harry drifts, thoughtful and silent as he nibbles on his bottom lip, fiddling with the button of his jeans. He pauses, watching Louis out of the corner of his eye before he clears his throat, affecting nonchalance with a half-shrug. “We could, you know… Try to figure it out.”

Louis glances up at him, zipping up his jeans. “Figure what out?”

“Our night,” Harry shrugs, but he’s looking pointedly at him, unmoving. “Like, we have no idea how we met, what happened… We wake up with wet clothes and weeds in our hair, in some stranger’s flat, and we don’t remember what happened—like, shouldn’t we at least try to figure it out? What if something bad happened? You know?”

“What, you think we should retrace our steps?” Louis asks, brows pulling together, but his voice is contemplative. It’s not a bad idea.

Harry seems to agree, his face and posture brightening. “Exactly! We can start out at—where were we? Where did we start out?”

“Liam’s flat,” Louis supplies, crossing his arms and nodding as he listens, and Harry snaps his fingers as he grins.

“Exactly. We’ll start at Liam’s flat and just… Go from there?”

“Should we get drunk or something?” Louis ask, unsure because he’s never done anything like this before and what are the rules, even? “Like, just a little bit? Do you think that would help?”

This, Harry appears to ponder, his hand absently coming to rub his chin. “Maybe. Yeah? Yeah. Let’s just, like, share a bottle of wine. It might help us get into the mindset, you know?”

For a moment, they stare at each other and all Louis can do is laugh, hands falling to his sides. “Are we seriously about to recreate the night by getting drunk and hoping to repeat everything?”

“Well,” Harry laughs, flushing just enough to be noticeable. “I mean, we don’t have to do everything…” He glances at Louis before his eyes fall to the floor, toeing at the ground. He’s smiling though.

Louis grins, wicked. “We don’t not have to do everything,” he points out, just because he can.

Harry looks up, grinning. “We’ll play it by ear,” he says, but his tone is all but purred and flirtatious. Excellent.

And so they nod as one, trying to keep the jolts out of their limbs and the stupid smiles off their faces as they laugh and bump and joke, collecting all the remnants of their shit as they clean up after themselves (a true team effort) and rearrange the flat to an almost neurotically pristine degree.

“Stop fluffing the goddamn pillow, Harry,” Louis sighs, trying to tug him away.

“I feel bad, I don’t want to leave a mess—“

“You began cleaning his fridge! You’re not leaving a mess, come on!”

“Should we lock it?”

“Of course we should lock it!”

“But what if this guy doesn’t have his keys?”

“Then he’ll figure it out. Come on, Harry, it’s nearly midday and we aren’t even drunk yet!”

But Louis can’t stop laughing and Harry can’t stop fretting, worrying at his lips as he sends these little smiles Louis’ way before he finally allows him to rush him out the door, soggy shoes on their feet, their voices and laughter echoing down the corridor.

**

“Okay, I’m getting drunk.”

Louis chuckles as Harry wipes his mouth, words dribbled with the wine that he’s swigging from the bottle that they pass between each other, hands slack and fingers sliding across one another’s. They’re in a park—not too far from the Anonymous Flat—and nestled on the swings of the swingset. It’s only noon or so but they managed to find proper cheap wine at the shop on the corner so everything’s been working out really well so far. They even know where they’re at; though, it’s a good twenty/thirty minutes from their respective homes, so. Just how they fuck they landed here is mildly beyond them.

“Me, too,” Louis mumbles with a nod, bringing the bottle back to his mouth. It’s lukewarm and the sun is ghosting on his fingers. Everything’s warm and buzzing. “We’ll figure this out in no time.” He burps, kicks his feet into the pebbles. There’s a nearby fountain spitting out squirts of water that speckle the pavement surrounding it. It’s quite big. Tall. “Nice fountain,” Louis comments, gesturing.

Harry squints at it, nodding as he rubs a hand across his forehead. “Yeah. I think I’m getting drunk.”

Louis smiles, wrapping lips around the bottle once more. “You did mention that.”

“Oh, did I?” Harry’s brows push together as he turns to him, hands in his lap. He’s swaying side to side gently in his swing, feet all tripped up in odd angles. “I didn’t realize.”

“Maybe we should stop drinking.” Louis burps again.

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Harry mumbles, staring off into the distance with a lazy smile. He glances at Louis. “Wanna go down the slides?”

“Most certainly, yes,” Louis nods, already standing up; the ground shifts, as does everything else. So, alright—he’s a little drunk. Cool. “Maybe we should go on the slide upside down.”

“Maybe we should go together and hold hands” Harry smiles, eyes lidded and calm as he hops up and trots away, hips swaying. He’s such a chill flower. Louis likes chill flowers. “Then, after the slides, we’ll go to Liam’s flat.”

“Yes, Liam’s flat,” Louis nods, jogging to catch up with him. “And then we’ll retrace our steps.”

“Brilliant.”

“Brilliant. We’re brilliant.”

“So brilliant. Why have we never done this before?”

“I don’t know but we should definitely do it again.”

Harry holds his hand up for a high-five before he makes to mount the ladder to the slide, grin bright and pink on his face, long strands of his hair wafting in the breeze. “We can call ourselves the Memory Chasers!” He waggles his eyebrows as if he’s just said something illuminating and keeps his hand suspended expectantly, posture proud.

Louis glances at his hand. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. No more wine.” But he slaps Harry’s hand anyway, grinning when he holds onto it and clamps down on his fingers. “Now, let’s go down this slide holding hands.”

“Don’t forget upside down!” Harry trills happily, beginning to climb up with one hand.

“That’s the most important part!” Louis laughs.

The birds chirp all around them, their feet dinging on the metal steps.

**

They survive the slides, somehow. Though there are most definitely a few bumps and bruises, most definitely a sour look in Harry’s eye every time Louis doubles over in laughter thinking about how he face-planted in the pebbles.

“You were the one who said to go upside down,” Harry glares for the tenth time but he’s still holding Louis’ hand.

“You weren’t supposed to be on your stomach, though!” Louis guffaws because, what can he say? He enjoys a good laugh at another’s expense. But he kisses Harry’s cheeks all the same and tucks some of those long curls behind his ears because he’s a pretty sort of grump and Harry smiles easily and doesn’t mind when Louis kisses him, so… So it’s all well. Louis likes him.

“Let’s go to Liam’s,” Harry just sighs, tugging Louis along as his giggles subside.

**

Liam’s not home.

After knocking for fifteen minutes (as Harry and Louis bickered at the door, alternating knocks and stifling laughter in each other’s shoulders at Liam’s expense—turns out, they both enjoy teasing him! Louis’ thrilled), they turn towards each other, still tipsy and warm and rumpled in last night’s clothes. Harry’s jeans are finally drying.

“Well, that wasn’t the important part anyway,” Louis shrugs. “I mean, sure he has the keys to my flat. Sure, he’s got a phone charger.” Harry bites a laugh behind the back of his hand. Louis steps on his toe, if a bit gently. He likes Harry so he figures he can be a bit lenient on him. “Sure, we were going to ask him what happened. Who cares? It’s no big deal. We don’t need him.”

“We’re perfectly fine handling this on our own,” Harry nods, sobering up—or, at least, attempting to appear as such. A smile cracks at his mouth. “Sucks that you’re locked out of your flat, though.”

“What, aren’t you?” Louis asks, blinking.

Harry shakes his head. “I always keep my key in my wallet.” He grins, flicking a finger at the square shape tucked in the pocket of his spandex jeans.

“Bravo,” Louis mumbles wryly, but he flicks the square as well. “Let’s go, then.”

“Go where?”

“To your flat, of course. We can charge our phones and I can call Liam. You can call Niall.”

“No, Louis, that wasn’t the plan.”

“What—“

“We need to do this right,” Harry insists, eyes very serious as he stands very close, wine on his breath. Louis sways as he watches his lips. “Didn’t we just go over this? We don’t need anybody. We can figure this out on our own!”

“But Harry—“

“Come on, Louis. Next stop is that pub down the street. That’s where we went to first, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes but—“

“Excellent. Onward!”

He tugs Louis before another protest can be uttered.

**

The bar doesn’t bring much clarity, the bartender only offering up the information that he’d seen Louis, vaguely remembers seeing Harry, and that they left around ten because the place was getting too crowded. Where they migrated to is still up in the air.

Fortunately, however, this small chunk of bad news is lightened by the fact that Harry is actually a wonderful conversationalist with very warm hands and nice hair.

“Suppose we’ll just walk down the street until things appear familiar?” Harry smiles, almost giggling because he just had another pint while they interrogated the bartender and waited fruitlessly for some clarity to arrive.

“You have incredibly good ideas, Harry—er, what’s your last name?” Louis asks, casually folding his arm around Harry’s as they bump hips down the street, stepping over a wad of gum.

“Styles,” Harry says, slow as a snail as his profile cuts through the sky. “Harry Edward Styles. I’m at uni, am flatmates with Niall who’s a good friend of Liam’s. I’m studying nutrition and I work at the co-op on Main.”

“Shut up, no way,” Louis grins, hip-checking him as he looks up into Harry’s smile-warmed eyes. “Do you go to Larstrom?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, eyes lighting up.

“So do I, shut up!” he near-yells, thwacking Harry on the arm with the back of his hand. He grins, bouncing along on the balls of his feet as they continue walking, eyes flickering over each other. “We go to the same school, sick. I’m flatmates with Liam. We live on Clark, over by the library?”

“I used to have a flat over there!” Harry exclaims happily, mouth still red and moist from the beer. It’s hard to believe that Louis probably did amazing, incredible things with that mouth last night. At this point, he’s almost too shy to proper kiss Harry. And yet they fucked last night. Amazing. “Now we live near that used bookshop that just opened—“

“Oh, the one with the cat,” Louis nods. “I always go in there just to pet her. What’s her name? Olivia?”

“I think it’s Olive,” Harry murmurs, forehead scrunching in thought. “Or Ollie.”

“Is it Allie?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods definitively, turning eyes on Louis. “It’s Allie.”

“Teamwork,” Louis sing-songs, his buzz floating him along as his feet bump cement. “Well. I’m Louis William Tomlinson and I’m studying Communications and Physical Education. Which is a fucked combination but I think it describes me nicely. I live with Liam, who’s me best mate, and I’ve just broken up with a terribly boring boyfriend who liked to kiss me between my eyes which was mortifying, especially in front of mates”—Harry laughs, loud and bird-like—“and this is the first time I’ve been single in years, it seems. First time I’ve had a one night stand. And, fun fact, it’s also the first time I’ve blacked out from alcohol. Nice to meet you, Harry Styles.”

Harry’s smile is wide and consuming as he nods along to Louis’ words, eyes on his lips. “Nice to meet you too, Louis Tomlinson. Where are you from?”

“Doncaster.”

“I’m from Holmes Chapel.”

“Single?”

“Absolutely. Ready to mingle.”

Louis laughs, rolling his eyes; Harry appears pleased. Cutie. “Favorite album?”

“The White Stripes’ ‘Get Behind Me, Satan’,” Harry replies immediately, moseying about. “Yours?”

“The Doors’ ‘L.A. Woman’,” Louis quips back just as fast.

They eye each other, nodding respectfully and trying to school their drunken pup grins.

“Do you like ice cream?” Louis asks, very serious.

Harry nods, just as somberly. “Very much. Do you like picnics?”

“What? I don’t think I’ve ever been on a picnic,” Louis laughs, breaking his façade.

“That needs to change. I like to spend a lot of time outside… I love exercising,” Harry beams, all sunny and perfect because he belongs in a catalogue.

“Fuck off,” Louis deadpans back, and Harry laughs, loud and short. “I like sports. Football. I also enjoy naps and cereal. And staying up all night because I’m rubbish.”

“Do you like sunrises?” Harry asks hopefully, drawing to a stop.

“Only if I’m still awake when I see one. I don’t enjoy them if I’ve just woken up,” Louis half-smiles, glancing over to a rather familiar looking shop window. This appears familiar. Very familiar. “Oi, Harry—this. Does this ring any bells?”

Harry rips his gaze away, surveying the window. Eventually, he nods, slow and calculated. “I think we went to this place,” he points, gesturing to the dimly lit pub next to it. He turns back to Louis, grinning. “Shall we?”

Louis grins back. “We shall.”

Arm in arm, they make their way inside.

**

Again, no luck. But, again, they drink.

“We’ll split one this time,” Louis reasons wisely.

Harry nods, bending low to hear him over the din of football games splashed on the TV screens and the hum of middle-aged men thundering out their beer-tinged conversations. “Just one,” he agrees with a shrug, but his lips tug and Louis smirks in reply.

“We’re going to be blasted, aren’t we?” he asks, flicking hair out of his eyes as he takes a step closer, surveying the place. Nothing ringing a bell.

“Yeah,” Harry hums agreeably, resting a hand on Louis’ lower back. He smiles down at him, chin nearly bumping his chest. “But it might just work.”

Louis laughs. “It just might.”

**

An hour later, clarity arrives.

They’re sitting on a bench on the sidewalk, drunk as shit while they laugh about Harry’s fear of fireworks (Harry had just gigglingly confessed that he’s afraid that, if he were to drive over them somehow, they would explode his car, when suddenly a loud bang cracked through the air, making them both jump sky high and fucking lose it—it was a car exhaust) and the sun is a bit higher in the sky and Louis’ face has begun to hurt from all the smiling it’s been doing.

“For someone who claims he’s got thirty candles lit nearly at all times in his flat, you sure do have some irrational fears,” Louis snorts, legs splayed over Harry’s lap because Louis is a king when he’s drunk—likes to take up other people’s space and flaunt his thighs.

“Candles don’t explode, Louis,” Harry explains rationally but he’s wiping tears from his eyes still, using his big ol’ thumb, and he’s shiny from the alcohol and sun. They’re both in need of a shower. “There’s a difference. Obviously.”

“I feel like…” Louis drifts off, something tugging in his mind. “I feel like I just talked about fireworks recently. Maybe last night? Someone had an uncle who sold them? Or something…” He frowns, pondering.

Harry’s eyes widen as he turns fully toward him, fingers snapping. “Wait. Yes. I remember that too!”

They look at each other, excited.

“Wait, was it that kid with the silvery shaved hair and the nose ring? The sexy one?” Louis asks, something beginning to ebb back in his mind. A dark room, a sexy man with neatly shorn hair and a Louis Vuitton jacket. “He was really fucking rich? Wait, wait—“ Louis yells, flapping his hands as he sits up straight, legs falling from Harry’s lap.

Harry yells too, his own hands flopping as he rushes to speak over Louis, excited and bright. “He was, like, a millionaire and he owned that ballroom! That abandoned ballroom—“

“WE WENT TO AN ABANADONED BALLROOM!” they shout as one, staring at each other with matching elated grins, perched on the edge of the bench.

Harry’s brows lower. “Where was that, exactly?”

Louis pauses. “I have no clue.”

They deflate.

“But wait!” Louis shouts, hand in the air. “It was near that hotel—“

“Ohhh! I know where it is!” Harry shrieks, all thunderous and low and excited as he shoots up to stand, hauling Louis onto his feet with elegant force. “C’mon, let’s get a cab.”

“Did we meet there?” Louis asks, wracking his brain. “Is that when we met? At the ballroom?”

“It must’ve been,” Harry nods, raising his hand as he narrows eyes onto the street. “We both remember the same conversation.”

“We met in a ballroom. That’s so cool…”

Harry grins, just as a cab comes sliding up to the curb. He turns to Louis. “All set?” he asks.

“All set!” Louis chirps, and they scramble inside.

It’s not exactly how Louis intended to spend his day, but… Well. He kind of doesn’t mind. At all.

**

By the time they arrive to the once-charming-but-now-somewhat-dilapidated abandoned ballroom (faded letters peeling from the cheap signs they must’ve added in the seventies, its windows dusty and cracked with only the faint etchings of gold trim, the red velvet ropes patchy and bald in some places), the sun has fallen considerably and the clouds have come to gather, casting blue shadows on pavement and Louis and Harry’s interlocked clammy hands.

Louis’ not even completely sure why they’re still holding hands; it’s sort’ve become habit over the past few hours. Which probably actually isn’t that weird, considering their entire relationship thus far has involved sex, temporary amnesia, inebriation, and giddy exhaustion. Being brought to the brink of physical discomfort and back often speeds up the familiarity between two strangers right quick. There’s no time for hesitation or airs or even pleasantries—Louis’ just been himself this entire time, his mind too boggled with everything to concentrate on being even remotely coy or alluring.

It’s nice. It’s wild, it’s different, it’s completely unorthodox. But it’s entirely alien to anything he’s ever done and it’s nice.

“Well, it’s locked,” Harry sighs after he’d briefly disengaged his hand to peer through the darkened, smudgy windows, tufts of dirt clustered in the cracks. He looks only a fraction disappointed though, already smiling hazily at Louis as he re-laces their fingers. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Louis snorts, tugging Harry along as he approaches the doors, tugs on each one for good measure. “Not like our answers would be in there though, would they? We haven’t exactly been jogging our memories all that well.” He offers a wry smile. “We must’ve drank something fucked if we were both that far gone.”

“Well…” Harry drags out, thumbing at his lip as he zones out, eyes cast to the pavement below. “I do sorta remember a bunch of wine being brought? Like bottles and bottles?”

“Oh, wait,” Louis blinks, memories slowly beginning to twist and morph inside a very small internal window. “Crates or summat, right? Someone delivered, like, crates of wine?”

“Probably the rich kid who owns the ballroom,” Harry smirks, jabbing a thumb in its direction and they both take a moment to just laugh under their breath because this is all so absurd.

“Wild party,” Louis murmurs, shaking his head.

“I think there was punch,” Harry says back, thoughtful and contemplative, his head tilted. “There was punch and I was drinking it out of a chalice?”

“Wait, yeah, I had a chalice, too!” Louis brightens, clasping Harry’s hand all the tighter. “That literally gives nothing away but at least we know we both were drinking mysteriously procured punch out of appropriate stemware.”

“I hope we didn’t join a cult or something,” Harry frowns, but Louis just laughs, his buzz beginning to fade as it’s replaced with something else just as pleasantly fuzzy and melodic.

“At least we would’ve joined it together, yeah?”

“True. And it would explain my stomach.”

Louis stares at him, turning fully to face him as two teens walk past, sharing headphones. They briefly eye him and Harry and he momentarily wonders what they must look like—probably sweaty and buzzed and disheveled in foreign t-shirts, Harry’s jeans still musty and Louis’ shoes damp and smelling of rotten cloth. Fetching pair, the lot of them. Greasy hair and all.

“What’s wrong with your stomach? Is something wrong? You never mentioned before—“

But Harry shakes his head, calm as can be as he lifts a hand to the hem of his t-shirt. “No, no, nothing’s wrong. Just odd.” He lifts it, revealing the white stomach that Louis had seen earlier.

But what Louis hadn’t noticed earlier was the scribbled Sharpie across his abdomen. In his own handwriting.

“Thug Lyfe,” Louis reads dutifully; it takes no Sherlock to conclude that he clearly wrote that. He smiles balefully, catching Harry’s eye. “Yeah, that was actually me. My bad. I don’t know why…”

“Hm,” Harry nods, staring at Louis’ own still-clothed stomach. He stands there, one hand still lazily lifting his shirt, the other in Louis’. “What about you? Did I draw on you?”

“Er, I don’t think so,” Louis mumbles but lifts his shirt anyway, inspecting his skin carefully; nothing. He turns around, surveys for Harry—

And then he hears Harry huff a giggle as he releases his hand, stifling it into his palm.

“What?” Louis asks, quick as lightning as he tries to peer over his shoulder. “What, is there something on my back?”

“Well, um, maybe,” Harry replies, laughter clearly in his tone. “I guess I wrote something, too. A bit, um. Strange.”

“Strange? What did you write? Harry? Harry, what did you write?” Louis presses, louder, as Harry releases a loud barking laugh.

“I wrote ‘PRINCESS’,” Harry admits, pointer finger tracing the letters. Louis shivers a bit, bites down on a smile as he shakes his head. “And then, um… Well, I don’t quite understand it? It must’ve been an inside joke,” Harry coughs, still trying not to laugh as his finger stills on Louis’ back.

“What? What is it?” Louis presses, shuffling impatiently. He literally hates suspense. Detests it. Suspense was never a good idea, who made that shit up?

“Well, all I wrote is ‘midnight memories’ with an arrow pointed to your bum.”

They both fall silent at that for exactly three seconds before they burst out laughing.

“I don’t know what that fucking means,” Louis exclaims, turning around to face Harry, shirt still lifted to his nipples.

“I have an idea of what it means,” Harry grins lasciviously, his own shirt still lifted and, shit, they most definitely look crazy, Louis’ sure of it. Especially when a nice looking lady in a business suit passes them, phone pressed to her ear as she glances at them then wildly looks away, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. Louis loves it.

“Look, I honestly have no recollection of this place or how we met or anything,” Louis admits, hiccupping as he briefly bumps his bare stomach against Harry’s—who giggles, only reaching out a soft hand to pet Louis’ for just a tiny second before he pulls away—and lowers his shirt, looking the building up and down. “I say we just call it a day, admit defeat, and sleep off the rest of our misery.”

For a moment, Harry’s smile quiets as he carefully lowers his shirt, tucking hair behind his left ear and pulling his lip into his mouth. His face is mostly expressionless which, given the short time Louis’ known him, seems mildly out of character.

“Alright?” Louis asks, just to be sure as he brushes knuckles along Harry’s forearm.

“Yeah,” he nods but it’s not all that convincing, a smile just flashing his lips like lightning before it’s gone. “Maybe… Well, since you don’t have your keys yet… Maybe you could come over? To my flat? Just if you want—“

“Well, yeah,” Louis blinks dumbly, confused. “Wasn’t that the plan?”

“Oh,” Harry blinks back. His expression brightens. “Oh! Oh, alright! Cool. Cool, yeah, let’s go then. I think you’ll like it—Niall’s a bit of a mess but he’s alright. Likes music a lot so his guitars and shit are everywhere but he’s really good and I can play a little, too! Oh, and we have this really good tea I just got yesterday that I want to try so we can make it while we charge our phones!”

And Louis can only smile to himself as he watches Harry prattle on, pulling him down the street with the sun back in his eyes.

**

“Ta-daaaa!” Harry sings proudly as he pushes open the door to his flat, allowing Louis to step inside first--

Only to be met with the sight of Niall and some man standing in the living room naked.

“Oh, shit!” Louis yelps, turning around immediately and bumping into Harry’s chest, who screeches like a rabbit as he wraps arms around Louis and shields him from sight.

“Niall!” Harry shouts, clearly horrified. Louis has to bite his tongue to resist laughing or screaming again. “What are you doing here? Put some clothes on, please! We have company!”

“I know we do,” Niall says easily, breezily. “Zayn likes being naked, though. You do too, don’t play coy, mate.”

The sound of a can being opened follows the nonchalant voice and Louis just blinks against Harry’s chest, wondering when Harry will release him and wondering what the fuck is actually happening to his life.

“How are you, Louis?” Niall calls, still unfazed and still not making to cover himself.

“Good, thanks,” he manages through a mouthful of Harry’s shirt and tries to free his hand to flash a thumbs up.

Luckily, Harry must realize his death-grip because he exhales a little as he takes a step back, rubbing hands over Louis’ shoulders as if to pacify him or make sure he’s in once piece. It’s unexpectedly protective and caring and, oddly, cute as hell. Harry’s brows are furrowed as he mumbles an, “I’m sorry,” and it’s so concerned that Louis just grins and can’t resist petting his cheek with his knuckles, thumbing at Harry’s chin.

“You’re so lovely, you know that?” Louis grins, half-fond, half-laughing and it eases the lines of Harry’s expression. So he turns around, smiling and trying to keep his chuckles at bay as Niall politely dons boxers and makes his way over, the other man—Zayn, apparently—sitting on the floor in all his naked glory, looking peaceful.

Wait. He has silver hair. Silver shorn hair. And a nose ring. Wait, wait wait…

He must notice Louis staring because he flashes a small smile that forms slow like ripples on a lake. “Enjoy the flat?” he asks, calm and soft.

Louis blinks, momentarily pausing in his mind’s workings. “Pardon?”

“The flat,” Zayn repeats, gesturing to him and Harry. “Last night, did you enjoy the flat?”

There’s a brief stretch of silence, one only filled by Louis’ wheels whirring at high speed before Harry’s voice suddenly forms over his shoulder.

“That was your flat?”

Both Niall and Zayn share a look before they laugh.

“Well, yeah,” Zayn chuckles, leaning back on his hands as Niall patters over to them, one hand on his hip, the other holding a beer. Hair askew.

“Because I took Zayn back, he lent you his flat,” Niall explains, amused. “Because Louis couldn’t find his keys.”

“Well, shit,” Louis deadpans, turning to look at a startled Harry. “That explains some of it, then.”

Niall looks even more amused now, borderline incredulous. “What, you don’t remember?”

“Literally, not a thing,” Louis admits and Niall laughs again, loud and echoed.

“Hey, you’re wearing my shirts. Cool,” Zayn nods, looking pleased.

Louis and Harry just blink.

“Yeah, alright, so you probably drank too much of that fucking concoction Calvin made,” Niall nods, looking between the two. “I had only a glass, meself. Tasted like shit. Have no idea what he put in it but even I can admit that it was a bit strong.”

“Great,” Louis sighs but Harry is listening, intent as he steps to Louis’ side.

“What else?” he implores, concentrated. Louis thinks he’s adorable.

“Well. Let’s see,” Niall hums, tonguing at his teeth as he ponders. “Well, you remember starting at Liam’s right?”

They both nod.

“Alright, well then there were too many people so we decided to hit up that pub down the street, yeah?” Nod again. “Then that got a bit rowdy and crowded so we moved to a few other pubs. At one point, there was some hen do going on and, Louis, I know you got in on some of that.” He motions with his hand in a twirly way and it explains nothing.

“What do you mean I got ‘in on some of that’?” he questions blankly, terrifying possibilities whirring through his brain.

“You know—made best friends with the bride-to-be, stole their shit. Wore some of their clothes. That sort,” Niall dusts away with his hand, completely unconcerned.

Did he just say ‘wore some of their clothes’?  

“Riiight,” Louis replies slowly as his eyebrows climb and he feels Harry’s shoulders shaking with a tiny laugh beside him. So he elbows him. “Alright. Wore women’s clothes. Good to know. Continue, Niall.”

“Alright,” Niall nods, taking a sip of his beer and licking his lips before he continues, “so that’s when Zayn suggested going to that place his family owns—that abandoned ballroom, or whatever—“

“Oh, shit, that was Zayn?” Louis startles, beginning to feel a touch bewildered as puzzle pieces slowly snap into place, all the while as Harry nods with very serious understanding, as focused as a student on the day before final exams.

Two types of people, Louis supposes.

“Yeah, of course,” Niall responds breezily before continuing. “I think, by that time, we were pretty pissed. You two were, at least. You kept insisting that we race there and I believe you stole a trolley from somewhere? Somehow? Harry, I’m ninety percent sure you pushed Louis there the entire way. Kept calling him your ‘Princess’ or something…”

“Princess?” Louis repeats flatly at the same time Harry’s eyes widen with a “We stole something?”

Niall just stares between the two as metaphorical lightbulbs flicker on and off between them, Louis blinking through the haze of alien information that is only very distantly familiar. But it’s all foggy and murky like the surface of a stagnant pond.

Damn it.

“Sooo,” Louis begins slowly, eyebrows raising as his mind snaps through bits of scenarios. “Is that why I have bruises on my bum, then? From being pushed in a trolley at top speed?”

“Wait, wait, so we’d already met by the time we went there?” Harry asks without a care for Louis’ bum, hand on his chest as he gapes at Niall, looking somewhatly appalled. “I thought we met at the ballroom!” He frowns, disappointed and pouted.

Louis stares at him, caught between about seven different emotions. “Harry. Our entire relationship has been a lie.”

But Harry smiles, swatting at him the most gently before turning back to Niall, smile still tucked at the corners of his lips. He’s got a budding spot and Louis thinks it’d be a nice place to peck a kiss or rub a fond thumb. “Go on, please.”

“Right,” Niall continues, glancing between the two with open amusement as Zayn snorts in the background and leans his chin on his palm. “So, yeah, you two were already attached at the hip, just so you know. Probably because you kept sucking each other off in the toilets at that one club”—a shocked rush flits through Louis’ body as they both flush as one, tip to toe, glancing sidelong at each other at lightning speed before snapping attention back to Niall—“and so, by the time you arrived at the ballroom, you looked like you were having a blast. Spouting gibberish and dry humping. Then Zayn got one of his mates to deliver, like, shitloads of wine and we all just fucked around and jammed and this one kid was some DJ? Or something. So we ended up having this impromptu rave thing—remember when everybody silly-stringed Liam and dumped their drinks on him? And then sang ‘Uptown Funk’ to him? Yeah, it was epic.” Niall grins, recollecting a glorious past, smile directed to the ceiling before his brows come together and he redirects his bright, youthful face back to them. “You lot were covered in that glow paint Sal brought, actually. I’m surprised you don’t remember?”

“A rave? Glow paint? I woke up with no paint on my body whatsoever,” Louis clarifies, staring at Niall like he were sprouting a head. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“I’m not, I swear!” he insists, hands raised in defense.

“I didn’t have paint, either…” Harry continues slowly, equations behind his eyes.

Niall merely shrugs. “Dunno what to tell you. But that’s the story. At the end of the night, Zayn handed you a spare of his keys and let you have his flat for the night.”

“A spare of his keys?” Louis repeats a little faintly, panic washing over him. “Wait, what? I don’t have any keys.”

“Oh my god, neither do I, Harry stares, horrified, turning to look at Louis with all the slow-motion terror of film. “Louis,” he whispers, as Zayn stands up and stretches his back, unperturbed, “we’re fucked.”

“In more ways than one,” Louis whispers back, holding a straight face for only one palpable second before he splits into a quiet laugh, grin overcoming his face.

“Stop!” Harry hushes but he’s grinning too, always grinning, and he straightens as Zayn prowls over to them, slinking like a panther that just awoke from a bed of soft vines. Naked.

“Look in your wallet, mate,” he says smoothly, blinking like a giraffe. His eyelashes probably tangle in clouds. “That’s where you put it last night.”

“Yeah, but it’s clearly been moved since then, what with me taking it out of said wallet to open the door,” Harry mutters mostly to himself, stress returning at full speed as he mumbles about the logistics of it all. He peels his wallet out of his trousers again, fingers fumbling through the brown leather pockets as his lips protrude in pouted anticipation and Louis knows this is probably a touch worrisome (but only a touch, let’s be real), yet he can only bite back his sniggers as he leans against the wall and watches the scene. Zayn, all naked and beautiful, patiently watching Harry frantically search for his flat key. Beautiful.

“Oh. Oh, wow,” Harry suddenly says, blinking at rapid speed as his fingers dig a bit deeper and he pulls out a small silver key. He stares at it, dumbfounded, as Zayn beams and pats his shoulder, plucking it out of his hands gingerly.

“Thanks, mate,” he mumbles, velvety, before trotting over to Niall and giving a petite smack to the bum.

Meanwhile, Louis cheers, thoroughly enjoying the look of dazed relief on Harry’s face. He pushes up onto his toes and kisses him on the cheek, Harry still blinking, mouth lightly agape.

He turns to Louis, eyes wide. “I guess I’m a responsible drunk,” he smiles dopily as Louis grins, face still close.

“Apparently you’re fun and virile as well,” he chirps, unable to resists planting another small kiss, this time just a hair closer to his mouth, and he enjoys the small flush that forms on Harry’s cheeks and neck in response as Louis eases back and steps away, eyes still glinting.

Harry’s the actual prettiest thing, isn’t he? Getting drunk and sleeping with a stranger is the best thing that Louis’ ever done. Ever.

“Thanks, Louis,” Harry mumbles, still pink and sweet and perhaps even flustered.

It’s odd—for having had a shit ton of explosive sexual chemistry the night before, they’re certainly shy and chaste in the sober light of day. It’s sorta sweet though, Louis thinks. All cute and crush-y and smitten. Even though they’ve seen the goods (so to speak) they’re still kinda out to impress each other, tryna sneak smiles and catch each other’s eye, asking to hold hands and pecking each other on the cheek and it’s just bloody cute, isn’t it?

Who knew this would all turn out to be so cute?

“Well, then,” Louis says, thumping Harry’s chest lightly as Niall and Zayn return to the couch, probably prepping for a nap, from the look’s of it. “What say we charge our phones and check our texts and things. Maybe we’ll have photos?”

“Fuck, I hope we have photos,” Harry grins, already walking backwards and reaching for Louis’ arm. “C’mon, let’s go. I can show you my room!” His voice is eager, happy. Fucking cute.

Louis smiles, letting himself be lead as he tries not to trip over his feet. “Cool!” he says exaggeratedly, widening his eyes. “Maybe we can play video games! And get pizza and ice cream! Do you have any toys??”

He shouldn’t be surprised when Harry winks, expression cooling into a lavish smirk that gurgles Louis’ tummy, pleased. “Not the kind of toys you’re referencing,” he rumbles.

That’s it. Louis’ in love.

“We should get drunk and sleep together more often,” Louis beams, happily trotting behind Harry as they make their way down the corridor, stopping at the door at the end as Harry pushes it open with his shoulder. With his greasy limp hair and Zayn’s t-shirt and oily skin and bad breath and smiling lips and green eyes with the bags beneath them. Sexy as fuck.

“I concur,” Harry smiles, thumping inside the room. Wooden floors, one window with a cactus settled on the ledge. Leatherbound journals and a spare guitar and clothes on the floor, Nikes lined up along the wall next to a row of boots. Fedora on the bedpost, beads on the bedside lamp, a duvet with black and white sketched pineapple on it. There’s no rhyme or reason but Louis can admire the vast variety of candles, comfy pillows, and textbooks. A proper student’s room. But quirky. “We don’t even have to get drunk,” Harry continues, towing off his shoes. “We could just, you know.” He grins, looking up at Louis, hair framing his face. “Sleep together. And not sleep together. Do things.” He shrugs.

“Go on dates, maybe,” Louis offers, trying to sound as painfully casual as he can despite feeling his heart thump harder just once. It’s not really a risky statement at this point—he’s pretty sure Harry’s as keen on him as he is on Harry—but still. It’s a thing. “All the time, maybe.” He smiles, sticks out his tongue just because he’s an awkward silly mess when it comes to this shit.

Harry seems to enjoy it though, preening at the words and sticking his own tongue out as well. “All the dates, all the time. Now. Let’s do my phone first!” He sings it as he flops down onto the bed, bouncing off a purple satin throw pillow and—what appears to be—a small stuffed goat animal with the movement. He wiggle his feet as he fishes for the chord, plugs in his phone, and then smiles triumphantly as he sets it on the bedside table before flopping over onto his back, grinning at Louis. Eyes as slits, hands rested on stomach. He probably still smells faintly of beer.

“Lonely?” Louis smiles, quirking an eyebrow as he slowly makes his way forward, watching Harry’s smile grow with every step he takes. “Need some…company??” He shouts the last word at the top of his lungs (why is he a loud mess?) as he practically cannonballs onto the mattress, onto Harry, and Harry shouts a laugh as he curls up like a dead spider, emitting high-pitched noises and groans as Louis’ limbs bruise his.

“For a garden gnome, you weigh way an awful lot,” Harry grunts through a wide-toothed grin, rolling onto his side.

Of course, Louis doesn’t let him, sprawling out like a starfish atop him and nuzzling into the crook of his neck, ignoring the shifting of Harry’s body. “Hm, that’s funny, because I was just about to say that you’re pretty comfy for being a walking stick.”

“Fuck off,” Harry laughs and it makes Louis laugh, too.

They settle, curled up and lying atop each other, sun fading through the window.

“Today was weird,” Louis mumbles in Harry’s neck.

“It was,” Harry agrees and Louis can feel him nod in tandem with the words. “But really fun. Best day I’ve had in a really long time, actually.” He settles a hand on Louis’ back, slowly begins to rub. Calming.

Louis’ eyes drift shut. He doesn’t feel all that physically great—probably experiencing another hangover from day-drinking. “So we really are gonna go on dates, right?”

“Yes, please,” Harry replies immediately, smile evident. “Maybe we could go on one tonight? Didn’t you say you’re off?”

“I am,” Louis yawns, nuzzling just a bit closer and feeling that much sleepier with Harry’s soothing circles. “Let’s go on a date. Let’s just take naps intermittently and order food and figure out how we met.” He lifts his head then, rests his chin on Harry’s chest as he grins with sleepy eyes. “And maybe kiss and stuff.”

Harry’s grin is in full bloom. “Kiss and stuff,” he nods. “Maybe go for a walk and get frozen yogurt.”

“Or gelato.”

“Or frozen yogurt.”

“I fucking knew you would be one of those.” Louis smirks, re-nestling his head back down. “Probably got a punch card, don’t you?”

“I may or may not have a free one coming,” Harry’s voice rumbles and it’s so lovely, sounds like thunder.

“Cool,” Louis smiles as he begins to drift.

“Cool,” Harry smiles back.

**

Apparently, they both fall asleep because it’s about two hours later when they groggily blink at each other and grin, this time remembering exactly how they ended up this way.

“So we meet again,” is the first thing Harry says, ominously, and Louis laughs, full-on, happy as a clam.

It’s very, very easy.

Luckily, Harry’s phone is more than charged by now so they plug in Louis’ and curl up in the blankets, Louis’ chin resting on Harry’s shoulder as they flick through texts.

“Why is my name ‘PRINCESS’ in your phone?” Louis glares but Harry can’t stop laughing.

However, after looking through the camera roll, things begin clicking into place.

“I see. So. I was wearing a tiara for most of the night,” Louis deadpans, staring at a picture of his own face grinning wildly, tiara askew, as he looks up from his very precarious place inside of a trolley. Must’ve been during the race.

“It’s very attractive on you,” Harry smiles, bumping his nose into Louis’ cheek, and Louis only grunts and rolls his eyes.

“Ohhhh, I see all that glow-paint Niall was talking about,” Louis blinks, looking through a slideshow of Harry and Louis painting each other with their sticky fingers, neon greens and yellows streaked up their limbs and swept across their foreheads and cheeks. “We almost look cool.”

“Almost,” Harry adds, flicking through with a small permanent smile.

“Oh my god. Is that my—“

“Oh my god!” Harry guffaws, keeping the phone out of reach.

“Harry! Harold! Whatever your full name is! Delete that!”

“Nooo! Never!”

“Wait, what’s that??”

“Oh my god—we were swimming in a fountain.”

“I don’t have my trousers on!”

“Ohhhh—so that’s why yours weren’t wet this morning.”

“Why the hell would you keep your clothes on if you’re swimming, Harry?”

“Well, you still had your shirt on as well. Besides, I probably just assumed we were going to wade.”

“How did we not get arrested?”

“Maybe we did, who knows? Aw! Look at this one—we’re kissing!”

“Precious.”

“And now we’re lying in the grass.”

“That explains a few things about the shit in our hair. Were we watching the stars? Proper romantic? I hate us.”

“We’re disgusting,” Harry grins, before finally coming to the last picture—one of them inside the cab (probably on their way to Zayn’s), kissing in the shadow backseat, orange streetlamps streaked across their faces.

Louis smiles softly as he stares at it, shifting his gaze over to Harry, whose expression is much the same. “Hey,” he mumbles.

Harry looks at him. “Hm?”

“We had fun,” he smiles, feeling oddly soft and sentimental. He wraps arms around Harry’s lithe waist, smiles against his cheek as he pulls him closer. “You’re fun. I like you. Glad we blacked out and fucked.”

“Romantic,” Harry laughs, returning the embrace as his phone slips from his hand, his eyes only for Louis. “I can’t wait to hear all the other pearls that fall from your lips.”

“I’m a poet,” Louis nods, grinning as he nudges his lips closer to Harry’s. He’s warm and static-y and fuzzy and sorta buzzing, just wants to be closer to Harry, this wonderful little guy he’s found, and he smiles, goofy. “Will woo you. Watch out.”

“Can’t wait,” Harry mumbles before their lips meet, warm and dry and shy as they settle into something more comfortable, angling their heads and steadying their hands, thumbs resting on collarbones and jawlines, inhales and exhales synchronizing. “Hm. This is beginning to jog my memory,” he adds as they lean back, falling horizontal. Legs spread, tangling. Noses bumping.

“Same,” Louis grins, half-nods, before pulling Harry even closer, kissing him even deeper, his hands falling to roam—

Before suddenly his phone rings. Fuck.

“Well, guess it’s charged,” Harry sighs, reaching over to hand Louis the aforementioned item. Evil thing.

“Yeah, thank god,” Louis mutters with as much sarcasm and he can infuse into the words. He looks down at the phone—Liam. He sighs, answering, ankles still trapped beneath Harry’s, feeling his fingers delicately trace his collarbones. “What do you want, Li?”

“Good to hear from you too,” Liam’s voice laughs, amused. Good—at least he didn’t take offense like he usually does. “Just wanted to make sure you’re alive, is all. How you feeling?”

“Er. Complex,” Louis settles for, exchanging a smile with Harry. “How about yourself?”

“Good. Woke up with a girl,” he laughs, sounding delighted. “She’s pretty cute. Her name’s Sophia. Told her I’m studying abroad so we obviously can’t date or anything but we’re gonna get breakfast before I leave. So, all in all, it was an amazing send-off. Thanks again, mate.”

“No need to thank me,” Louis shakes his head, still smiling at Harry. “On the contrary, I should be thanking you. Found myself waking up with company myself.”

“Oh, yeah. Harry?”

Louis laughs, less than surprised. “Well, at least you remember.”

“What, you don’t? I mean, I guess you were a bit pissed…”

“Completely. Neither of us remember anything, really.” He laughs, watching Harry plant kisses to his t-shirt-adorned stomach, his hand slipping beneath the hem. Bastard. “I hate him, though. He’s awful. Am with him right now and I can’t get rid of him.” He grins before yelping. “Ow! He pinched me.”

“Right,” Liam laughs, low and slightly uncomfortable. “Well, do you need any help remembering anything? Because I’m good, mate. I remember it all.”

For a second Louis contemplates, watching as Harry grins through his curtain of curls before planting a raspberry on Louis’ bellybutton, making him yelp and jump, legs kicking out; Harry laughs like he’s mischievous and funny, like he’s not the worst thing to happen to Louis ever. Awful.

Louis smiles, a little dazed, hand reaching out to tuck strands behind Harry’s ear, enjoying the pink of his cheeks, the wideness of his smile. All his smooth skin and wrinkle-less forehead. The way he smiles down at Louis like his lips might split.

“Nahh,” he replies gently, fingers carding through soft hair. “Nah, thanks though, mate. I think we’ve got everything we need to know.”

Harry smiles beautifully.

And when they hang up and Louis tosses the phone aside, his lips reconnecting with Harry’s, it all seems pretty simple.

** THE NIGHT BEFORE. 8:45PM **

The pub is loud, raucous, and dark. Neon signs speckle the walls. Liam’s blasted and joyous, throwing one arm around Niall, the other around some dark model-esque man that looks to be made of onyx and caramel. Louis would like to taste him if at all possible.

Unfortunately, he’s currently listening to some guy prattle on about clocks.

“I’m part of a clock society!” the nerd shouts above the noise. He kinda reminds Louis of Luke so, naturally, Louis is instantly repulsed. “We fix clocks and go to conventions!”

Maybe for someone else that would be interesting. But for Louis, right now, that’s literally just useless information. He just wants free drinks and laughter and maybe some dancing. His best mate’s about to leave for a year, for fuck’s sake. He’s not in the mood to learn about goddamn clocks.

“That sounds awful!” Louis shouts back over the music before he spins on his heel and walks away, taking his enormous drink with him and sipping on the black straw. He’s just making his way over to Liam and his hot friend when, suddenly, Louis’ met with a wall.

Shit. He knows he’s drank a lot but he didn’t think he was drunk enough for walls to just appear.

He squints into the dark. It’s a torso. Alright, cool. Walls really don’t appear, then. This isn’t some Harry Potter shit. Good.

“I think you spilled your drink on me,” the torso says. Torso is wearing a Harley Davidson t-shirt.

“Oops?” Louis offers, completely unapologetic. “Guess you’ll need to buy me a new one.” He grins, looking up into the face of someone with very long hair and a nice face. Handsome. Very handsome. “I’m also starving. Would you split a sandwich with me? I just had to listen to some prick talk about clocks for, like, ten minutes and it’s almost completely killed my buzz.” He burps, then hiccups. “I think I’m drunk.”

“I just did seven shots in seventeen seconds!” Torso says excitedly, smelling strongly of Louis’ spilt drink as he clutches his shoulders and looks in Louis’ eyes. “I’m really fucking drunk. Do you want to dance? After we eat sandwiches?”

At this, a true smile forms on Louis’ face, the clouds parting to reveal the man before him.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Louis grins, setting his now-empty glass on the nearest surface. “Let’s go. I’m Louis.”

“Hi, Louis! I’m Harry.”

And that, as they say, was that.

The End.